(“The Interworld” 2018, original encaustic)
The beauty of prose is many things can be said
In great detail,
Stories and tales, histories and philosophies.
The beauty of poetry is that when we read it or write it
We put on the poet’s hat
View through the poet’s lens
And search for layers of meaning.
In this way poetry honors and respects
The listener’s participation,
And in the doing, in immersion below surfaces,
We awaken the imaginal.
And when we awaken so
We step out of time
So the continuity of our life,
From childhood to adolescence, in growth
To sickness, old age and death,
Is made whole.
Here in the metaphor is our whole life
Made holy. Again.
(9/19/25)
Pond's water captures
the morning shadow
Similar desires teem
in our heads
We love strolling along
the banks of ponds
Prosaic ducks disfigure
the green images
----------------------
24 June 2025
In the choices we make
we determine our destiny :
the way we walk,
the way we step,
by the shoes,
by the clothes that
we wear... we play
the game that determines
the future...
what we conceive,
what we eat,
what we drink,
how much and what
we talk,
what we stay quiet,
what we project,
what we swallowed...
all is reflected
in our life...
Everything has its value
and weight,
some acts are delayed,
others advance...
who else knows
all factors, nicely
live...
The science of living well,
is knowing how to practice
all acts
wisely and
with love...
Wisdom does not
learn with legs
no arms...
love is so badly
understood....
many yet
did not understand that:
do The best to
body and spirit :
DONATE... MUCH FURTHER
THAN RECEIVING...!
There once was a poet from Passaic*
All his poems were rather prosaic --
He'd heard it worked nice
To throw in some spice --
~ 'Twas expired, now his penning's archaic
*Passaic is a town in the state of New Jersey (USA)
In your withered smile
My poems lose rhyme
Words scramble in prosaic time.
I harvested a small handful
of beautiful dandelions
arranged them in a special way
that their mini-globe candelas
illumined a yellow aura
surrounding the nosegay cluster.
Their subtle, invisible breaths
exhale a perfumed atmosphere
that becomes irresistible.
And she who shall hold this bouquet
is impelled to whiff its essence;
to discover its true purpose;
and accept this prosaic gift
of my undying love for her.
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