V's party

the silent waves of Venus in the sky
cats eyes of purring subtlety
Orion also glittering in his forgotten strag
In the midst of near acid extravagance
catapulting strings of that sweet gange
change track listen to the crete absorbs
Orbs pulsing without
stratospheric burning of the stars
above and within
mystic turnin' trip
effervescent we gather
another pulsing wave
of stereoscopic sound
spreading throughout the whole party

All things have wings

Meditating on the kingfisher
Great globules of silver-blue
hallucinations descend from the sky
shards of melting molten glass
fibrillate thru the liquid saffron wind...

Bedtime Story

There was once a woodcutter who lived in a hut in the forest and he carved a beautiful figurine of an owl. He carved the eyes and carefully shaped the feathered wings. One day a little boy came and played with the owl, he kissed her and she gained the power of flight. The owl flew away and lived with the little boy. The old woodcutter started painting and as he painted he turned into a many coloured kestrel.

Retreat Poem

We all in waves
detect the hindrance
there is no hindrance
In life and beauty we walk
floating channels rise to the ceiling
there is no ceiling
Wings of hope
arise from a lotus flower
I hear Earth's cry - or it's beat
the Divine whisper
of consciousness
As leaves begin to fall
this spectral august
outside the window
of the meditation hall
I think of my daughter
and wonder where a bear
might find a pot of honey
around here.

Train to Libourne

A painted pen
seeks out the wren
when foremost jelly jangles reach libourne
an open traipse
thru eloquent grapes
master of design
caught in cycles of deliverance
together we chime
again we seek that silent moan
of nonchalent ecstasy
float my pretty tulip
through the realms
where every woman
is a goddess Athrone
and man basks in nature's
tender ooze...

Jardin Atlantique

a wandering ocean in the sky
several species of
hydroponic, metabolic
almost nirvanic tree ravens
London hours past,
an erection already fellated by the bees.
There are no bees.
Oh, a willow
a pillow surreal
in anticipation of the Divine
- Paris

Whitman, Passage to India

O we can wait no longer,
we too take ship O soul,
Joyous we too launch out
on trackless seas,
Fearless for unknown shores
on waves of ecstasy to sail,
Amid the wafting winds,
(thou pressing me to thee, I thee to me, o soul,)
Caroling free, singing our song of God,
Chanting our chant of pleasant exploration
With laugh and many a kiss,
(Let others deprecate,
let others weep for sin, remorse, humiliation,)
O soul thou pleasest me, I thee
Ah more than any priest O soul
we too believe in God,
But with the mystery of God
we dare not dally.