A Wilding Dream

Yellow seasons, red clouds,

drinkable dawns and wine— 

we certainly indulged.

Then an orchestra,

sprawling, treacherous, and lavish

with wilding percussion,

rainy brass, nervous strings,

and chatty woodwinds.

A growing dissonance of voices

on top of the deep roar of traffic

and sirens, a scream for help,

the crash of cymbals, bossy and jagged,

tumbling down concrete stairwells,

cutting through all things fearful,

then quiet but for the breezes sighing

through the barb’ wire fences

and over the range grasses.

In the discomfort of chaos,

another glass of Syrah, 

a Brahms symphony,

and a found book of Psalms.

From: Ponder: Dreams, Memories, 

and the Imagination

Unpub. MS p. 47

After Listening To Brahms

Symphony No. 4 in E Minor 

Taking off my shoes this chilly summer evening,

seeing redwoods as masses of  green

close to the shore,

but knowing at the changing seasons

the wind will be asking

to speak to anyone willing to listen, 

along with the horses and dogs

running on the beach,

asking, Are we here for real?

Sunrise to sunset to sunrise. 

I accept my past losses

and hopes for the future.

Now an ocean wants to speak

and there I am, naked on an empty beach, 

walking on the foamy rim of the world.

Easy now, they admonish, those mystic voices 

from silence so far yet so near, 

Don’t let the future

confuse you or the past destroy you.

Start now in silence.

Step into wet sand,

watch the water squeeze out 

and flow back to fill your foot print,

only to disappear.

A deep breath.

I can only say, 

Just listen…

the heart will hear 

the rhapsodies of the Universe.

From: A Preface To The Universe

Unpub. MS p. 26