Thursday, January 8, 2015


It's been a while that you have gone. I miss your presence so.
And whether you are present still, I really do not know.


We do not know from where we come or know the reason why
We each are born to live awhile, to suffer and to die.

From spirit, light and atoms, there is conjured up a soul.
But what, we ask, is spirit?  It is everywhere and whole –
Or so we’re told, by those who might have insight or might not.
They speak of it as essence – that persists. Yet bodies rot.

And surely mind and body each are in the other’s core,
So self cannot remain as such, when body is no more.
We do not know to where we go or whether we’ll return –
Or what are time and space, in which the distant beacons burn.

And yet, we each have memory – and that, which still is passed
From virus and from cell to cell, as through the eons past.
And so it is, I type these lines and send them out to read
To those who then might pass them on – or swiftly hit "delete".
But if indeed the “I” and so the “we” are made of dreams,
The dreamer is, though bubbles form and pop in spirit’s streams.


If you and I were bubbles, then perhaps it's once we'd meet.
But to the dreamer dreaming this, I'd say, "That part was sweet."

2015 January 8th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York 

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