Beads on a chain

‘the face that holds the mask of race
erases my un-fashioned face’ (M. Mendel)

the nature of life is change
permanence is doom

thoughts running on a string
left loose to stray
surviving in the mind
to settle in the unnamable depths of the soul

the answers to our questions
are lost in the rhythm of our dreams
life to come and life to live:
the ever-seeking spirit of fulfillment

links as beads on a chain many times broken
only to be recomposed in a new fashion


Falling falling falling
like a rolling stone
in a breeze by a lake
falling to the ground
smitten and aware
unfolding the curls
of ear lobes of flesh

regaining self
letting go
to grasp once more

tired as a state of mind

playing to play
feeling to be felt
calling out a name

fearing and wanting
to be heard

Trains that pass

Trains that pass
and leave you with no feeling

I learn to see the seagulls and the waves
the smell of the wet pebbles
the flowers on the grass and the Christmas lights
in the cold night

thoughts so distant from regular life
so far away
and so close to truth

the truth of the matter
the truth that matters

science is a just interpretation
and yet not the explanation

trains that pass and leave you with no feeling
soft rain on my cheeks and the sirens in the distance

No more play (for today)

I look out the window
and see your face in the glass
turning slowly to mine

I watch the marbles on the parquet floor
sliding in orange and blue

that dull sound of glass on wood
rolling with a slight bounce
as they tend to knock and strike one another
with a porcelain knock

running in the forest
–the tall trees–
zooming in and out of focus

a bending wall
–labyrinth of sounds–
similar to those dancing in my mind

light are the wings of butterflies
and petals in the breeze

violently happy

Point to the eye

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

T.S. Eliot

point to the eye with a gun
aiming straight at my soul
where is the swan arching its neck in the jet-black lake?

the mist has risen and there is a faint glow
between the water and my mind

I feel my soul burning between the folds and
crevices on the horizon
where the lone cowboy roams

the moon is a crescent
looking down with dreamy wistful aloofness
on our meanderings

the footprints lost in the sand erased by time
that mollusc of memory
contracting and expanding
to meet the heavenly desires and woes

is this mess a message
a massage to massacre
masses of mass media
in a menstrual mime
to mesmerize the mire
of miracles in a maze
leading to the ever-present Minotaur

hold my hand
I feel limp
the fire has turned out
the embers glowing in the snow

shall we come out of the rain?
I am soaked through and through