A prick of sound, repeated fast,
becomes a tone with which to sing.

Just so do we with each life drama.

In time we form a melody
of things remembered from our past.

And we compose the tone outwelling.



When born our infant limbic system
administers our indications
of what to lean toward and away from.

Like sprouts emerging from the topsoil
we blossom up from warmth and feedings
and shrivel down from cold starvation.



There is some spark without . . . that lures us.
In reaching it we’ll journey long . . .

Provision needed for this trip
includes a vast amount of knowledge.

And healthy doses of persistence.
They’re all a part ‘our incubation.



The source chords of our music souls
ring out at our inauguration

And chime our births into the world
so listen now and you will hear them

And strange new harmonies compose
with ardent melodies within



I sense a worldly basal pulse
As beingness flicks off . . . flicks on . . .

The empty troughs of non-existence
Imply, in turns, what we can see . . .

Our consciousness extends in ripples—
With nothingness we reach beyond