The Blue Book


Stand here,
look into my eyes and see
all the many masks
that I make up,
that make up me,
a circle of dancing lights
placed in the moving dust
playing across this world,
and a poem about what it is
to touch heaven,
to feel the heart
of another as if it were your own,
as if all this love
could be shared in ways
far more like waves than words;
as if the times we live in
overflow with light,
with songs that are fragrant
as the sunrise and our sense of
no rush.

Do not mistake this, old friend,
for some kind of omen,
just a simple amen
muttered on a mountain path,
another silly little prayer
longing to pulse: pure,
utterly unspeakable.


Amen Omen