Nest of the Now


The textures of time,

decipher the dream,

in rhythms that ricochet spiraling seams.


What we call Light

is a limit of sight.

Heaven’s wave breaking

on shores of the night.


The fractures then found,

from oceans of sound,

will pulse those

proportions and temper distortions;

incarnating gods,

in our nest of the Now.


Share into The Void 

The buzz of what was,

Lingers long alongside,

All that never was and ever could be.

Mutating the obvious

To hybrid circumstance.

An alien fruit,

Ripe for the picking.

Waiting in the cracks that shine,

Out from a midday’s wounded rhythm,

Or from a bright night’s lunar schism.

Between the beats of a wind-waving leaf,

Inside the pregnant power

Of an early morning’s

Poise of Promise.


Searing souls share into the void.

In a relay rediscovery

Of the portending Omnipresent.

Reaching through the hum

Of what’s ever due to come.


 What Soul Speaks? -Poetic compliment to art by Nikolaus Kamrath:


What soul speaks,

Sounding deep through the dream,

Of a tenebrous, light-weaving, star-pleated seam?

Do its words fill the hours, defining our days?

Or does it tell of a time that may seem but a maze?

Worlds linked in ways, we wonder, waking, why?

Summoning strange gods from aethers far and nigh.


Which eye sees?

When the world’s but a gem…

Refracting all time through oceans of our ken.

We parlay our heart on distant moments’ thought,

Through folded inner space as orphan dreamers sought.

Lurid overtones whose senses wait in wing,

A severance to the sources that made our pattern cling.


(Layer upon layer, that hide in the air,

Forgetting the stair that lifted them there.

All rendered clean from dimensions unseen,

Forgetting the words from which they weaned.

A sundry expense, while we’re further entrenched,

But the game changing sign reminds us of time.

Returning rotations catch every sensation,

From under the sun, all reaping the fun,

We rise to the nexus, as unified sexes,

And sink to the heart of what kept us apart.

All moments suspended, forever contented).


Which time wakes?

Which level loves and sings?

Which heart is free, yet resonates all things?

How far back ‘s the meaning want to go?

How long’d it take to make it to this show?

Somehow we take a leap of faith and hew

A world all of our own, a life forever true.




Point of Passion

Stratified sails of un-impelled Delight

March boldly across the surface screen

Between this frictionless scene

And the unabashed antinomy of our faces

Tracing contours of the knots

Whose strands start to slide

And shift the meaning winds

That so long carried us

In parallactic fugue.


Precipitous longing caves in

So heavy and contained

It breaks the symbol hull.

That long encrusted defense

Against the relentless waves

Finds its always been carving

Its shape from their troughs.

The cavity of a gathering force

Finds its space within

The spin and slide

Of an amorphous pounding tide

Where sense now rides with soul

And the sea confounds the sky


What was and is a dense and dark reflection

Now tweaked and churned

A working wheel of light

To irrigate our life.

All transdermal solicitation

All porous incongruity

Becomes deferring unity.

Endless endings lapping

Against the shores of

Our eternal Identity.



Musing on Origins

Shimmer on,

Oh fire of life,

Oh waves of condensing, spiraling time;

Burning arriving, like dreams spilt from Giants’ cups,

Second hand revelations from indifferent libations.

A fire-water heat wave;

Ripple sparks from an ancient-future revelry.

Like a joke long forgotten to its sounders,

Whose laugh reverberates with the echoes of its dissemination;

A gathering pun, whose meaning is consumed, dispersed

Into the effulgent rhapsody of One ex-temporizing gene.

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