2 Poems

The Old Soul

The old soul knows
Exactly
What the young soul is still not aware of
Poignant meetings, programmed existence
Karmic devils of pure belongings
Burning at stakes of freedom
Pyres of youth at Eden’s black borders
Or plain combinations of reflex
And thought
Bodily odors
Saliva on ashes
Phallic stones
On levels adjusted to ear
Hearing marble
And eye seeing nothing but white
While lovers adjust to
The ocean’s wild side
The old soul knows where the
Trees fall down
The cycle returns
The fortress rebuilt
Management of fury and cardiac
Smiles
Arrives exactly there when expected

Indians Talk

Indians talk with the stars
Full circle – response
Chants and sweeping voices
Rhythm of earth and nothing but her
She that the living please
Only – she that cries not for the dead
Indians sit while the knowledge
Revolves
Evolves and resolves
All endings of hell
To carve new beginnings of heaven
While new cities form ashes
And deaths form puddles
And gardens so slowly grow out
Of windows and sidewalks and walls
No lifts, doors
No phones, no jackets, no homes
No high rise blocks, no shirts, no coats
As the Indians talk with the stars
Waiting for tribal
Sunrise