reveries . . .

The act of being important

Is important at times

For if you don't

You miss

That great opportunity

That comes knocking on your table

Once in a while.

World Beautiful . . .

The sunshine melts the pitch

Creating a mirage in the middle of the sea

Of traffic, on which ride in lissom waves

The snarls, the honks, and the expletives.

Things will not Come to Me

Things will not come to me

as they will come to you

as through a door

opened to let in the morning light

Poised and calm, you

like a clean tablet, take first impressions

every time.

Then outflow it in matter for the soul

or the mind.

In that white light of reason that bathes you

I will stand blase and unclean

My amorphous mass

will absorb, and gain mass, infinitely.

To will, I will shuffle

a striving and a planning

of my thoughts and ideas

which way they course.

I will, and will not

seek words, and pare and add

this way and that

to create the perfect discourse.

When it comes, it comes

like blood spilled

from subterranean veins

that had long contained it.