Monday, October 25, 2010

Three Poems

Three  Poems


At the tip of my nose
there is something sweeter
than any earthly perfume,
yet I cannot smell it.
Every time my eyes blink
a vision appears
of splendor beyond imagining;
I see it not.
At the ends of my fingers
is a touch filled with love
deeper and truer than any devotion
I can conceive.
Yet my hands hang loose
connecting with nothing.
If I turn around,
it is behind me.
If I look over my right shoulder,
it hides at my left.
There is nothing for me to do.
You will show yourself
when you wish.
I know you are here,
hiding in music I can’t hear,
loving me
as the lover I have never found,
obscuring yourself
in the clarity I have sought
but not achieved.
Sometimes I am discouraged,
but not deterred.
You are here, you are here,
waiting for me to stop the drama.
I can’t find you by any effort,
though you embrace me like a coccoon.
I can’t smell you, see you, touch you,
catch you, hold you,
love you, discern you,
sense you in my breathing,
achieve you in my dying.
I can only exist as I find myself,
nothing more.
You would not have made me this way
unless it was your will to do so.
You would not hide yourself
so close to me,
unless you intended yourself to be found.

Hunted By The Hawk

Make joy from stones.
Make wit from mud,
make humor from blood.
The tiny finch flies crazily,
for the sheer fun of it,
though it knows, each morning,
that it’s hunted by the hawk.
We too, each morning,
are hunted by the hawk.

 No Title

I wish I was still young and beautiful.
I am glad, however, that I am not the person
I was, when I was young and beautiful.
For a while, I didn’t recognize myself
when I looked in the mirror.
Who is this man,
whose hair has fallen out,
who grunts when he gets out of bed,
who limps where he once danced?
Then, I began to
accommodate to what a life really is,
to what a person can become,
to what I have become.
I still look at the young and beautiful,
I still envy the wildness of their feelings,
but pity the wildness of their feelings.
I have been gored soundly and with
thudding impact by the untamed bull of life. 
When I was young and beautiful,
I was cruel. 
When I could dance,
I danced for attention,
not for love. 
Now, occasionally, some rhythm
takes me, and I still undulate,
a few steps, back and forth.
Those few steps are worth
more than every dance I danced
when I was young and beautiful. 


  1. Excellent, Art. I particularly like "Hummingbird". From one poet to another, very nice.

  2. Thanks, KL, it's nice to get a comment. It took me a while to understand what I had in the poem Hummingbird. It wasn't a favorite until recently when I re-read it.



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