No bells to ring

Or poet’s cry

When in night’s cloak

The half-sleep moment

Love is confirmed

Not with alarm

The awakening

But in brief exchange

Simply

Silently

With a touching of hands

 If not in primeval soup whereby life beget

Then begs a puzzle no one’s solved as yet;

Did the chicken come first or was it an egg?

Did yolk claim the honours or was it a leg?

Did both egg and chicken first creation plan?

Or an Almighty scramble inside the pan?

What I see in your poetry is a fiercely pure and deep perception

Of how all life and existence is connected to an original energy;

A magical mix of wonderful words and classical interpretation

But essentially the charge of youth reacting to those demonic days

When succulence of desire need never be sophisticated or explained,

Nor the values of existence measured in the acquisition of blank gazes.

For all mortals you created pictures brilliantly from the garden of gods

Whereupon in plotting to scoop richness from the entirety of earth

There came a loveliness to see but not hold and in touching came torment

As you suffered pain given to those who reach for stuff gods gorge upon

And out of agony came an immortality borne beyond beauty and the truth

It’s quick

It’s simple

As a child

See magic everywhere

Some bad

Mostly good

See

Nothing to fear

Everything enjoy