Calypso's Poetry

Listen to the wind,
so soft as it whispers
and embraces our beings
as One.
So gentle it coaxes,
so graceful it flies,
lacing us together
if only for a moment,
with calming peace
that fills the air
and is breathed, into
One Heart,
One Mind,
One World.

In the trees
Far above,
Live the creatures
Of this forest.
Fragile canopies protect them,
Natural growth feeds them.
Life sustains life
In this tropical wilderness.

May the forces of civilization,
with its fire and
Machines of destruction
Be still,
So the chirping,
And swinging,
Crawling, and singing,
Last forever.
Amen.

Around this table
We celebrate the
Survival, Perseverance,
And Faith
Of those wandering spirits
Who escaped from their shackles,
Emerging towards freedom
To bring forth a
Nation from which 
We grow, and for our
Future generations
To continue in 
Freedom and Peace,
To always draw
Strength from those who
Went before.

A lonely rose
Lay upon the sidewalk.
Barely bruised,
Not trod upon,
I picked it up,
Placed it to my lips.
Silky softness
Wrapped in a wet
Kerchief, I carried
It off from the
Place of desertment.
It has a new
Home now.

Two boys fell onto the sidewalk;
One of them rose
Quickly raising his arm
As the other ran away.

The sun shone onto the sidewalk;
Its shadow fell,
But did not burn concrete,
Subtly did it leave its mark.

A lover walked upon the sidewalk,
Surprised to be alone.
Determined to find a remedy,
He turned, and crossed the street.

Erosion crumbles
Vivid topography
With its layers
Of colors;
Rock silt and sand
Weave on forever,
A seemingly 
Endless journey
Through a forbidden land
In a forgotten dream.

But this dream
Is real,
Existing to be awed at,
For tourists' photographs
Immortalizing
What is already
Immortal.

Filled with noble
Aspirations drawn
From pride, fall
The gravitational,
Magnetic force of
My body, which
Sings with the water,
Washes with the blood
Cleansing thoughts within,
Without a solemn fanfare
Reminding that this is
The time,
The day,
That all
Becomes one again.

words

grasping,
clinging,
dangling
on your words.
stumbling,
tripping,
falling
on mine.
hearing,
listening,
understanding
your ideas, when really,
i was thinking the same thing myself.

Was to be published in the Oct/Nov/Dec, 1998 issue of The Poet's Edge (Marysville, California), but apparently the publication became defunct before this issue was set to go to press.

Always remember
the still-flowing sounds
that echo in silence
brought on by the swallow
of whole thoughts on tongues,
now still
now silent,
until a new muse
becomes a reality,
becomes audible,
then makes the transition
into the ephemeral.

Afternoon Glow

It's perhaps too premature
To wallow in this shade.
I'm not trying to force the sun
By staring at emerging blades,
For dreams of green are swallowed
In grey until the full thaw.
A brisk wind sends a brief
Chill as a reminder of the past,
While occasional breaks of gold
Light winter's ruins,
Coloring the grey light
Full thrust until evening's
Cool stare looks down upon the
Day and sends it home.
Seasons are subliminal:
It has been Spring for a long time.

From far beyond my reach
Come these words.

Extending into the depths of
Confinement,
Testing the waters of
Limitation,
They leave me boundless.

This world has no walls
Or closing doors,
Only open space
Where the creations
Live to create again.

Morning

Nature's power has undone
The startling beauty of the Sun
That shone on Earth with much delight;
But now she hides away with fright.

The terror of the raging wind
Removes all calm, again to sin.
Thunder roars, and in the rain
The lonely man, he feels no pain.

A gripping touch of dawn then breaks,
Ashes from the soul it takes.
The wet ground shimmers with new light;
The shadows vanished with the night.

Just One

Time lingers on,
shadows move and they’re 
darkening my
door.

It opens wide;
I step inside
to a place I’ve been
before
in my dreams,
a long road
long cast aside.

Strange, as it seems,
that something gold
can become
just one
so alone.

The Sunday Suitor, Lathrop, California. Issue 10, June 1998.

Two faces meet on the screen
through which they see each other;
not face to face,
no personal space
to invade or inhabit.

A meaningless time zone
is crossed by the length
of a sentence; poorly punctuated
broken fragments of a conversation
held in real time,
made lasting on paper,
ephemeral on air,
non-existent on lips.

Tide

Like a sailor,
	The idea floats upon
Seas of mind and soul
	Flowing, knowing, growing
Leading
	Then ending
In a port of questions
	About the journey
	About the struggle
	About the sea,
How the dock seems
		Less secure
	Without the anchor
	Without the captain
	Without the harbor.

Seamless shoreline
	Deceiving the shallow shore
Washed clean by the tide;
	No waves crash
	No ships launch
	No thunder claps
When it rolls.

Aspiring Writer. September, 1997.

Inside Out

Falling inside
Looking upwards
Out, to flowing breezes;
Tall trees
Blowing in and out, in and
Out.
Clutch a handful
Of their leaves-
Caress them,
They are precious.
     Climb the tree;
The top brings
Release.  Looking downwards:
Before there was violence 
Now there is calm;
Below there was silence
You held in your palm.
Let go
And feel the cool breeze move you;
Climb back down-
Slowly move away;
Heading inside
Where your dreams lie,
Where your thoughts fly
Outwards, and back again.

The Big Country

That it happens doesn't matter,
It's the willingness of all
Who go forward after stumbling,
Picking up after a fall.

A miracle of wonder
Keeps the motion of the mind;
The thoughts that hide in memory,
The actions of the kind.

The hand that isn't forced
Is the bravest one to rise;
It's not that hard to tell the truth
While shedding a disguise.

If wishes were like diamonds
They would likely be as rare,
But nevertheless as precious
To the ones who dare.

The Sunday Suitor, (Lathrop, California) Issue 7, December 1997.

I'll never be a pilot,
Dancing in the sky.
The ground would be too far away;
I fear I will not fly.

I'll never be a sailor,
Living on the sea.
The waves would rock me to and fro;
That life is not for me.

I'll never be doctor,
Healing those in need.
I crumple at the sight of pain;
Of this, I must concede.

I'll never be a soldier,
Fighting in a war.
The chance would be too great I'd die,
And never know what for.

If these words appear to you
As stubborn or absurd,
Find solace in your perfect ways,
So you can rest assured.

This is a poem of mine that I just really wanted to share here.

I.
The moon whispers
To the tired sun.
She allows him
To take his place.
Joined in darkness,
Separated by light,
They meet in the night.

II.
Flyer in a fly-craft
Embraces the sky.
Heaven is near,
But offers no greeting.
Instead comes storm.
Rain is a lover,
Clouds are a cover.

III.
One on one are two
People alone, who aren't.
Performing their grand gesture
And grand disaster.
Skin like silk,
Hair like lace,
Fallen from grace.

IV.
Aged rags impatient
On an aged body.
Lost in memories,
Wishes for youth,
Stolen moments.
Farther in time,
Farther behind.

His Life

I thought it was a mundane task
what you took for granted.
Your little piece of joy,
your ultimate collection
means nothing.  Your 
vast knowledge is
nothing.

Impress me, depress me,
you do both so well.
Fill the pages
for the pages' sake,
or for your own.  Your
indecision is pathetic.

You are the gatherer,
take from the river
that grows into darkness
and flows on forever.

Believe what you've been taught,
and there will be no surprises.

Square One

Have you ever been sitting alone
In darkness,
When suddenly it hits you--
A sense of resolution
And peace; answers to
What you have searched
For all along?
In an excited scurry
You leap from your place,
Run from the darkness, and
Walk into light,
Trying to preserve
Your new-found serenity.
But just as you reach
For some paper,
A camera, or a
Tape recorder
Waves of darkness again
Roll through your mind--
The vision has passed into
Reality.

Wishes (a path of dew)

I wish I was a fairy,
To sprinkle my dust
Upon your wounds.
I wish I was a pixie
To dance upon a spider's web
In the early morning,
Leaving behind a path of dew.
I wish I was an angel,
With virgin wings,
Ethereal.
If these wishes
Be true, then
My door
Would always be open
To you.

Circuit of Light: The Magazine of the Imagination (electronic publication). Volume I, Number II. Winter 1993/1994.

It was only an order,
The crime;
Camouflage vs. rags.
A gunshot,
And he falls.
I close my eyes,
I see blood;
I open my eyes,
I see blood.
The air is pierced;
A chorus sings,
Sergeant Camouflage steps back
To admire his work:
The day is a success.
He turns to leave,
But the chorus gains volume,
The audience roars,
And the river flows.

True

I see him sitting on the bench,
			leaning over his paper.
	Looks so much like a statue, a sculpture.
I wish I could take
a picture to capture each
	expression, each movement.
		The different faces of the
	same person.  Must
remain etched in my 
memory.  Fades quickly,
though.  Lying on my
	stomach, trying to
	recall his touch, gaze
	smell.  Never thought I
		could feel such longing.
				Must have him under
				me.  Pillow is his face.
		Blanket is his body.  I
		wrap myself in his arms
		and inhale.  Eyes closed,
	floating.  If I be moved
	to write this page,
	it is the first time I
have felt desire.

The Big Country

Circuit of Light: The Magazine of the Imagination. Volume I, Number I. Fall 1993.

The Refinery. Number 3, Spring 1992. The University of Alberta's English Club Journal.