At Play in the Fields of Existenz


The wind billows no reward

for the isolated in heart.

The world holds no meaning

for those transported in ek-stasis.

Beyond the beyond shimmers

a horizon of blessedness. Only

the sinner qualifies for entry.

Only the lost lamb regains the fold.


Contemplation pulls me toward

the threshold of Being. What beckons

from afar rings like a shepherd’s

call to his flock of goats. His beret teeters.

Ezra Pound paced the compound’s cage

of madness and treason. His trial sent him

to a hospital bed, then on to Venice, where

he wrote, lived and died. His cantos obscure.


I have witnessed the new birth of poetry.

I have testified to the wonder of words

to wound, then heal, to nurture, then mourn.

Poetic hymns construct a gateway to joy.

Doves flock to a feeder meant for starlings.

Size matters only to the victor.

The conquered throng smuggles power

through weakness. Nietzsche shudders in his grave.


Alone before God, the triune self ricochets

from transcendence to supplication. Relating

itself to itself, the self somersaults into union

with the divine. What is triumphs over what would be.

Potential, actual. Pick your path of volition,

will your way into the fray of dread and death.

We hurtle toward demise, clawing all the way.

Poetry signals release, but the flag is torn.

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