1—The Muttering Souls

I awoke from a dream, dark and somber (I was back in the arctic again)— profound it was, to find out a single

arctic door, with a cryptic murmur

(muttering souls) stubbornly opened up—all filled with pillars and ice cold floors: adorned me evermore. Layer, upon layer: laid, stood, and paced, were the dead!...

(With folded arms and sunken in chests.) Half frozen in the halls of hell; and thus, I

feared the wisdom of each silent shape! (For I knew my life was complacency.)

#1084 1/18/2006

2—O Quiet Dust

And so we changed at last! Ah! From changeless years

we seemed to have had

noisy with life, we grew old). O quiet dust, have you settled yet? Life gnawed at heart and soul,— And you bore the pain (if so). Are we not all a mystery—? Here comes the: day, hour, minute— Ah! who will meet me at the Pathless gate…?

#1084 1/18/2006

3—The Land of Forever More

[Dedicated to the aging with dignity group]

Wholesome snowflakes of winter blow

And squirrels hide avoid the snow,

In this city I roamed as a boy, Carefree and many years ago.

Strange even to myself, am I!

For the lads that roamed with me,

(Years ago); are changed I see Like me—gray and some are dead.

And now as I look out, from my porch

Memories haunt the hollow past,

An

d yes, I still hear voices, echoes, Old dreams, old friends vibrating back.

I wait now for the path and sunrise—.

I who will journey, beyond the stars;

I notice the light is not so very far: I see it now, in a land called—forever more!

#1083 1/18/06

The Poet's House

1—A Lone Poet

A poet is a gift from God

(I heard said once); listen to him said Jeffers (back in '63); but for the sake of God, let him be…do not kill his art, his play, like you did to Keats and Hemmingway. A poet is one who has learned and whispers back what Faulkner dare not say! And thus, lost his way.

#1083 1/18/2006 [Inspired by Robinson Jeffers]

2—The Basalt Hunchback

Death, the black basalt hunchback (The Poet of Volcanic realism): Strolls through the countryside,

City pathways: servant to no man, Avoided by all men who want to live? You sits and watches us labor—victors

go home, while others stay. No one but death knows their fate: Except Christ!

#1083 1/19/2006

Tell Your Friend