This is how it is with me today
in the play of words
flocking in my throat like wild birds.
Poetical inspiration is, always has been,
a form of reconcilation with the unseen stranger inside
who plants seeds in the soil of my mind
and leaves me find sweet words that may drip
fragrance and delight to another mouth,to some other
locked-up troubled soul. This unsatiable, ever consuming
urge to create, seeks, I feel, to liberate something inside,
as the ever increasing quest for God, to find meaning
and aim of my own existence, always there's
this underlying fear in the form of the last
horse of the Apocalypse appearing on the horizon.
I give wonder to what sense or gain there be to me
and the eye of readers young an old,unknown, from
life's experiences accrued from life's wanderings.
It appears I embrace more a present which seems
to sever and nullify all that has gone before, So as evolution
in our physical life,there is an unbroken continuity
in all the words we write, and which one of us can claim to
be the lighthouse to millions of the world's lost and desperate
searching a God who appears lost in a mysterious world
without human sound. To possess certainty was but to lose it
to regain it again and again, day after day in something new
from the old.....and who can say what this 'hoplessly in love'
devotion is, that embraces me at any point of time,
and forces me to taste the moon.......
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