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Lightning from the Genome Old Hat, New Hole While Vishnu Sleeps
Secret Passage Waving Flags A Prayer for the Dying
Fill in the Blank Evertor The Making of a Man
And in This Corner Ahead of His Time Beatitude
Blows to the Head Creation
Blinding Purpose
Passage Lineage
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Lightning from the Genome

99.9% of our genes are identical

One human to another

What difference, then is

One-tenth of a percent?

Enough to justify

Hatred, jealousy, contempt


In one-tenth of one percent

We lodge the miseries of the

Human race

Proclaim ourselves better and


Conquer and divide

According to divine rights of

A primitive mind

Unable to distinguish

Reason from insanity.

Old Hat, New Hole

Take an idea
Unwrapped in the foil of
Collective unconscious

Give it expression
A unique twist of a
Singular mind, time-trapped

Sand said, rare inspire of wit
As never before

While Vishnu Sleeps

Welcome to the world of opposites

The seeming difference of this and that

Polarities of atomic

Positive and negative

Spinning around nucleic

Unknowns, constant

Yet wavering, perceptions always

In flux

The shore of an impossible nirvana


To the turbulent human


Secret Passage

Life in the real world
Is impossibly dull, when compared to
The vibrant life of the mind

The creative spark fired in the imagination
Where time is irrelevant
Past and future, always present

The place not fixed by boundary or limit
The reach of all that is human
Touching the outstretched finger of God.

Waving Flags

My identity, my sense of myself is
More connected to a world of humanity
Than to a nation or a State
Or a similar small locale.

And someday, should life be proven
In solar systems beyond our own
I hope to include those other worlds
In the framing of who I am.

A Prayer for the Dying

Every day admit me


Into the portal of the


Allow me to feel

The sublime majesty of life

To know

The sanctity of relationship

To touch

The beauty of Earth

Breathe into this poor undeserving frame

An immortal telling

A lasting consequence

Give me the power

To see

To believe

To dream


Fill in the Blank

Whether we believe in God or not

Whether he looks like we do or

Whether he has no face

Whether a he or a she or a who knows what

Whether he came to Earth or

Disappeared or never existed

At all


Doesnít matter

What matters is

Our relationship to one another

To the Earth, to the creatures that inhabit

This space

Do we create, build, support


Or do we

Destroy, use and abuse

Out of control in pursuit of our own

Petty desires.


There are too many things I canít change in this world
To be powerless is to be a victim

Unless I can change the idea

And make the tragic acceptable
An inevitable end to a new beginning.

The Making of a Man

The masculine, my lad

Is not the bombast of foolish braggadocio

Nor the flexing of unwarranted muscle

The brutal crush of an innocent

No, the masculine is

The glint of the sword, sheathed yet

Ready to defend

With honor and dignity

Those who would be trespassed

The strength of steel running

Through the marrow of the heart

Capable of great tenderness

The deepest kind of compassion

The life blood that flows from a wounded thigh

The wellspring of

All humanity.

And in This Corner


Stands before me clicking his teeth

Winding his wrist


To punch out my clock

But Iíll beat the old bastard

Licking his lips

Watching the seconds drip into file

From the meandering folds of his mellifluous beard

His whittled cane

Throws a roundhouse curve

Crashes into my youthful flanks

Saps ten years at a single blow

But Iím a dancing demon with all the moves

No tottering cuckoo is going to lay me low


A lucky punch to the midriff there

(And my digestion ainít what it used to be)


The buzzardís beating my back with a broom (named Bing?)

Swept away my dashing days

I stoop upon the threshold now


A fiendish jab of his knobby knee

And I sound like Wayne Newton.

No more old crock

Youíve done your worst

Just give me a second to catch my breath


The knockout punch

My head reels back

Heart skips a beat

Cracked spine quivers

And I see stars

Iím down for the count

He thinks heís won

The villainous coot

My bones are dust

The coffinís shut

But I see stars...

And oh, what light!

Ahead of His Time

The artist born ahead of his time
Will see no reward, no glory, no fame
Alone with his demons
He wrestles to the death.

Van Gogh was
They said a madman a lunatic no doubt
Only brother Theo could glimpse
Who he was
And brother love pulled
Spirit through fire
With paint, brushes a kind word and a coin or two
Young Vincent held on
To see the dying of the world
Sweating in the fields hot burning sun hour upon hour
Sunflowers explode
Lifeís mad beauty
The trees are alive and stars shake the heavens
Sleeping fools
Put out your eyes and see!
Cut off your ears and hear!

In a tiny room
Poor, dirty wretch
Light slips through the door
All that love
All that blood poured out
On canvas.

The artist born ahead of his time
Must die ahead of his time too.

Starry, starry wonderful night
Life and death are the stuff of dreams
It is painted Ďcross the sky
Light years ago
A star burned out
Far, far away
And only now
After millions of years
And millions of miles
That dying light
Reaches our eyes.


There is a poem in everything
If only we understand
No rules exempt
Life from bleeding through the wounds
Of art
Only the eye blinded by
Seeming, the mind
Dulled by too little fire
Prevent the transcendence
Of Earth to Sky
And back again.

Blows to the Head

the rules were laid
inside his head
in block cement

we had to take a hammer
to his skull
to break the hardening

of thought and mind
set free the demons
of his passion

the precious seed
of wisdom

to sprout
in fingers
of his art

a becoming of
rare significance
too great to be ignored.


Time heals all wounds
so they say
But truth be told
Some wounds
Even time
canít heal
Some hurts must simply be endured.

Or transformed.

The alchemy of the soul
Can take the blackest tragedy
And re-spirit it to beautiful
Create substance
Out of ash
Out of smoke.

A poem
A song
An insight
A prayer
Give voice to the pain
And over

Blinding Purpose

When a horse runs a race
It has blinders
To eliminate all distraction
From the periphery.

So, too, when man runs the race of life
Blinders hide distracting past
The stinging memories, countless lives
Are subtly curtained out of view
And all focus is on the contest
A headlong dash
To the finish.


Step into the mirror
And break through the glass
Leave the teacup and the saucer
And your suitcase
And your clothes
And pass into the darkness
In the hollow of the wall
To the center of the whole
Let go...
The dust ripples past in a spiral to the stars
Let go...
A shuddering gust of stale days
Shoots sharply through your marrow
Passing into nothingness
Beyond the opening of the door
Let go
There is no comprehension
No order
No logic
No time
The stars breathe


One cannot thank
those who have gone before
what words
can measure
the intangible breath
that passes from heart to heart
bestowing life
in an hour of need?

I only hope
on some invisible plane
our eyes will meet
and you will know
what I can never


A garden grows resplendent and fertile
In the hearts of a happy few

To have shared and loved, laughed and cried
The dew of our tears having touched the tender places

Where only the smallest petals
Have opened and closed

Basking in the sun of a verdant smile
Or hiding in the shadows of an overcast gloom

A garden grows
And sends its quiet roots into the singing soil of our souls

Breathe deep -
The rain falls but a moment

And in a moment
Gives life to another day.