Sonnet, July 1, 2014

Art is life. All the artists know it.
It is our language at its highest pitch.
It is the heart of each and every poet
elevated somehow by the stitch

of every breath. Who knew the day would come
when everything we thought we knew was wrong
is made more clear by each and every strum
and every truth is somehow swelled with song?

So time must pass, each writ must play its part,
each line, each poem and every day that strays.
Wisdom flourishes with skillful art.
Old age and art are fused in some strange way.

With every year that's passed we seek the glow
we have not suffered long enough to know.

            7/1/2014

For Katie #1

Your mind is like the wind, mine like the star
of constant north, you blow from east to west
while I am ever distant, never far.
This is the union that displays the best
of what we do not seek but somehow are.
Our families are passing like the days,
We love them even more once passed away.
This does not calm the passion or the will
to seek a cure for all that leads astray
our heart's desire to be content and still.
Why is it that our hearts must struggle so?
Why do we toss and turn, why to and fro
when paradise is just mere words away?

Lines

I have seen wonder in its purest form.
I have seen the essence of all things.
I have gazed inside the hidden drawer

and fled the magic light in fear and shame.
I have seen my face etched on the glass
of light and I have heard the hidden name.

I have felt the ocean moment pass.
I have seen eternity in form
and purity in every blade of grass.

I have felt the joy to which all things must conform
afraid to even feel that state of grace
when all around are sleeping with the worm:

but I have believed in the human race.
I have seen the yard beyond the door
and honesty in every lying face.

I have drunk deep and only wanted more
of the water from light's ocean fountain.
I have found the joy in every chore

and I have made the heart into a mountain
that lump of earth that once was without form.
I have reckoned time is beyond counting

when what's profound exists within the norm
and happiness exists in every thing.
I have felt the sun that warms the worm.
I have seen wonder in its purest form.

Sonnet, June 7, 2014

The trees they hold the essence of the soul,
the soil, the earth, the fire in the sky.
They are the wellspring of a great unknown,
the joy of birth and the truth of all that dies.

From every passing grief they spread their leaves
and give each tiny death back to the soil.
They are the truth that toils and loves and grieves.
They are the life of each and every spoil.

What brought them here? Why do they bring us rest?
Why do they sink their roots into the earth?
From flesh that's cursed to branches that are blessed
they sing of joyful death and joyless birth.

It's not the first time I have asked them why.
I still don't know. The trees will not reply.

        June 7, 2014