The Bard's Call

Will the Bard, my mentor, sends this invite:
Awake, arise! 'tis midsummer night!


From day long sleep's stupor, I stutter my answer:
Er, What? Yes, no dream this! Wits to gather.


Eyes dazed by diurnal drudge's noonday sun,
Now open lids to welcome the night's moon.


Limbs, once yeomen to practical pursuits,
Grow supple, lithe: sprouts wings of thoughts.

Craving

No fakir he but who submits

to lie naked

on piercing bits

 

Sweet pleasures of neural itch

he surrenders

so love can reach

 

What Francis sought

upon the snow,

banking fire river's flow,

 

Spurning the gift

of vital glow,

 

To burn anew:

the divine to know

 

 

A Poem Speaks

(before your tutored eyes
by habit taught decode
this script so swiftly would)

Read me with your lips
as child's tongue licks syllables
to melt away into
its core of sense.

As written I am silent, history.
As spoken I happen, an event.

Whose words I am beg entry
thru your whorled gate, to be
the wind's song in chambers
of who sent me,

as echoes in your mind
of the geste.