Poetry

The living scripture of simple being

is the truth, not the morass and tangle

of words about ideas about ideas

 

What is real is veiled by concepts and words

A white on white sail in the mist, half seen

Intuitions’s divine dewdrop condensing

 

Palimpsest traces on a map, barely seen

Blank, un-touched, silk screen surface of the Real

Waiting the touch of the artist un-seen

 

Every sense is like lightening next to thought

Good wine or bread is known without a word

Sunshine on skin, a cool splash of water

 

Love radiating from hearts, is not a word

The softest whisper of a baby’s breath

Pure silence in the morning’s golden hue

 

Poetry’s as near as words ever get

to the beauty of what’s really true

Visibility’s edge is what is traced

Timeless moments reveal un-seen as seen

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