God Knows the Price of Tuning Forks

God knows the price of tuning forks,
And alphabets, and astral signs.
Beside the passion of the flame
Reclines a squat and jealous name;
Inside the tyranny of lines
Endures a sweet, soft-scented shame,
Loosing stays, and words, and corks.
Hanumas Is Something Strange Indeed
Hanumas is something strange indeed:
A Hanukkah and Christmas in one night!
Now mixed families must combine the two,
Uniting loved ones just as God would do,
Making separate flames a single light.
All who love by love are thenceforth freed
Simply in all love to find delight.
Happy Hanukkah, Dear Child
Happy Hanukkah, dear child,
A time for fun and play!
Now you get a lot of gifts,
Unwrapping one each day!
Kids love gifts, of course, but then
Kids also ought to know
About the eight-day miracle that
Happened long ago.
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Chanukah Itself's the Miracle

Chanukah itself's the miracle:
How could we remember all those years,
Aliens lost upon a shoreless sea,
Not only scattered--battered, shattered, tattered,
Unwelcome guests of hosts unmerciful,
Knowing well the wellsprings of our tears,
A life devoured by identity
Holding on to legacies that mattered?
Cheerful Lights Dance Within Your Window
Cheerful lights dance within your window,
Happy to dispel a bit of darkness.
As you display your faith, remember when
No light was light enough to light the wind.
Underneath our joy there must be sorrow
Kindled by a willing act of witness,
A turn to share in love again, again,
Horrors that we would not leave behind.
Clearly There Were Jews and There Were Jews
Clearly there were Jews and there were Jews --
Hellenized, not Hellenized, not caring.
Assimilation let one pick and choose,
Not wedded to the faith that one was wearing.
Until a king sought Judaism's end,
Kindling a flame that burned inside,
A miracle that would the faith defend --
Here for us, a faith that else had died.
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By Day Each Soul Must Walk Within Its Shadow

By day each soul must walk within its shadow.
Only night can make us whole again.
Nor joy nor pain can race across the meadow
Night seeds with stars, so vast it were in vain.
In each new day hope rises with the light.
Evening comes: we hunger for the night.
More truth, and vaster, can be seen at night.
All time unveiled gathers in a meadow
Resplendent with the history of light.
Know that in the darkness, free of shadow,
Unto the primal moment, not in vain,
Shines all that ever was, alive again.
So do all vanished moments live again:
Events are past before we see their light.
The star that shines upon the darkened meadow
Has long since moved on to another night.
Give, then, all due attention to the shadow
As thoughts reflect off surfaces in vain.
Bright thoughts shall give us surfaces in vain,
Refracted through the mysteries of night.
In words we see ourselves set forth again,
Each incandescent in the wash of light
Lingering across the golden meadow.
Candles Dance on Their Menorah
Candles dance on their menorah,
Happy to be burning bright!
All the children dance the hora,
Nimbly leaping with delight!
Understand the miracle
Kindled by a match that sings,
A cantor with his canticle,
Here to give the moment wings.
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Blessings Are Not Only of the Light

Blessings are not only of the light:
Open up your heart to gifts of darkness.
None is offered miracles to choose,
Nor knows which gifts of grace one may refuse,
Imposing will upon an unwilled stillness
Eternally within each nub of night.
Miracles are also of the night,
Although we tend to see the good as light.
Reason is an oar that stirs the stillness,
Knowing but the diving range of darkness,
Unaware that what we would refuse
Sustains the miracles that we would choose.
Sing, then, of a gift you did not choose:
Each day the oil supplied for one more night.
To live's a gift few songbirds would refuse,
Holding forth like mad to greet the light,
Each a miracle distilled from darkness,
Little cup to hold a drop of stillness.
If only one could be one's drop of stillness:
Zero will, zero urge to choose,
Avidly serene in light or darkness,
Boat sailing without wind across the night.
Each would then be free to love the light,
There being no consent one would refuse,
Having savored all one would refuse.
Blithe Fingers Know the Psalms of Adoration
Blithe fingers know the psalms of adoration;
Often they play them on the flesh of light.
No hearing necessary, nor is sight
Needed to draw the lineaments of pleasure.
In despair only is there desecration:
Evil in pursuit of pain, not pleasure.
So may we not regret our loss of sight:
Eight days God gave the miracle of light.
Touch remains the road to adoration,
However much we miss the gift of light.
Grace is a slate-flat sea, a tranquil sight
After dense hills and fine-wrought pleasure:
Bleak and pure, too spare for desecration;
Rich as a thin dark line drawn with pleasure;
Intense as death, too immense for sight--
Even now, as love replaces light,
Loss of faith, not loss of adoration . . .
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Blessed Are Those Who Doubt the Word of God

Blessed are those who doubt the word of God,
Opening their minds to what might be.
No literal truth is literally true,
Nor can one see unless one sees anew,
In lieu of faith observing faithfully
Each metaphor writ deep within each word.
Murderers would worship every word,
A band of cutthroats in the name of God,
Reasoning unreason faithfully,
Knights of night, whose end cannot but be
Unholy, though the righteous reign anew,
Sure as angels of what words are true.
Let wit and wisdom wonder what is true.
Inside, we face the being of the word,
Light lost within its depths, condemned anew,
Immensities as infinite as God
Trapped within the confines of "to be,"
However we pursue them faithfully.
Blessed Are Those Who Dwell in Utter Darkness
Blessed are those who dwell in utter darkness,
On whom depend the paladins of light.
Noon is not the time for exploration,
Nor can one sense but sheltered from sensation,
Intensely saturated with delight,
Embracing the black verge of nothingness.
Most abhor the thought of nothingness,
Abhor the grace of death, abhor the darkness,
Resisting the regalia of light.
Know that darkness is the fount of light
Underneath the fabric of sensation,
Source of salience, goal of exploration.
Longing is the cause of exploration,
Inherent at the heart of nothingness,
Luring one to look beyond sensation
Into the enduring truth of darkness,
The chaos at the coming of the light
Holding in its arms a doomed delight.
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Because One Hundred and Thirteen Generations

Because one hundred and thirteen generations
Of Jews lit candles for eight days and prayed
(No doubt a miracle--flames in empty jars),
Nor could they, spangled abroad like lonely stars,
Inter their music, or cull their recitations,
Each cantillated word is death delayed.
Some memories are miracles: the jars
Empty yet dancing with light, the generations
Touched also by fire, burning like distant stars,
History twinkling with their recitations
Lest words be forgotten and the future die. They prayed
On their way naked to the ovens; they prayed
Resting by Babylon's stagnant waters; they delayed
Reeling into memory's end, the empty jars
Aflame with words, afire with recitations,
In words their mountains, their rivers, deserts, stars;
Nations flowing towards silence, the generations
Ebbing into darkness, with candles they delayed ...
Granted they seem strange. Their recitations
Are as alien as Aztec chants. The empty jars
Burning in the temple, the scattered stars
Returning eagerly each night. Whose prayers delayed
Interment in darkness? Which sunless soul prayed
Earnestly enough to light the stars?
Long has this love been borne by their generations.
Blessed Are Those both in and out of Time
Blessed are those both in and out of time.
Only in the moment is forever.
Nothing is an artifact of motion,
Nor can one live without that pseudo-notion
In which death is the end of all endeavor,
Each being being mortal and sublime.
Sing, then, of things both mortal and sublime,
Eternity within each tick of time,
The moment that gives grace to each endeavor,
Here within a now that lasts forever,
Even as we cannot grasp the notion,
Living as we do in constant motion.
In art one feels the shock that stops the motion,
Zealous to embody the sublime
And be oneself beyond all thought or notion,
Blessed by being in and out of time.
Each thing of beauty mirrors the forever
That lies within the moment, an endeavor
Harsh and holy, all one can endeavor.
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Being Is Itself the Fuel-less Flame

Being is itself the fuel-less flame,
Open to no other explanation,
Needing but the notion of The Name,
Not for reason, just for conversation.
In everything there is a holy light,
Explained as inexplicable delight.
Maybe all that is, is for delight,
A superfluity of ardent flame
Resulting in a burst of brazen light.
Know that there can be no explanation
Underneath the endless conversation:
Simply love within the nameless Name.
Love is the quintessence of The Name.
If It is perfect, why need It delight?
Listen to the lyric conversation
In which one finds the answer: that the flame
Transcends attempts at reasoned explanation,
Here for nothing but the love of light.
Bereft of Light, One Stumbles in the Darkness
Bereft of light, one stumbles in the darkness,
Open to the fantasy of death.
None can grasp his being but by faith,
Nor can one see but by its candlelight.
In faith there is both fantasy and will.
Each must choose: to know or not to know.
More perhaps than not will choose to know
After gazing long into the darkness.
Reason cannot see what spirit will:
Kingdoms past the doorway we call death,
Undulating dreamscapes drenched in light,
So lovely none could render them but faith.
Light for eight days testified for faith,
Implicating love in all we know.
Love is a constituent of light,
Invading with the light our inner darkness.
To be in time is to be bound for death;
However, one may flourish where one will.
Gravity is greater than the will,
A fact that forms the boundary line of faith,
Breaking off where being ends in death,
Reason blind where one most wants to know.
In place of knowledge, all it sees is darkness,
Entering a doorway filled with light,
Lost just at the entranceway to light.
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Being Is a Point, Without Dimension

Being is a point, without dimension.
Our consciousness of now is never now.
No sight or sound is simultaneous,
Needing its own time to get to us,
Instants that no instant will allow.
Each moment is the scene of our invention.
Mind is the machine for our invention,
A chip for giving beings their dimension,
Restricted by what circuits will allow.
Know, then, that the one, eternal now,
Unlike the fact-based fiction writ by us,
Sustains a candle simultaneous.
So is all being simultaneous,
Each tick of time a fabulous invention,
The mark of motion relative to us,
Here now, now gone, unchanged in its dimension.
Being Is an Unrequited Passion
Being is an unrequited passion
Of which the object is eternity.
No answer is more salient than the question,
Not of why, but what it is to be.
In each of us there burns a fuel-less fire
Eternal in amazement and desire.
Meaning is the means by which desire
Alleviates the pain of pointless passion,
Revealing in the miracle of fire
Knowledge of a just eternity,
Unending love and paradise to be,
Sufficient to semanticize the question.
Let us de-semanticize the question,
Intent on separation from desire,
Letting be the wish to ever be.
In time alone we touch the ancient passion.
The moment is its own eternity,
Holding us forever in its fire.
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Behind the Act Is Always the Perception

Behind the act is always the perception.
Often we are led astray by light.
No chaos is more damaging than order
Neatly taped across a mystery.
In love and awe we worship only darkness,
Embracing what we know we cannot know.
Silence is a sea, while what we know
Etches the green hills of our perception.
Truth, unspeakable, resides in darkness,
However much we need the gift of light.
God is just a word. Each mystery
Awakens to the first pale gray of order.
Bright glory bathes the sculpted hills in order,
Rolling towards the edge of what we know.
Inside its veil of blue, the mystery
Eludes the clarity of our perception.
Longing is a quality of light
As in each word we sense an inner darkness.
No word but is a stairway down to darkness,
Down to chaos seething within order.
Live, then, within the pale of what you know,
In touch with terrors gilded by the light.
So may you part the curtain of perception,
Alive to all the grace of mystery.

Being and Becoming Are Creations

Being and becoming are creations
Of indispensable imaginations.
No being is, but as it is perceived,
Needing to be seen to be retrieved,
Infinite as nothing, fixed as numbers,
Eternal insofar as one remembers.
Mind is both what is and what remembers,
A creator that is one of its creations,
Reducible, as all must be, to numbers,
Knowable but to imaginations,
Unformed until by its own act retrieved,
Sustained so long as by itself perceived.
So must we all be by ourselves perceived:
Eternal insofar as one remembers.
To be is by some mind to be retrieved,
Held among the host of its creations.
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Before Earth, Water, and Air Is Fire

efore earth, water, and air is fire,
On which all subsists,
Not as flame on oil,
Nor candle on wax, but with-
In, as in us, each
Element in love.
So we are:
Each organ mad with lust, tingling,
The blood eager to cleanse the spleen, nerves
Hungering for connection.
Gifts are tongues of flame.
A blood cell delivers its gift of oxygen. Why?
Brain cells surrender memories.
Reasons are beside the point.
In love we do only what we cannot help,
Each pinpoint moved by frenzy,
Longing to give, to be accepted, consumed.
Most of us have ideological toes,
Or live brightly, with understandings
More reasonable than real.
Around us, within us, is fire,
Delivered from flame.
Do we see it?
Absolute, messageless.
Do we see this dark, unradiant fire?
Beginning Thursday, There Will Be No More Reasons
Beginning Thursday, there will be no more reasons.
Over the sun I'll cast a white shroud.
No further laws, no more revelations,
No sources of knowledge beyond one's sensations;
In the absence of oil, flames not allowed.
Each joy without awe, without hope in its seasons . . .
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And Thou Shalt Love

There! Do you see the light
High on that mountain?
Even here there is
Light! Do you see it?
Only darkness. You see
Reflections of dreams. Here
Darkness covers even
Tomorrow. Who can
Hope any longer for light?
Yet there it is! We must
Go towards it, or else--
Or be of those who love
Darkness, luminous darkness . . .

Bees Swarm Along the Fragile Edge of Darkness

Bees swarm along the fragile edge of darkness.
Open wounds attract blood-hungry flies.
Near my heart lie savage little souls
Neatly arrayed to feast upon my life.
In eight days God will be through with miracles.
Even so, life is a gift of love.
So how does one enjoy this gift of love,
Even as one moves from light to darkness?
There is no moment free of miracles,
However swift and deep one's passion flies.
Glory is the dancing quark of life,
Alight with love and lust in all our souls.
Born of the cataclysm, our burgeoning souls
Race towards infinity, love
Infinite, lust infinite, life
Eternal as light billowing into darkness.
Little do we see how far it flies
As we spin through Earth-bound miracles.
Nor can we comprehend these miracles.
Darkness is the center of our souls,
Like still black water in the moonlight. Love
Is of this emptiness; unburdened, it flies
Swiftly in widening circles, skimming the darkness,
A motion outward at the heart of life.
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Hobnob with the Hobgoblins

Hobnob with the hobgoblins
And gather with the ghouls!
Let the monsters in your heart
Loose to run with wolves!
Open up your happy Hell,
Window on your weir!
Even as you know quite well
Each demon from your dungeon will
Not ravish long your fear.
Horror Is a Kind of Play
Horror is a kind of play,
A need to undergo
Life along the borderline,
Lest death be just a name.
On Halloween we dream away
What wailing we well know,
Enchanted by the danger sign
Each savors up and down the spine,
Near haunts that are no game.
How Can Normal, Rational People
How can normal, rational people
All lust after ghosts one night,
Like the moon on some church steeple,
Luring demons to its light?
Old fears lie buried in our pleasure,
Words within a midnight grave,
Each a truth that we must treasure,
Eerie horrors our hearts crave.
Nor should we all our passions pave.
How Might a Spirit Settle in the Wind
How might a spirit settle in the wind?
After death, how might a soul find peace?
Love lasts long after lips and laughter cease,
Leaving only memories behind.
Out of longings, one might linen spin,
Weaving well the welkin edged with fleece.
Each spirit must from wandering seek release,
Else ever through the weary midnights wend,
Not resting till love's angels dark descend.
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Have a Look in the Mirror of Your Dreams

Have a look in the mirror of your dreams:
All the horrors that you see are real.
Lest you think the world is as it seems,
Let your skin crawl, your frozen blood congeal.
Of fear and fantasy now take your fill.
Wells of sorrow lie beneath your feet.
Each sun-drenched field you mercilessly till
Endures to see your ultimate defeat.
Now let yourself let go your last conceit.
Have Witches Gone the Way of Wonders
Have witches gone the way of wonders,
Asterisks of yesterday?
Life restores what reason sunders,
Lest we lose our mind for play.
Once we knew that what we knew
Was like a ship upon a sea.
Evil spirits wandered through
Eternity, and what was true
Never tainted what might be.

Hell Has Little Hope of Happiness

Hell has little hope of happiness.
A devil is eternally on fire,
Locked within unquenchable desire,
Longing with hatred for lost holiness.
On Halloween the devils and the dead
Wander through the world as though to warn
Each soul of an eternity forlorn,
Evangelists condemned to speak through dread,
Nightmares that must preach through pain till dawn.

Hobgoblins Know the Proper Way to Dance

Hobgoblins know the proper way to dance:
Arms akimbo, loopy legs askew,
Leaping into darkness with delight,
Lusting for the ecstasy of fright,
Open to the charm of horrors new.
Well may you start your screaming in advance,
Even as you give a ghoul a chance,
Each creepy creature craving to say, "Boo!",
Near heaven in its netherworld of night.
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Halloween Wraps Fear in Innocence

Halloween wraps fear in innocence,
As though it were a slightly sour sweet.
Let terror, then, be turned into a treat,
Lest it undermine our common sense.
Our nightmares are the founts of fancy whence
We wander through the fields of our conceit,
Eluding the true horror we must meet
Embodied in the play of our pretense,
Now ranged across the night in our defense.
Halloween's a Sudden BOO!
Halloween's a sudden BOO!!
And just as quick a scream:
Laughing in the scary dark,
Loving friendly fright.
On Halloween, witches come true;
Wild ghosts escape from dreams.
Each monster dances in the park,
Eating candy like a shark--
Now kiss and say goodnight!
Happiness, All Snug, Lies Fast Asleep
Happiness, all snug, lies fast asleep
As spirits roam the neighborhoods at night,
Let loose upon the Earth till it be light,
Laughing revelers, whom death doth keep.
O spirits lost, who wail but cannot weep,
Wanton worshippers of rage and spite,
Each the unknown author of its plight,
Equal in the pain you sow and reap,
Now come to us from out your vasty deep!
Harbingers of Unimagined Horrors
Harbingers of unimagined horrors,
Avatars of those who rule the night,
Lurking in the shallows of our shadows
Like fish that lack the lungs to breathe the light;
Omens from an almanac of sorrows
Written on a midnight long ago,
Etched into the mirrors of our marrows,
Ever masks for what we dare not know:
Now revel with us till the cocks thrice crow!
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A Special Feeling

I knew it was special from the very start,
It envelopes my body, my core, my heart.
A shining, uplifting, persistent feeling,
It embraces and warms my entire being.
This special feeling lights my soul on fire,
It burns with amazing delight, warm desire.
How lucky I am to have this in my life,
A most cherished feeling, wonderfully nice.
Let me name this feeling, it is all about you,
It is my undying, everlasting love for you.
I love you, my dearest sweetheart,
Nothing in the world can keep us apart.
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What Love Is

It is Love that gives me purpose
to change and grow and learn.
It is Love that guides me on this path
and helps me choose each turn.

It is Love that gives me courage
to stand against my fears;
to open up my heart to you,
to let you see my tears.

It is Love that gives me trust and hope
when little thing go wrong.
When distance stands between us,
it is Love that keeps me strong.

It is Love that offers harmony
and a friendship that is true.
How wonderful that I can share
a Love like this with you!

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What a Puzzle Nick's Poems Are

What a puzzle Nick's poems are!
I cannot grasp what he is after.
Marx is easier by far!
Why write, if one is out to bar
All comprehension? Does he hafta?
Marx is easier by far.
If only some new thought would jar
Bourgeois perception, as in Kafka!
But Nick's poems empty puzzles are.
I think I would put him on par
With Cage or Pollack: Which is dafter?
Marx is easier by far.
Under what sectarian star
Was he begat? What gnomic laughter
Twists those poems which puzzles are?
Ah me! I'll never know. A for-
Eign joke, a filial disaster!
God! Such puzzles Nick's poems are!
Marx is easier--by far!
When You Were Just a Lad of Twenty
When you were just a lad of twenty,
Wet behind the ears,
You bet me that you wouldn't marry
At least a full ten years.
Well, that was but eight years ago,
And here you are today:
The partner of a lovely bride,
A groom in full array!
A thousand dollars is my prize
Now you've been proven wrong.
The moral is: it's never wise
To think you are too strong
To be touched by the beauty of
An unrestrained affection.
You lost your bet, but won your love:
Now here's to your selection!

Young and Lovely, Strong and Sane

Young and lovely, strong and sane,
Life's a lot of fun.
We snowmobile and laugh and hang
And don't hurt anyone.
You love my blue eyes and blonde hair,
I love your mischievous smile.
We drift a lot among the stars,
Then walk home single file.
Although we're just now starting out,
Only months together,
We'll settle down in Waikiki
And be in love forever!
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Wacky Carols

Evil knight, wholly night,
Vests his dough in a young nerd bright.
Even so, the malevolent childe
Loses his shirt in a downturn mild,
Yielding sword and piece.
Now we will never have peace.
Angels often herd on high,
Nodding nimbly all the day.
God says little in reply,
Echoing what actors say:
Less is more-o-o-o-o-or-o-o-o-o-or-o-o-o-o-oria,
As one seeks the way-o.
There is no well, the angels did say,
In search of a hot tub in which they might lay,
Nor more than one shepherd to manage the sheep,
A lover of Oprah, demented but deep.
Praise be the shoppers, toyful and triumphant,
And the package tourists bound for Bethlehem.
Underneath their passions, they remain but angels,
Living to adore Him
As they serve other lords.
Give us what we're asking for, or we will you dismay.
In Heaven God may reign, but we want toys on Christmas Day!
Unless you do, some things you cherish well might go astray,
Like that Longines watch that long has been your joy, long your joy,
If you don't give in, you just might lose your joy!
We Met upon the Internet
We met upon the Internet,
A friendship electronic,
Expressed alone in words and thoughts,
Inevitably platonic.
We live too far apart for us
To mingle in the flesh,
But much more close than family,
Our hearts and feelings mesh.
Your dear, dear self reveals itself
Without a voice or face.
We have our own sweet home within
Our precious cyberspace.
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There Is Within My Happenstance

There is within my happenstance
An unshed innocence,
Not rare among those buttercups
Whose sun is fueled by shame.
No matter what the circumstance,
My heart must hie me hence,
For all the quince of Nottingham
Is squandered in my name.
Extant there are no photographs
Of who or what I am,
For they were in the sandwiches
We ate one moonlit night.
Instead my mirror must reveal
The marmaladed ham
That lies atop the tabletop
And stuffs itself with light.
Ay me! What might I do that might
Undo my unfelt pain?
My life must gorge on life, and yet
I sorrow for my mice.
Ay me! The cherubs hunger as
My goods are shipped by plane.
And I must dance with polar bears
Across the shrinking ice.

To A Terrier

HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
Dog thou never wert--
That from my door or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Louder still and louder
From thy throat it sparkest,
Like a clap of thunder;
Outside my home thou parkest,
And barking still dost stay, and staying ever barkest.
In the golden light'ning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost woof and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Sets off your terrier white;
Thank God there aren't seven
In the broad daylight.
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Although we cannot see, we hear that you are there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
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The Being of Being is Being

The being of being is Being;
The being of nothing is none.
And if you find this so much nonsense,
At least it will do you no harm.
Now nothing is nothing, for certain;
And something is something, for sure.
Since something cannot come from nothing,
It must be eternally there.
And though it is hard to imagine
Since time is our air and our sea,
No thing will ever be nothing,
Though we will not always be we.
The Girls Meet Once a Month
The girls meet once a month
(Shall we call their meetings "monthlies"?)
To dis/cuss guys and udder things.
Why girls only?
Because guys get too hard
To deal with
When girls are around.
Tonight's topic is Poe-etry.
(Don't get too scared!)
A raven lunar tic
(Let's call him the Louse of Brush Her)
Has gotten, like most guys, into my hair.
So I brush him off onto Anabel's knee.
To be Poe-etic, one should be a ghoul rather than a guy,
And have monthly meat things
For ghouls only.
So let the Poe-etry be gin!
There Is a Dark and Gloomy Place
There is a dark and gloomy place where choices
Have their homes and wait upon your touch.
After long and futile waits for voices,
You must, alas!, sign on to such-and-such.
A family in a circle warm and loving:
Less sweet? or more? than living lone and free?
A choice in darkness, both sides fiercely shoving:
My heart is yours, whichever it might be!
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Recent Studies Have Shone

Recent studies have shone
On fathers with their sons
What many would expect
To buy with common cents.
Four instants:
(1) would expect declining years
(2) refuse to let the parties
Party until (3)
(4) oblivious recents.
Still, the studies co-relate
People who are know-knows.
(What better weigh to meat
Than to gather date-a together?)
Recent studies have shone
Pretty much what recent studiers
Have set out to sea
In tall sailing labs
Whose barque is better
Than they're bright.
Secretaries Seek Some Signs of Pleasure
Secretaries seek some signs of pleasure
Emanating from the inner throne.
Clearly, each is an uncherished treasure,
Running the whole office on her own.
Even so, the voice is deferential,
Though the thought knows well who knows the score.
A moment's pause might seem inconsequential;
Remember, though, that patience wins the war.
In every secretary lives an angel,
Empathetic almost to a fault,
Self-sacrificing, sweet, and sentimental,
Deep within a twelve-inch concrete vault.
A decent word, with flowers or chocolate, may
Yet charm the cherub Secretaries Day.

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
In truth, thou shoulds't be catalogued in fall.
X-rays do show the darling Buds of May
Traveling still along th'arterial wall.
Yet thou has't late become more temperate,
Older as thou art than thy flesh seems.
Nor do thine eyes betray thy body's date,
Even as within thy spirit gleams.
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My Mother Loves Her Animals and Me

My mother loves her animals and me;
And, of course, my sister's* in there, too.
She shows her love quite unmistakably:
She pets us all, no matter where or who.
I haven't sprouted yet a bushy tail,
Nor has my sister* grown a toothy snout;
But I sometimes feel a dog in such detail
I pant and bark and scurry all about.
But I am glad my mother has a love
That cuts across the paths of innocence.
I know that her sweet feelings long will move
Me to appreciate her scents!
*Feel free to change to "brother."
On Passing Air
On passing air
One turns around
To see if any
Heard the sound;
Then moves away
To vacate where
Another might
Inhale the air;
And then, relieved
In gut and soul,
Becomes again
A wholesome whole.

On Your Day Just Want to Say

On your day just want to say
That you can count on me
To be your friend until the end:
Just wait and you will see!
I know that you would be as true
To me for just as long.
No "if" or "but," no matter what,
Our friendship will be strong.
So, my dear, I'm glad you're here
To share my joy and pain.
I care so much, so keep in touch--
I'll talk to you again!
Once I'm in My Bubble Bath
Once I'm in my bubble bath
I like to stir up more.
Half the suds go in my eyes
And half go on the floor.
The fun is in the bubbles 'cause
They giggle on my skin,
And when I stick them on my face
They dangle from my chin.
And when I splash them hard enough
They pop and disappear,
And then my bath time's over 'cause
I've made the water clear.
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I Love Them Both, Can't Have Them Both

I love them both, can't have them both.
It's tearing me apart!
My former joy and present boy:
Both have got my heart.
I have to choose, so I must lose
Someone I really love.
It feels like dirt that I must hurt
A guy that I dream of.
Why this must be I cannot see;
I only know I must.
Each might endure, for I am sure
That this is love, not lust.
I weep and wail to no avail;
I can't say no to either.
But if I can't tell what I want,
Could that mean I want neither?
I Love You & Etc.
I love you & etc.
As I have never loved.
You are the one, of all so far,
That I'm most certain of.
I'll do anything, etc.,
To keep your cool green eyes,
And make you smile that golden smile,
And still your lonely sighs.
You're the greatest & etc.
Guy I've ever met.
Right now you are my heart and soul,
Etcetera & etcet.
Linda Was Quite Lonely
Linda was quite lonely
On the day of love.
No one cared how well she fared
Or which way she might move.
No one thought her lovely
Or dreamed of her caress,
Or so she thought until she bought
A sexy dark red dress.
That dress had seemed a failure,
Though she had lost some weight.
Some men stared, but no one cared
Enough to make a date.
Her calendar was empty,
As empty as her heart,
When in this hell she heard the bell
And jumped up with a start.
Could it be? Oh, could it?
Here was her salvation!
To her joy a delivery boy
Was holding a carnation.
"Carnation-Gram," the boy said,
And handed her the box.
Who was it from? Perhaps someone
Who thought she was a fox.
All Linda's sadness vanished
As if it never were.
That little flower had the power
To set her heart astir!
And so when Johnny called her
In a little while,
She was primed in heart and mind
To greet him with a smile.
So please remember Linda
When starting a relation:
Her mood reversed when she got first
A single, cheap carnation!
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I Can't Believe I'm Marrying/ My Grandma's Paperboy

I can't believe I'm marrying
My grandma's paperboy!
She said that you were "dreamy"
And the sort I would enjoy.
My grandma! Well, I humored her
And took a look at you,
And saw, those many years ago,
That what she said was true.
But not so fast, because we lived
A continent apart,
And were too young to comprehend
The wisdom of the heart.
We needed time to grow into
The truth that we had seen,
And let some others stampede through
The years that came between.
But Grandma always said that you
Were just the one for me,
And now we are all gathered here
To publicly agree!
How often can we say that love
Was truly at first sight?
But since I first laid eyes on you,
I've known Grandma was right!
I Have a Monster Crush on You
I have a monster crush on you,
A super-dinosaur!
It sits upon my chest and throat
And yet I beg for more.
When you're away I miss you so
My heart is full of sand.
Yet when you're here my stupid fear
Won't let me touch your hand.
I cannot sleep, I cannot eat,
I'm so wrapped up in you.
My thoughts drift up, away from words,
And fade into the blue.
I know this crush is not your fault;
The dinosaur is mine.
Yet if you could, please rescue me,
And put your arms around me, and hold me, and say
you love me, and Oh! God! Would that be good!
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Harpies Are but Angels Who Are Harried

Harpies are but angels who are harried,
Angry, disappointed in their lot,
Prone to practice bickering when married,
Perhaps because they don't get what they've got.
Yet angels nonetheless, as pure inside
As deep and drifted, soot-encrusted snow,
Near the heart of God but for their pride,
No less loved, for all their squawk below.
If you find yourself pursued by harpies,
Vengeful just because . . . well, just because,
Elevate the angle of your worries,
Remembering that there are higher laws.
So may you love all beings, bright or small,
And be what you would have them be to all,
Regardless of what they might be to you.
You are the harpist, no matter what you do.

Hobgoblins Know the Proper Way to Dance

Hobgoblins know the proper way to dance:
Arms akimbo, loopy legs askew,
Leaping into darkness with delight,
Lusting for the ecstasy of fright,
Open to the charm of horrors new.
Well may you start your screaming in advance,
Even as you give a ghoul a chance,
Each creepy creature craving to say, "Boo!",
Near heaven in its netherworld of night.
Holidays Are Holy Here in Heaven
Holidays are holy here in heaven.
(Ordinary days are awful, too.)
Love is mandatory day and night.
If you get mad, you're not allowed to fight.
Desperate deeds are difficult to do!
As you know, I'll always be eleven.
Years pass, and there's still no sign of you.
So please come soon, 'cause we're still buddies. Right?
How Can I Fall in Love with Only Words
How can I fall in love with only words?
Words and pictures, grainy and compressed?
A jaypeg love is truly for the birds.
You'd have to wonder whether I'm repressed.
But love it is, through all the bits and bytes,
For someone who's like no one else I've met:
Tender, charming, bright, queen of my nights,
All I've ever dreamed of, on the Net.
And though she's living in a distant place,
I love her as I've loved no one before.
Will I ever get to touch her face,
Hold her in my arms and, perhaps, more?
Ay, me! No matter what, I'm still in love.
Through modems must our e-mailed passions move!
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From a Secret Admirer

Whose gift this is you cannot know.
My heart is in your keeping though.
You will not mind my writing here
To tell you that I love you so.
I know that you must think it queer
For me to love and not come near
But linger by some frozen lake
This most romantic time of year.
I sometimes give my head a shake
And ask if there is some mistake.
It's lonely out here 'mid the sweep
Of bitter wind and icy flake.
My love for you is dark and deep,
But it's a promise I will keep
As from afar I watch and weep,
As from afar I watch and weep.
Gisela would all essences rescind,
Inviting entities to go their way.
So would we all decide what we would be,
Each moment giving way to mystery,
Leaves becoming leopards for the day
As worms are stripped of wombats by the wind.
Graduation Is a Time
Graduation is a time
When our thoughts turn naturally
To vandalism, sex, and crime,
Now that we at last are free.
Our teachers think we're well prepared
To make decisions on our own;
But now, perhaps, they're running scared
As they listen to this poem.
Don't worry, folks, we aren't crazy,
Though sometimes we look that way;
Just annoyed, bored, and lazy
As we make it through the day.
So just like birds out of a cage
Or slaves set free from toil and pain,
We aim to try to act our age
And be for now a bit insane.
For life too soon will close its doors,
And then as we grow old in years
We'll teach our own kids to be bores,
But hopefully they'll stuff their ears
And do as we dream, not as we do,
Facing life a tad askew.
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A Villanelle for Mother's Day

A villanelle for Mother's Day
Should take me just about an hour:
Writing it is child's play.
Because I know just what to say,
And rhyming's quite within my power,
To write it should be child's play.
Yet plain speech is not my way:
I look for leaves to shade my flower,
This villanelle for Mother's Day.
I do not wish to sound too fey,
Obscure, mystic, gushy, sour--
Arggh! Writing's never child's play!
Yes, childish! To my dismay,
Far beyond the allotted hour,
This villanelle for Mother's Day
Dawdles on. Let me just say
It plain: I love you, and so end our
Villanelle for Mother's Day.
(Well ... writing it was child's play.)
Before I Ask Y'all, Please Understand
Before I ask y'all, please understand,
Even as I come from way down South,
My heart is more loquacious than my mouth,
Yearning like a wave for your smooth sand.
Very few down here will show their hand,
Aching like a riverbed for rain,
Lying like a platitude in pain,
Each chili inside, outside baked beans bland.
Now here down South it ain't right to demand
The things you're dying for, but you real fine,
In a voice polite as preachers set to dine,
Nicely say, "Mind if I trouble you, Ma'am," -
Easy like - "to be my Valentine?"
Dr. Melendez's Head Is Now Quite Full
Dr. Melendez's head is now quite full,
Replete with the most recent rabid ravings.
Most of what he's learned, of course, is bull,
Elicited to strip him of his savings.
Learned thoughts, like clothes, must follow fashion,
Ending up, again like clothes, as trash.
Nor is it easy not to want to cash in,
Defending with one's platitudes one's stash.
Even so, one can success deserve,
Zealous not to conquer, but to serve.
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A Receptionist Is a Person

A receptionist is a person (please note!),
Usually female, whose job is to receive.
Like her male cousin, the wide receiver,
She receives frequent passes from her own team
And abusive hits from visitors playing the field.
At times she is asked to do an end run
Around some office rival,
Or to execute a play
That is clearly out of bounds.
Should she complain,
She might find herself
Standing on the unemployment lines
Or sitting on the beach.
At times she is sorely tempted
To call a strike.
(But that's another sport!)
A Turbonut Is Not a Nut
A turbonut is not a nut:
In fact, it is quite sane.
And though it's smart, it doesn't smart
While others might cause pain.
It has some meat inside its shell,
Though hardly meet to meet;
And while most nuts are oval shaped,
Its feet are quite a feat.
It likes to think, from time to time,
It's Chairman of the Bored;
So mouse or board, it hops on board
A site it can afford.
Well, now I've bored you with the puns
That turbonuts enjoy;
I've done my due--that's all I'll do--
To buoy up girl or boy.
A Valentine Is Nothing Like
A Valentine is nothing like
A chocolate or a rose.
For in a week these shall be gone,
But Valentines remain.
If love were always sweet to tongue
Or fragrant to the nose,
Each day would be like Valentine's,
And we would go insane.
A Valentine just hangs around
Waiting to be kissed
Long after special days have passed
And every days are here.
So one is wise to choose one well
And chocolates to resist.
For in the midst of mania
It's nice to have one near.
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