R. E. Beneckson




An Ancient Energy





Days and Nights



From an Ancient Scroll


Love Poem






Sister to the Birds

Still As Gentle, Still As Fair

A Timeless Tender Love


The White Tiger

Ladies of The Nets

My T.V.



The Materialist

American Dream 1971-76


As I Lay


We Met In The Cave


Flying Roller-Coasters


Pensive Beauty


Not All

Wings of Air

Goodnight, My Sweet Darling






An Ancient Energy

Some familiar breeze, an ancient energy,

welcomed me softly into its ambit,

embraced me into its synergy,

enticed me to linger; to float in its orbit,

to taste of its sweetness and share our secrets

beyond the unknown centuries, across the miles

ever constant throughout the years. Evanescent

longing for what is only imagined in dreams,

longing to be immersed in that familiar breeze,

enveloped in that ancient energy's sublime resonance.

Love beyond love entwined by the mind's ease,

overwhelming the separation of time and illusion.

Remembering together the harmony of wind and thought,

Inseparable, their ancient energies again united.












The grains of sand flow like clouds,

as the air from her flying bare feet whispers by,

she drifts in half-circles on that childís swing,

silhouetted in the night sky, arms stretching

into the shadows, shadows stretching into history.

I saw a beautiful green-eyed child,

all heart and love reaching from the soul

for a hand to embrace her,

for arms to surround her,

to contain her own strength.

I saw her grow painfully,

searching without,

for what comes,

only from within.

Throughout history,

I reached out a hand for her,

I longed to embrace her,

to surround her in love,

healing forces from my soul to hers,

but I could not do it,

save in my imagination.

I could not halt the flow of time,

despite my desire, it kept to its course,

like those flying grains of sand,

stirring to life in her wake,

as she swung by in the night.

From the shadows, that green-eyed child

whispered to me,

and I loved her, and will throughout time.

I will reach to embrace her,

surround her in healing arms;

soon she will contain her own strength,

silhouetted no more in shadows,

a woman all heart and love,

outlined by her own radiating light.









I yearn to wrap her in love,

like some cascading lace wave,

the stunning clarity of

a sudden storm,

as focused and intense

as a lightning strike;

energy crackling forth

in a sunburst surge of illumination.

In light she stands revealedÖÖ

Suffused in amber, a smiling dancer

harmonizing with herself;

a dancing thinker, her words sing

timeless clarity.

No word or song, no gift, no deed,

shall ever contain the love I have for her.

No touch or look, nor golden revels,

shall ever encompass the desire felt for her.

What is unbounded can never be bound.

It is as timeless as she,

as clear as her cascade

of surging white light.








The light breaks across the planes of her face,

 shadows dance like swans in a pas deí deux

of soft down, streaming low,

illuminating one facet, then another.

Nuances of color sparkle like orbiting moons,

captured by the gravity of her green eyes,

bright with life, oceans of reflection

on the galaxy of her face.

I am in orbit around her,

drawn by forces deep within,

barely glimpsed from the distance of space.

What universe lies behind her eyes?

By turns sad and bright, scattered

like a field of asteroids, acute

as a burning white star.

Can such mystery be understood

as we catapult through time,

analyzed from synchronous orbit,

measured, weighed and categorized?

This would be error, easily proved.

Hersí is a mystery understood only

by embrace,

a universe of nuance, subtly caressed.








 Days and Nights



Days and nights melted into one,

as each in the other swam

away from shore, swept outward,

drifting into the blue, through

the waves, the swirling pools, past

the boats, the nets, into the open

sea, the depths under them, friendly,

welcoming, warm, days and

nights touching, caressing

melting into one.







She stood there wrapped in black,

shining forth in a rose glow,

so clear-eyed you could see stars in her,

bright prisms of light focused like diamonds.

She looks in a mirror,

inspects her hair,

checks for an imagined double-chin,

a non-existent millimeter of fat,

she seeks many illusory imperfections.

No doubt she would be happier without such scrutiny,

but she is a careful observer of a self

she sees in her most critical mindís eye.

I sit and marvel at her,

at what she sees with such disfavor.

I would lend her my eyes,

but it is not herself she sees

reflected there, but a hologram of her fears.

From her clear, iridescent green eyes,

to her soft peach skin,

beauty shines from her,

swirls around her in contradictions.

She moves with a dancerís grace,

yet sometimes falters with a little girlís nerves.

She is formed with an athletic feminine sensuousness,

yet she mourns the lack of an anorexic frame.

She has a crystalline intelligence,

and a loving, tender heart,

but rough experience,

has given her a certain cynicism,

and the burden of occasional dark moods.

But she is not her moods,

nor her fears.

She is incandescent.

If she could look into the mirror of self,

without eyes or fears,

she would see the rose glow,

and the clarity of stars,

that shine forth in white light,

when she bursts into view.







"From an ancient scroll found in a Cave, the words of an unknown poet to his lover, translated into modern English."

Let us have no discord between us,

where love flourishes

none is required,

the self flows freely.

To need one's needs

and gently speak them,

is a song of beauty

ringing in the heart,

a sparkling rainbow

in the eyes of the lover.

Let us flourish, then,

with only souls between us,

fathomless distance, free-space,

yet none at all.

Linked by love, unafraid,

smiling into the face of life,

let us have only ease between us.








She dances through the wind, but no trace of distress

disturbs the surrounding air; it caresses her yet

does not contain her bright shapes as they collide,

embraced as if her movements were gentle watercolors

of some indefinable landscape, tenuously glimpsed

through the door to another world, passing through

our own, leaving traces of beauty;

but disturbing no fabric of this lower realm.

No silken thread, no earthly garment, can contain her

Essence as it moves through time, dancing,

Resplendent, she is not to be contained, pressed

And shaped to fit the will of any who would

Kill her dreams or bend her soul to ends not her own.

The dancer must be caressed as if by

the wind, her bright shapes undisturbed,

they flare brighter, her heart flows,

no trace of distress contains her love.









for Joseph Knecht, Master of The Glass Bead Game


her energy struck me like a hundred suns



aflame with her energy


to keep

from burning



I wrote

these florid images



feverishly about

desiring her


I was tired


from thinking of her




I should take out a loan

after all

isn't this




get it

in return

a little


Adam Smith was

such a romantic


maybe I'm bullshitting



she's just a mirror


I hope




little beauty

on me


one of Ben Franklin's

Leyden Jars

from which

a little of her beautiful




jump my way



of you


may think

this is

not poetry


here's a haiku

to make this seem legitimate



very important

they keep


things from

leaking out



The rose is mystic

and you are only a rose.

Why do you not bloom?


a haiku

and now

back to the point

I would wear

a thousand faces

to have her


I have

only one


it seems

to lack

the energy of her hundred suns


that shows a lousy self-concept

(a little meat

for you


oriented readers)

I must



she's better than




at least



worse than her


bother to ask

at what


for a Shakespeaean Sonnet


keep this


y' know

In the husky sweetness of the morning fair

dreams of you float out my windows like smog.

I rise from the imagined embrace of your hair

while tears glaze my eyes from the shedding dog.

My mirror stares back with a mocking grin

and I face the wall of the day with no rope

to be at the end of. All else worn thin

except the tie that binds me to you, my hope.

Your spirit washes over me and drains as a spiral

spins counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere,

totally confusing my pal, Joseph K., at his trial,

legally though, before a jury of his fears.

In the rainbow evening while I grow stout

you, my love, begin to smell like fresh-water trout.




english teachers



to be







for some symbolism

morbid dependency



metric foot

or five


when you're done





and measured

the significance

or lack

of same

in all this

and have

the secrets

you will know



to Doestoevsky

we are





worse yet


one track


some are





some even



line up


free tickets

for Pirsig's Train



the track




















When we are together,

the world fades away,

as we are in a cocoon

of our own connected energy.

In my mind,

I reach for your hand,

the better to complete

the connection of

what flows between us.

I watch you move,

and take a curious


as every small action

expresses your being;

the eternal

in the material.

Listening to you speak,

the music of your voice

dances lightly,

in our little private vortex,

each tone

and color,

vibrates in my mind,

resonates in my heart,

harmonizes with my soul.

Somehow we are connected

by some special force,

that complements us both

in the simplest of motions.

In the presence of others,

the connection remains,




it charges the air between us

even in silence,

a special resonance of attention

unmistakable within.

When we are apart,

the world returns,

but the forces between us

do not vanish,

but remain,

drawn together,


for the world to fade away.

To be wrapped


in the sparkling cocoon

surging around us.

To sit together

in our special vortex,

that brings forth

the eternal,




the material.









for Nigel


The restaurant bread


in a small wicker basket.

I half expected to see Baby Moses

nestled in amongst the loaves,

but there were only memories there

of a fresh-faced 12-year old boy,

with his parents, in fine restaurants,

in better days,


with good food,

and even better parents.

Across the room, an older woman

with beauty-parlor hair,

lit up a cigarette.

I had blundered into

"no manís land"


smoking section.

My mother used to smoke too,

in those days,

with impunity.


not entirely,

it did kill her.

My friend e-mailed me today,

his cat died,


to the best of my knowledge,

he was a non-smoker.

Our friend, Jim, died

a week ago, tomorrow,

in his sleep,

in the afternoon.

He was a non-smoker too.


Where do all our friends go,

when they die?

In fact,

where do they go,

while they live?

Are they really there?

Do they talk to us? Do

we know their hearts?

Do we show

we care,

about them?

Make ourselves,





Do we live,

while we live?


just ask,

too many questions?



the bread,

Iím glad

I believe













We take refuge each in the other,

safely there enfolded,

where nothing may harm us,

no cruelty of man,

no prejudice of thought,

no base illusion may penetrate

the force that surrounds us,

that guards our hearts, our souls,

our energies as we seek our ancient union.

Storms may howl, discord may swirl,

but that which is part of the same

is safe within itself.

No force of fear, no barriers, no

haunting whispers of danger,

will survive the vortex, the refuge,

where wind and light are one.






Sister to the Birds




In a time when fantasy ruled the world

my soul jangled like morning bells

and I roamed through crystal hills and drank sparkling waters.

I laughed with the brown-eyed deer,

played tag with a big black bear,

shook hands with mountain lions

and fed my love to the creatures of the air.

I was a sister to the birds,

a feather flying in the sun.

I danced through the world on a wing

and floated through the breeze on a song.

When reality ruled the world

my soul shrank with fear.

They said I was no good,

they told me what to do, what to think, who to be.

I learned hatred, frustration and the weight of aloneness.

I longed to fly and-sat in chains,

but in my heart I remembered.

I was a sister to the birds,

A feather flying in the sun.

Once I danced through the world on a wing

and floated through the breeze on a song.

When hope ruled the world

I no longer listened to hate.

I looked in the mirror and saw the birth of my own beauty.

I heard the morning bells again,

and searched for my crystal hills.

I journeyed long and I journeyed hard.

I found my hills again, I drank my sparkling water.

I was a sister to the birds,

a feather flying in the sun.

I danced through the world on a wing

and floated through the breeze on a song.

I roamed my hills in peace,

my soul again rang with joy

but I sang in solitude until the day

I saw a boy feeding my brown-eyed deer,

hugging my big black bear,

running with my mountain lion

and feeding his love to the creatures of the air.





He was a brother to the flowers

a gentle lover of the light.

He drifted through the world on a rainbow

and walked through the sky on a cloud.


When love ruled the world,

I kissed his tears with my eyes.

He ended my aloneness with his heart.

We walked together through the dawn,

and slept together through the dusk.

I brushed his hair with my mind

and he clothed my gentle body with his soul.


We were brothers to the flowers, sisters to the birds,

feathers flying in the sun, gentle lovers of light.

We drifted through the world on rainbows,

danced through the world on wings.

We walked through the sky on clouds, and floated through the

breeze on sweet, sweet songs.








  Still As Gentle, Still As Fair


Early Summer's first wind drifted through her hair

like strands of light bringing illumination

to my heart; bringing beauty where there was care,

bringing airy warmth to heavy rumination,

bringing thoughts of beauty to that terrain

nurtured silently within my breast.

I kept counsel with that wind through pleasure and pain,

knowing that silence, for now, would be best.

And finally, when this passion I did confess,

I learned that it lit my life alone;

for her it meant far, far, less.

Strangely, the light within me still shone,

and though Autumn now braces my hair,

her beauty is still as gentle, still as fair.








A Timeless, Tender Love


Time and the illusion of time will pass

before I again look on my love's countenance

in the warmth of the Florida noon sun,

before I see her light blue eyes sparkle golden,

smell her peach-fresh skin, and swim in her,

waves cascading like a howling typhoon surge.

But time's illusion is neither enemy nor worthy opponent.

Can the soul's tender timelessness be affected

by seasons, or miles, or age, or any man-made distraction?

I think not. For what is real is not bound to earth,

but flows from realms outside our narrow view.

As we sit apart, so we draw together, part of the same.

Truth stands alone, no illusion stands above,

or can stand between, a timeless tender love.



The White Tiger

Stalking the shore, a wave foams

and kisses the sand. The white tiger,

sublime, vigilant, stalks while she roams

her domain, hungry, strangely bright with vigor.

Along the shore she muses over shells

and plays with small birds and sea-creatures

so gently the sand is undisturbed, the wind dwells,

dancing across her white fur; sun highlighted features,

overtures of the afternoon, flash against the leaves,

undulating among the dunes and sea, always the sea.

Roaming alone, she seems fierce, fiery, untamed. Who perceives

innocence in her tears and understands her frightful desire to be free?

A small bird perches on her shoulder, companion for a time,

not her prey. She stalks only her shadow, she stalks the sublime.




The yellow fuzz

of the tennis balls

dances on end


the frightened hair

of "nigger" Farina


an old "Our Gang", comedy.

Iím afraid too,

but prefer the music to the dance.

The tanned


veiny legs


Middle Aged Miami Beach Matrons




as they bend their frames

and pound

the little yellow balls.

They are afraid,

but prefer the dance to the music.

Love----fifteen, love- thirty, love-forty, Game.

The mating call


this regal court.

The points are


the dayís

"pas de deux"



Ladies of the Nets


their choreography away


I take

my music.


while the waves of Biscayne Bay suck at the shore,

and lap at the nippled cement walls.






My T.V.


Grim-faced men with jowls

intone from the television their respect

for life, and morals and propriety.

"Are they talking to me?"

"Are you talking to me?"

as if I were living in some taxi-driver psychosis,

with talking t.v.'s directly linked to my moral in-box.

Pundits and stock-touts fill the screen with speculations,

sung with the weight of German Opera.

"Take this seriously," my t.v. announces, sotto voce.

"Fair & balanced, fair & balanced,"

I hear it as parrot talk, "Polly want a cracker?"

Sqwaaaaak, sqwaaaaak........

Some people are hugging on Maury Povich,

celebrating the deliverance of their 8 year-old daughter

from the street life.

Their saviors, disguised as drill instructors,

have frightened them into obedience, adjustment, and love.

The women of the Psychic Hot-line

are enlightening me and my wallet both.

They seem to enjoy their show, but with

no claims to "fairness or balance."

They are the country music of infomercials,

well-schooled in who is sleeping with whom,

and behind who's back.

They are all trapped in the picture tube,

like some photonic Plato's Cave

on a wall of t.v.'s at the electronic's store,

each little drama or speculative nuance

defines their grim reality.

But, still, it's just t.v. isn't it?

The play of light and sound and shadow

across space and time,

and when one wants, one can--

change the channel.








"What is beauty?" my friend asked.

"I canít answer," I said.

My thoughts drifted off------

my friendís image appeared in my mind.

I thought of her long, flexible hands,

her fingers shaped just so,

and how her feet stretched gracefully,

resting on her high spongy shoes,

so high because she wants to be taller.

The whole shape and flow of her,

her long lines of energy and feeling,

mesh and focus and reflect upon themselves.

I thought of her hands again and

how she rubbed them with sweet-smelling lotion

and showed me her new French manicure.

There are worlds in her,

her hands have become atoms,

the atoms collapse into electrons,

the electrons burst into stars,

they shine like a lattice-work

of swirling colors, bright and subtle,

she flows through space

like a pathway to another dimension,

pulling her through time,

she stands suffused in light,

her essence shining, a supernova

of energy woven together,

she is a dance of love,

a melody of thought,

a joyful texture of tender feeling,

she is strong in her being,

she draws creative breath,

and renews herself in waking.

She expands through time,

her presence lights the way

with a joyful wit,

wrapped in a smile,

concealed in a mock-serious tone.

She is a distillation of many beauties,

but none can be defined.

"What is beauty?" my friend asked.

"I canít answer," I said.




 The Materialist

She is the kind who would nurse small birds,

whose heart takes flight in a childís smile,

and thrills at the chance to still anotherís pain.

You can see her soul in her eyes, bright, clear and soft,

she resonates to beautiful melodies and moves

in shapes that swirl forth and celebrate life.

"Iím very materialistic", she says,

looking at me with an ethereal grace

that silently mocks her words.

"I see", say I, but what I see

is not her words, but her music.

It flows forth from her in subtle colors,

here a bright spark of yellow,

there a powder blue cloud.

She is green with new growth,

even her darker shades sing

of vulnerability tempered by pain,

forged by time and disillusion,

she exacts control at a high price.

She is a materialist, she says.

I give her small gifts,

tokens of a natural affection between us,

simple material manifestations

that she is pleasantly in my awareness,

occupying a space surrounded by smiles,

she draws thoughts to her like small birds. 

She accepts my gift,

but suddenly questions the propriety.

I smile at her and ask, "Why?"

She smiles back and says, "I forgot."

But I donít forget,

I sense her tender heart,

and sharp, concerned mind.

I hear the music of her soul

and smile as she moves through time.

I see her insecurities, entwined

in a beauty that just escapes her view,

that just eludes the edges of her control.

She guards it with

the illusion of material desire,

but it flies out like those small birds.

Real beauty cannot be cloaked,

it escapes any shroud,

it is not material,

it is eternal.

And so is she.









I woke in the tear-drop morning

trying to shake

the dream from my eyes


in that beautiful misty dream


that freedom thing


And when

my dream began to fade

I remembered

in the screaming morning sun

the creased khaki


gold braid with swagger sticks

welded into bayonets

and rifles

and bullets

tearing through bamboo impaled guts

dripping from yellow coolie hats

with golden spikes

and slanted


better dead


dropped from eagle-feathered airplane wings

swinging from sexy-nylon parachutes


with the burning children

throwing hand grenades

covered with chopsticks like candy-apple baseballs

and hot dogs and beer

wrenched from the stomach

thrown up

all over the general

who had everybody court-martialed for immorality


you see

he lost his money on the football game

while screwing his secretary in the orderly room

because she moaned

too loudly

tipping his wife


or is it whom to be correct

shot the general

for indeed the sexist pig

should die

by the hand of women's lib

and set them free

from the marching mothers to end war

who sent their sons

to kill the burning children

and burn the killing children


because the poll said

the people's will

was to make a bloody mess

and scorch the earth with


and police the earth

so that

the peace

could be kept

in an urn

by the


of the president

who made it perfectly clear


with our oil-hungry reaper

we would gather

and grind


human grist

bake our bread

of sand


our palms

and profit


that misty dream



freedom thing










As I Lay


Tonight, as I lay basking in the light;

the beauty of things entered my soul,

while my sweet love continued her battles,

her resilient will, the logic of her heart

struggling toward freedom from dark cynicism,

from earthly experience.

I sent her thoughts of love across the miles,

I basked in images of her golden beauty.

I reached for her in my soul,

saw the fine threads of her essence pulsating,

I entered her light, her struggle, her fine-laced beauty,

her ineffable being---I lay basking in the light.

"I loaf and invite my soul", wrote Whitman.

But my soul invites me, as I invite her,


engulfed in the sumptuous logic of the heart.

In beauty beyond beauty,

beyond light,

beyond freedom.

Beyond everything.












There is something so beautiful

and soft in her,

hard to contain,

it bursts from her laughter

in a warm glow,

as if her smile was a sunburst,

or the chords of sunrise

in the Alpine Symphony.

The bright colors surround her face,

Swirl gracefully,

and in the grace of the moment,

you can see her heart.

A familiar heart,

like an old friend in trouble,

calling me;

connected by invisible strands

across space and time.

Through the illusions of the moment,

I see her pain, and stretch out my hand.

Through tears of love, tears of strength,

tears of healing, I reach for her soul,

reach for what is so beautiful and soft in her.

I hold in my hand a sunrise,

my tears implore her,

reach out in the grace of the moment,



take it.









We Met In The Cave


We met in the cave,

but she was always in the light,

she may not have known it,

but it was clear as the bright noon sun.

Abandoning her chains,

she walked from that cave naked;

and her light blocked out the sun.

She was present at her own birth,

she took flight without wings,

and soared high above the earth,

slowly, she began to know her natural element;

The chains of the cave lay broken in the shadows,

rotting, their dull metal barely reflecting

the dim light she once took for the sun.

Overhead, she floats on the wind,

borne aloft by the birth of her freedom,

the currents of her heart lighter than wings.

We met in the cave,

but joined hearts in the air,

took flight together,

and returned to earth, no more.






Flying Roller-Coasters


Flying home, the ground lumbered by,

an old green and brown pioneer womanís quilt

from 30,000 feet.

Out my window, I saw myself

the victor

in a World War II dogfight,

as my opponent's fighter flamed

toward the earth

in it's death dive.

It made such artful airy spirals

As it plunged toward the

quilted earth like a scene from "Hellcats of the Navy."

Transfixed, I imagined my opponent's final

dive, the heroism, the poetry of

being strapped into some flaming roller-coaster


to a white-hot death

from 30,000 feet.

My opponents death is my

poetic triumph,


a fiery tragedy.

We watch our brother

go down in flames


write poetry on his corpse.

Soon the plane will land.

I want off

this roller-coaster.









Long ago my heart was committed,

Only for beauty, wisdom, friendship true to love.

Rich with knowledge of her, she

Is my transcendent love, my true friend,

And love glows bright and sweet within her.

No painful legacy can dim that light.

Does truth cease its ceaseless

Resilient climb to flaming beauty?

Only timeís release and careís warm resonance

Brought unbounded, one heart to another

Can feed that flame and be unconsumed.

Why is this?

Can I will her to bid it welcome,

Let go, drift in the currents

Of loveís buoyant ultimate acceptance?

Immersed in the deathless eternal radiance,

Her true self revealed, there is

No barrier that can hide what she deserves.

She floats, embraced in love,

Her heart free, her love unbounded;

Flaming forth unconsumed,

Beyond illusion, beyond pain,

Beyond fear, beyond doubtÖ..

She is ever bright, ever golden.







Pensive Beauty, do you hear the music inside?
All those symphonies I see, to you pass unheard.
The lover reads a different staff than you derive.

You dance rings of wind, swept into the tide
of your pain, your song wails like a crying bird.
Pensive Beauty, do you hear the music inside?

You swim in dark waters, murky and wide,
flailing, sinking; a heavy stone in a life deferred.
The lover reads a different staff than you derive.

Like Michaelangelo's creations released
you could hear those symphonies interred.
Pensive Beauty, do you hear the music inside?

The art is in the stone, your heart the guide.
We cut the marble with sharply sculpted words.
The lover reads a different staff than you derive.

Your need must will your heart and, if you decide,
your morning song will be a concert, not a dirge.
Pensive Beauty, do you hear the music inside?
The lover reads a different staff than you derive.












Not All


We speak in terms of days and weeks,

weíll be together soon,

and yet I think of her beyond millennia,

feel about her beyond millions.

No finite time could be enough to explore

the ceaseless joy of loving her.

Have we always been together?

She is love beyond time,

she is the renewing luminescence.


There is no answer except in what she is.

A soul so tender the wind cries,

a soul whose brightness the stars envy,

a soul so caring and wondrous in curiosity,

the philosophers smile.

So ask not why, but how could I not?

Not love her with all the dimension,

all the care, all the sweetness my soul can exude.

Her fair aspect is an aspect of the greater love itself,

and so it draws love to itself,

love beyond time, love beyond love,

love beyond fear, love beyond pain,

love beyond all that is beyond.

That is why, and that is how,

but that is not, and never will be,










For Lori, whose essence is Light


I come to her on wings of air,

heart aloft, head puncturing the clouds,

swimming in the currents openly;

crescendos of wind, music echoing,

the reverberations bearing me ever forward.

From on high I fly toward the light,

drawn to its illumination,

its essence animates my flight.

Sometimes as I approach,

it grows dim, withdrawing into itself,

shielding its rays from the brushing of air

from beating wings----

as if its incandescence could be consumed

in the backwash of flight.

But it cannot be contained in the wind of flight,

nor can any backwash consume it.

It is the essence of flight, the creator of clouds,

it bursts forth in swirling crescendos,

it is the vortex of wind,

The companion of flight.








 Goodnight, My Sweet Darling


Goodnight My sweet darling,

May the forces of love

Embrace you as you sleep,

And guard your sweet soul,

Kiss away any fear,

Lift your burdens and

Fill you with sweet sparking light.

In wonder my heart is full;

In contemplation of your sweet being

I reach for you in my thoughts,

Thoughts that kiss you from head to foot,

 Envelop all your facets,

Love you completely---

Deeply in every cell, every molecule,

Every atom, every frequency of your

Ancient resonant energy,

Untied in joyful clarity,

We are part of the same.

You are my love beyond love,

My blessed connection----

Rest your sweet soul on

Cascades of love,

Immerse your being in golden light.

Throughout time and change and illusion,


I will love you the more.