A call to resurrection

Blue skies, it seems,
will cast blue shadows,
just as you and I
influence others
with our moods:
one more reason
to step beyond
a momentary irritation
to resurrect the joy
that wells up deep within;
that constant
that is soul,
that is divine,
that is real,
that is always
here, and now.

Music to my eyes

Just as a word,
when stared at for too long,
begins to seem misspelled,
or something other than itself,
a view, often seen,
can in some other light
take on a character not its own.

Sometimes,
following a visit
to the barber,
your face
-- dearer and more familiar
than my own --
becomes -- however briefly --
some stranger's visage.

Today these houses,
which greet me every morning,
have suddenly become piano keys;
music to my eyes.

A flower in the lap of being

No matter how intentional
our efforts to comprehend
the web of existence,
chances are the most we'll get
are fragile, accidental glimpses.

Occasionally a trick of light
reveals those delicate connections
and all that lies
beneath, behind
slips briefly into focus
and then out again.

And as I wait and watch for more
I am a flower
in the lap of being.

Omenilad, Omenilad

Looking out my brother's window,
I notice all the patches
on the roof across the way
and wonder how effective
they might be
at keeping out the rain and cold
for residents within.
The poverty is captured here
in searing black and white.

And then there's the graffiti:
What artist lives to scramble
to a roof, to paint --
words that seem to have no meaning?
Is it just an exercise?
Or is it boredom?


Is there some message here,
some beauty that I cannot bear
or do not care enough to read?

Omenilad, Omenilad,
no matter where you toss your dice,
the probability of your escape is low.
(you and me, you and me
I think about you day and night,
it's only right,
and if I call you up, invest a dime,
and you say it belongs to you,
to ease my mind) --
I'm hoping that your paint brings warmth
to you and all the residents within.