Dans le Silence...		Into Silence...
	
	au dela d'un corps		beyond the body
	au dela d'une vie simple	beyond a mere life
	n'attendant rien		waiting for nothing
	ni personne			for no one
	en paix			at peace
	se connaissant soi-meme	knowing oneself
	un point			a point
	de feu eternel,		of eternal light,
	une ame,			a soul,
	ca ne fait rien		it doesn't matter
	que les vibrations		that vibrations rage
	se mettent en fureur	all around
	partout			and happiness visits mortals
	et le bonheur		like the droppings
	rend visite			of a crow. 
	aux mortels
	comme les crottes
	d'une corneille. 


	Chinese formula poem
	
	Two samurais duel.
	The mother of one watches
	a dangling rose petal.
	What will fall first
	under the noon sun? 
	

	Lucky Penny
	
	Its head was bright and new
	its tail stuck in a concrete wall.
	When I gave up trying to pry it loose
	the penny quickly faded
	and its space expanded a thousand-fold
	onto a lane of soft spring colors
	in early 19th century France
	where carriages rolled over cobblestones
	and elegant ladies strolled
	in high-waist gowns and bonnets. 
	
	All I had to do was take the step
	but knew I might not have the power
	to come back, being ambivalent
	about changing habitat and habits.
	Remembering the maxim
	"better safe than sorry,"
	made to order for such occasions,
	I walked away, looking back to see
	the wall closed up, without the penny. 


	The Kemence
	
	Sounds from time
	out of mind;
	images of kings,
	fish nets and poets
	ripple into the room.
	Rhea's heart opens,
	heroes cradle in her arms.
	
	Brown hands, black, white
	turn tables into drums,
	others clap
	then spoons and feet,
	hearts stroked wild
	by ancient imaginings,
	wood and strings.



	Regarding Van Gogh's Advice
	Not to Be Afraid and Not to Try
	to Make a Painting Pretty

	It takes courage not to try
	to make a painting pretty.
	Few souls can resist,
	the desire to please requiring
	that ugliness be hidden.
	
	Tell it like it is,
	beautiful and ugly,
	the best you are able--
	serve no other master!
	Was that commandment made for man
	who has so much to worship and forget?
	
	A Van Gogh baby is a real armful,
	big, drooling, eternal;
	his vigilant, wide-hipped mother
	wears her apron like a skin,
	her evolution showing.


	suicide bomber

	dynamite strapped across her chest
	dark hair covered, smooth tan skin
	she ambles down war-swept streets
	
	past debris and sewage
	across fields and into a shop
	busy with affluent citizens
	
	her purpose to take down
	those who drove her people
	from their land and lives
	
	who allow no relief
	to the starving and degraded
	they dispossess
	
	she would not be broken,
	but light a fire of hope,
	a martyr for justice
	
	opening heaven's gates
	with an orange cord
	held to her heart.