Coffee House

My worn, wilted words
Still hang on a cork board
By an espresso grinder;
Some say a woman came
And with white silken sleeves
Swept away kittens lost
A missing purse, jobs sought
To smile as she read aloud
My dregs stained verse.

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Requiem for a Poet Who Died Obscure

If any where, you’re walking
Into the grand stadium of Valhalla.
Crowds cheer, chant, and roar
As if you were a football team
After a last winning goal.

You stride confident and strong
To a raised spot-lit podium
And soon will be ready to start
As hushed thousands await
Your verse to voice their hearts.

Gift of Itself

Life makes Life a simple gift,
wraps in parable and myth
a thing not so large it cannot
fit into a single lotus seed;
not so small it couldn’t bulge
and expand the cosmos,
not so near it does not shine
on numberless galaxies beyond sight
not so far its breath doesn’t
touch your ear on a warm night

all around and flowing within us
the heart’s blood of waking buddhas
who open their eyes laughing,
having dreamt we are glasses of water
deep in wondrous, rhythmic seas

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