Sprawled on a grassy field
The world turns despite my stillness
Clouds drift across these eyes
A flock of birds
gathers, then fractures
Patterns in the sky
The heart is never frozen
Change comes like
bird droppings—
One can only laugh in life.
Author: Michael Angelo
-
When it Rains in the Drylands
On the children,
rain falls like jewels.They drink each drop,
hands whipping wet snakes,
fingers clutching claws.Dry has been the month—
Such things come once in a while,
and leave very soon.Drink now, children—Drink!
Soak the beads into the folds,
into the creases of your lips.This is the hour!
This is!
This. -
Emergent Properties
Study the portrait on the screen—
the face you see
is an emergent property
of light particles
as they bounce and intermingle
with molecules of glass.Study the image in the mind—
the memory you’re recalling
is an emergent property
of chemicals
as they splash and soak
neurons of the brain.Study the scriptures of the Cosmos—
the meaning you’re drawing
is an emergent property
of consciousness painting life
onto stone, water, and air.What is the real
beneath the shadow—the truth forming the dream?
-
Sea Turtle III
What does it mean
to write?Is it an exhalation—the birth of something
onto the swirling sands of the Earth?What compels
the heart to swim through the violent currents
within itself,
and to pour what springs,
into a cup lined with stars?Piously, the writer waits—
watching for what emerges
from sparkling
uncertainty…__
Now arises the Word.
It is the god of the human soul,and its truth echoes across tide and surge.
It is a wonder,
how it pools into the fragile spaces
under the night sky—everywhere
that reverberates with the rough strum of life
and sleeps under the tender flute sigh of death.__
Somehow, when this Word is born,
its lyric life swells within the heartbeats of the globe—Nothing is ever silent.
No sea is ever barren.What it means
to writeis to cast away one’s shell
and bare
one’s luminosity.