|I am the Universe.
What little is known of me
Appears as tiny pinpoints of light
In a black velvet sea.
My vast depths, yet unexplored,
Are not lit by the understanding of others.
Calm darkness, eternal night,
Whirling motion, endless turmoil,
Everlasting silence, thunderous sound . . .
All this I am and more.
Most friends see me as empty space,
(Published 1979 in America Sings. Agoura, CA: National Poetry Press. Reprinted in later edition of selected poems from the 1970s.)
|Go forth, young Traveler.
Seek what you desire.
And may glory greet you at your journey's end.
Well met, noble Traveler.
(Published 1996 in Epic!, no volume number.)
The Hero with a Thousand Faces
Suit and briefcase, creeping to his job,
Idly twisting the radio knob,
Hears the sirens in hot pursuit
Of a bank robber and his loot.
Too fed up to get out of the way,
No thought to what the world might say,
Gas to the floor, he hauls on his wheel,
Yelling to no one, "Thou shalt not steal!"
He's the hero with a thousand faces,
A thousand names in a thousand places.
Too scarred to heal, too numb to feel,
He's suddenly on the evening news,
And the bank robber's wearing new prison blues.
Battered woman, standing at a stove,
Mourning the dreams a young girl wove,
Sees her husband enter the room,
Silently waits to meet her doom,
Sees him raise his hand at their child,
Suddenly screams, her eyes turn wild,
Grabs her baby, flees her past,
Broke and lost, she's free at last.
She's the hero with a thousand faces,
A thousand names in a thousand places,
Too old to cry, too young to die,
She's suddenly struggling to live her life
Instead of waiting to die as a battered wife.
Little boy, standing in the street,
Looking for the father he's come to greet,
Sees his father planting a bomb,
Sees him blown to Kingdom Come!
Too stunned to shed even a single tear,
Too angry to feel the least bit of fear,
He steals a gun from a nearby store
And blindly leaps into his father's war.
He needs a hero with a thousand faces,
A thousand names in a thousand places.
Too hurt to scream, too scared to dream,
He's suddenly fighting a mindless war
Because he couldn't take it anymore.
Are you the hero with a thousand faces,
A thousand names in a thousand places?
Too dark or light, too black or white,
Will you speak up and end the war
Because you can't take it anymore?
Published 1996 in Silver Shadows, Vol. 2, no. 5: 2-3.
|A silent Lord roams a starry wood.
A man of many masks,
He walks the wind.
A star of understanding shines
On the traveler searching for his path.
A shadow of the future, present, past,
He promises much, and yet . . .
Who knows which way the wind he walks will blow?
He travels, on,
Vanishing into the mist of stars which shapes his special world.
A silhouette on a starlit night--
And the world sees him anew:
A star child changed to man.
(Published 1996 in Moonlight Masquerade., Vol. 3, no. 1: 55.)
The barren tree pierced the blackened horizon
Alone in a forest that was no more.
Its mighty boughs once laden with leaves
Extend their skeletal forms in prayer.
But the world is silent.
Miles away a leaf still perfectly shaped
Lies on a suburban lawn
Its ghostly whiteness contrasting sharply
With the smoke-smudged green.
But then a little child in his wonder
Reaches out to pluck it from its grassy stem
And the leaf vanishes into dust
For though it survived a fire and a wind
Its delicate form could not endure a Human's touch.
(Published 1997 by the Poetry Guild.)
So what do you do with the boy in the pin-stripped apron?
The boy with the earmuffs?
The boy with the hats?
The artist, the writer, the actor with stage-fright?
The laugh, the smile, the twinkle in the eye?
The Christian, the friend, the lover, the student?
The man who chose to take his own life?
You can't put him in a pigeon hole,
And you can't forgive him--yet.
You can't understand,
And you may not want to.
You can't erase him,
So what do you do?
How do you deal with a suicide--
Who once was your friend?
Cry, my friend, cry.
You can't come back,
But I love you still.
When all else fails, love.
(Published 1997 by the Poetry Guild.)
These poems, also written by me, have been published in small school magazines as well as fanzines, but, over the years, I have lost the publication information. If you know where any of these appeared, please contact me so I can attach the proper reference to them.
I stand upon the edge of time
To hear through ancient chanting rhyme
How Man with fools and gods once trod
And was consigned beneath the sod.
I forward look and backward stare,
Find I am here and yet nowhere.
I shield my eyes lest I should see
The voice of God that whispers "Be."
Lo! in my soul there is a seed
That splits to sprout a sorry weed.
But this is fed by human love,
And soon leaves seize the skies above.
By this I know beneath the ground
The roots in human souls are found
To ring a pair of warring hearts
And bind them fast. No more two parts,
But rather one within the tree,
Toward, not from, themselves they flee.
Their love now feeds this standing thing
And sets its leaves to murmuring.
No golden bough may be found here.
No gates of ivory appear
For all true lovers dread release.
They find within this tree their peace.
In time this tree grows straight and strong
And will while two hearts sing one song.
A shocking mane of blazing light;
Deep pools of liquid blue, like night;
Fiery sabers that rend the skies;
In primal realms the Dream-god lies
In wait to seize his chance to steal
Beyond the bounds of Logic's keel.
He forms and tempers hopes and fears,
Which, aimed by gods, strike as spears
Passed armored Reason's careful shield
Or shine as rays which suns may wield
To part a cold man from his coat.
From fields peopled by Charon's boat
He finds his way through gates of horn
Or ivory and leaves Man torn
In two with doubt. Bold Fancy's eyes
Half-smile at Man. THe Dreamer cries;
But nothing saves him from his dreams,
And "is" becomes what only "seems."
Then Man awash on Fancy's shore
Fears in himself the Dream-god's roar.
I've seen a man in other times
Beneath an old cathedral's chimes
Who, cloaked in brown, dark, straight, and tall,
Was stalking down a cloister hall.
Though buried there beneath his glare,
And all around the cloister fair,
Were knights and ladies, royal kin,
The Black Plague's harvest, holy men,
Earls of castles, fair and foul,
Not one could heed the stalker's scowl.
So, I alone beheld him there
As in his rage he cursed the air.
Across the peaceful cloister's green,
I looked upon that ancient scene,
Yet I believed the breath before
Not one had prowled that corridor.
He wore his hatred like a pall
As he stormed down that cloister hall,
And turned his dreadful, darkened eyes
To gaze at me with no surprise.
He whispered harshly as he gazed.
His hatred held me slightly dazed.
But what he'd done and what he'd do,
I'm glad to say I never knew,
For, like the vision-mists of night
He faded quickly out of sight.
His stare my mind holds till this day;
The rest the winds have blown away.
I won't forget that cloister fair
Where once I held that angry stare.
For though the man was dead and gone
His hateful glare had lingered on.
I wondered as I walked away
What truly happened on that day
To erase all that was mankind
And leave that stare of hate behind?
Show me the magic of a stream
Of stars that light a lover's dream,
Of islands floating on a sea
That crashes at the Mother's knee,
Of rabbits' feet and frozen flowers
And sunbeams that remark the hours,
Of evergreens in faery woods
That shelter merry Robin Hoods,
Of chess games on a summer shore . . .
And when you're through, I'll show you more.
A Thief in the Night
A man climbed up a lonely hill
And stopped beyond my windowsill.
He gazed at me with longing eyes
Beneath the dark and starry skies.
The nighttime mists swirled all around
And clung to the cold, dampened ground.
In that brief time he called my name.
My world was never quite the same.
He turned and climbed into the night
And, with my heart, stole out of sight.
Behold the Mighty Unicorn!
Behold the mighty unicorn!
Each hoof like sharp, blue ice
Every leg is a sparkling icicle
His body--an awesome iceberg
A crystal snowflake swings from his tail
His snowy mane swirls about his graceful neck
His finely chiseled head
An ivory narwhal horn set firmly between wise, brown eyes . . .
For all his power and majesty,
He is terribly vulnerable to a fair maiden's gentle touch.
He sees her glowing face.
The wonder of it draws him closer.
He feels the icy coldness depart
And, feeling the warmth, leaps toward her,
A thing he cannot touch,
And her radiance melts his heart,
His blue ice hooves,
His ivory horn,
And all else that he was--
And the shining pool lay untouched,
Until ripples form from the maiden's tears.
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