to the Poets past but yet to come, the lonely only ones

"The center is everywhere. Bent is the path of eternity." -- Nietzche

tombstones are the post cards of the dead except instead of the old cliche, 'I wish you were here' they're saying, I wish I was there! ... in the light of cosmic time, both great and small are extinguished in eternity ... then again, every particle, every drop of blood is recycled from this great cosmic love affair called creation, consuming and reviving us over and over again, forever 'n ever bent toward every eventuality ... perhaps then, you are the Good Poet you see in the future you're becoming or the one to become whom you ought to be in eternity -- from stars we come to stars we shall return, this ancient ache of longing urging us to burn, to shine on 'n on from inside out, where illumination is a fire without any doubt -- the Poets of the future will have a telescopic memory which bends around mass (Einsteins gravitational lens predicted in relativity theory used today) seeing the future we are yet to be --

so maybe its enough just to say,
in the halls of eternal time,
that the poems you hear echoing there
are not only yours, but mine ...

the good poet~

writes her insights with a lyrical pen that babbles like a brook of words that meander down the page while unfettered, glistening fish jump from line to line seeking the source of their urgent drive home -- nevertheless when Nature has need of some expression sHe urges in surges throughout mankind for a heart made ready from beating wings dipped in tears and laughter and when sHe finds a ready vessel malleable and made pure for this new expression, sHe urges by the creativity of wonder and realized raptures the longing song Poem -- the Poet is often reflected in that urge as the creator is always part creation and as all things go all things become the Poem and so too is the Poet an urge of Nature express'd in surges -- the authentic Poet, the good Poet writes with tears and laughter in such a way that you, the reader, are become the Poet and are, therefore, become an expressed urge of Nature surged in rhythms of Words 'n Music only the heart can hear --

the heart forever voyages, longing its compass, always going hOMe

the future is more or less, I confess, though its dependent on the past, alas. But thats not the point of parallax tunnel-vision with the paralysis of analysis 'n derision, but the sound of Poets in Swedenborgian space, let's face it, echoing down the halls of time, lets trace it, in words both theirs 'n mine -- the sound a poet makes when his heart 'n mind meet, the inner sonics 'n ironics burst into song where all our miseries 'n desires belong, but incomplete --

'Love flowers in isolation, in secrecy, in loneliness. Much poetry comes of loneliness. Let loneliness be my only companion for it draws me nearer to Love.'

the broken, wounded 'n lonely aren't the only ones
to be-longing for the shadows of the Sun
where lovers 'n poets lie
before the day is done

driven within from the damage of harsh light
glaring burningly at their in-near-sight
when the lover awakes
cradled in the dark 'n lonely night
its what it takes to be an only one
when the day is finally done