By transcendentalist

there is a moment

when all the freedom


over the soul of one

the edges of time are an unbloodied arrowhead

the walls have no writing on them anymore

only a few letters scribbled

the way a lover traces his fingers over the bride…

he hopes for, in his love-spooked mind.

hauntingly carved are the etching stones of man-

upon the knowing will,

just as a book opens to the right, last page

with the dust sprinkling glitter outward

and upward

flight of miniature matter mothy-luminescent

whirl-bent by reason


only then can the being go lightspeed

flinging off the taboos with slow moves

tender from decades denied.

if the wind brings rains,

the stars can glisten,

the eyes can see clearly,

the maytime will explode

with tender passion

more azure than the dark of night…

this lightspeed

is a whitewater, white stone thrown straightly

magnetic, fusing veins of gold, and by tenderness!

as two hands touch again with calm, racy joy

under the emerald canopy of oak and

by the shine of laurel

oh lightspeed, old lovers

rejoining man-tribes to that order of

an alphabet which is left over

after all wars are dead

but all other beings and all human hearts

can know again

what stands upon moonbeams

after rains end

after rainbows at dusk

after sun leaves, dead

oh, rising venus is a planet

guarded by one moon

guarded by all of night

three charms, these symbols

bring heaven, for hell no more known

waltzing anciently, waltzing newly

are those same five letters

dissolving into light infinite



Created: Mar 15, 2010


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