
 January 1994  Volume II No. 1 ͻ
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                       
                                   
                                                    
                                                    
                                       
                                       
                                                    
                                                    
                                 
                     
                                                                            
                                                                            
    
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
  Ŀ              Ŀ    Ŀ ķ  Ŀ               Ŀ Ŀ  
  Ĵ                          Ĵ                       
                                             
                                                                            
  Ŀ    Ŀ    Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ    Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  
       Ĵ                             Ĵ       Ŀ  
                                          
                                                                            
                                                                            
                        Guest Editor: Pedro Sena                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                               Editor: Klaus J. Gerken                      
                    Associate Editors: Paul Lauda                           
                                     : Igal Koshevoy                        
                      European Editor: Miodrag Djordjevic                   
                        Border Artist: Alicia-michelle Norgaar              
                                       ( Published Issue Only )             
                                                                            
                                                                            
ͼ


             METAMORPHOSIS
  




                                        ...
                           changes in time, seen through
                           poetry, as only a true heart
                                 can appreciate  
                                 and live with it.
                                    
                    This issue is dedicated to Jorge and Luciana
                                .... thank you so much!!!
                                       
                                



                                 
                        NOTIONS ABOUT LINGUISTICS
                        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
                        
        ( Nooes de Lingustica - October 1970 - Jorge de Sena )      
                   ( Translated by George Monteiro )   



                  I listen to my children talk English
                  Not the smallest alone but the older
                   Ones, too, and they the young ones.
                      Born elsewhere, they grew up
                     with Portuguese in their ears.
                       But it's english they speak
                 they who will not be merely americans;
                    melted, they continue to melt in
                   seas not their own.  Tell me about
                poetry's mystery, a tongue's traditions,
               A race of people, all that is inexpressible
                   save in the untranslatable essence
                    of a people.  Bastards. Languages
                last centuries and will survive even when
                  hidden within other tongues, but they
                die every day in the stammer of those who
                inherit them.  So immortal are they that
               a half dozen years suffice to suppress them
                  in mouths dissolving into new shapes,
                     impressed by another people, a
                   different culture.  so metaphysical
               all languages, so untranslatable, that they
               melt thus, not unto the highest heaven, but
                into the quotidian crap of another tongue.
                
                
                





                      
                                                
                                              
                                                
                             

  

                   PREAMBLE OF A MAN WITH A FEW WORDS
                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~                
                           And so it has been.

                                    
       Amidst a few difficult cultural changes, I have finally
  figured out how to say a few things in words, where before I felt
  intimidated.  Little  did I know that it would be through a few
  poems that help my own spirit dream, that I would eventually find
  a thread of communication through which I could learn the english
  language and make some friends. 
  
       I have always written.  I have numerous diaries, and a myriad
  of film reviews ( I moderate, and participate in a conference
  called THE MOVIES for this reason ), and many stories in the form
  of diaries, short ones, a novel in the works, and many theater
  plays.  Looking back at those writings, I find a young man that was
  not struggling with what he wants to say, but how he wants to say
  it, trying ever so hard to find an avenue  of communication which
  might help him find a way to talk to others. 
  
       Even with all the writing, the chance to put all the learning
  to work with real people, has never really developed.  The
  atmosphere I grew up in, being the son of a well known gentle
  giant, was not conducive to a child learning to grow in a different
  society.  Mom couldn't help with the homework.  Pop was too busy
  writing yet another page on his trusty Olivetti.  And I was quite
  lost, watching foreign films by the best  directors, hoping the
  french, italian, and spanish would help me define the english
  language through the badly translated sub-titles. 
  
       Indeed, much of my life has been a sub-title to the real
  thing.  I had a rude awakening along the way.  I couldn't enter
  college, right  behind the high school due to my poor scores in the
  entrance exams, on the english side of things.  Eventually I got
  there, but it wasn't easy. 
  
       At the University of California in Santa Barbara, I took a few
  film courses,  most of them centered on DIRECTING which was my
  major in the THEATER ARTS. The successes were good.  

       In my final year I had a chance to fight for one "Evening of
  International  Theater" and amidst a Marguerite Duras and Peter
  Handke short plays, I  produced my father's "A MORTE DO PAPA" 
  ( The Death of the Pope ).  The  animosity, and lack of concern by
  the ( then ) superiors of the Portuguese  and Spanish Department,
  left a bitter taste in my mouth.  I came away  feeling that these
  people had no interest in the literature ( which  they taught ) and
  instead, had much more care for  how they wasted the  money donated
  in my father's name.  I felt that  developing the "arts"  was
  important.  Teaching the language to those who  didn't have an 
  attraction for the culture ( most were taking it as a requirement
  for a  second language -- and the rest were foreign exchange
  students ) was their  main interest.  Did they know the
  difference.?  I don't think so.  They had  not been the recipients
  of the cultural upheavals I had already lived  through.  I
  graduated and quit again.  Continuing the  film studies was a 
  difficult undertaking, with no financial resources even though one 
  professor thought I was excellent.  I was working nearly forty
  hours  weekly to pay for my tuition and books, directed scenes at
  night, and  studied in the class breaks.  It seems no one cared.
  
       I moved to the Pacific Northwest, leaving behind a cultural
  hot bed, where I was also involved in some radio work by providing
  music from my collection of imports and foreign music.  I left all
  the cultural diversity, away from all the antagonism and shadows of
  a father figure.  Being the son of a god, meant that to all the
  professorios ( and scholars -- there are good people there ) I was
  a pain. And to whomever I showed any writing ( already three plays,
  one screenplay, and several poems ) no one was to even look at it,
  or acknowledge it, except to this day, Luciana.  In one swell foop
  with a nice one page letter, the dream, the inspiration, the heart
  was born.  She is, to this day, my greatest highlight in a world of
  competitive and glorified egos which are embraced by the many.
  
       Rather than fight an institution, whose stench I didn't like,
  I left. And in exile, I set about writing with a vengeance, since
  it was the only  way I could satisfy my inner desire and objectives
  to make my own vision  come alive.  I learned that a poem read out
  loud, created so many feelings that it was hard to let go.  And no
  sooner would I get done,  another line would appear, and another
  poem would develop. 
  
       It wasn't until this past year of 1993, that I finally came to
  participate in a group of writers, people whose imagery and knack
  for expression I have come to LOVE so much.  I wanted to be a part
  of it, knowing that the only way new writers could 'make it' was if
  they stuck together and brought attention to their work.  I had
  always wanted to be a part of such a group, and to celebrate it I
  created another series of poems which are called THE AETHERIC CAFE,
  which have not been introduced as yet. We shared our input, and
  turned the output ( we never really criticized ourselves very much,
  though I regret playing father to a good friend and writer... )
  into scores of words, which made so much music to my ears.  This
  was it.

       After a few starts, in different places, we had become a set
  of renegade poets.  And this, under the supervision ( are you
  kidding me..?? ) of KLAUS GERKEN, became the CENTIPEDE.  And within
  those confines I have posted electronically nearly 100 poems, which
  have been written in the past 6 years.  I now average, with this
  kind of sharing, about one or two poems per week, depending on my
  moods.
  
            The honorable Klaus, had always published his writings. 
  Some of them were in this format here, of an electronic magazine. 
  This is a new form of doing things, and most likely the form of the
  future. I had enjoyed immensely the words of IGAL KOSHEVOY, and
  those of Klaus' very own prolific output, and I had enjoyed PAUL
  LAUDA's words, and several other writers, some of which I had
  seen in various issues.  Klaus decided that I should guest edit one
  issue.  I settled for this one in January, so I would have plenty
  of time to decide what I wanted to do with it, and perhaps create
  a new concept in design for the magazine. I did have one idea that
  I wanted to work with.  I wanted to use THE JORGIAN POEMS, which
  are conversations and dreams I have had with my father I had
  written several years ago in resolving his effect on me. Most of
  this material is alocated in dream diaries of mine which are
  several volumes in length and span nearly ten years.  Essentially
  I kept this issue to unpublished material by a few very special
  friends and talents.  
  
       I want to call this issue METAMORPHOSIS, since it was that set
  of poems which created the turning point for my own father.
   
       And it isn't my hope, here, to profess that the Gods shouldn't
  be mentioned, respected, or forever studied.  I revere my father,
  but quite differently than would be expected, and have dedicated
  this issue to him.  I accept the father as a man with failings who
  had a talent for writing, but teaching and sharing knowledge and
  abilities with his children, was not one of them.  There are two
  artists in the family of nine offsprings, and we are both self
  made, at a terrible cost and price in our private, and physical,
  lives.
  
         A very large thanks of appreciation, goes to Klaus, Igal and
  Paul and my surrogate family, the Hickersons. The Centipede, is the
  first ( second actually, Helen comes first ) family that has
  accepted me for who I am, and I have learned through them  to share
  properly my true feelings, about life, love, poetry and music. 
  
       Found in this issue are Jan Kingsford and Ruby I. Bender, both
  not new to the poetic arts.  But they have not been, as one would
  say, properly introduced.  Their abilities are there on the tip of
  the tongue -- Ruby reads it with great aplomb off her memory --
  ready to anoint those willing to listen for a few seconds.  Jan's
  ability is much more personal, but nevertheless, just as clear and
  good.  While she feels that her writings are not good enough to
  match her feelings, we all here seem to agree that there is more to
  it than she might notice or accept.  Michael Stroup, is a song
  writer and musician of talent and a very special friend, who had to
  quit the music business in order to raise two very fine young sons. 
  But his ability to get rid of the writing bug failed, and I wanted
  him to see, personaly, that his work is good, and worthy of being
  printed and shown.  I know he will admire this and it will add to 
  his writing, and to our Centipede a few more songs.

       If this road is not a chance to publish a little more, at
  least it will be a strong impetus that will make all of us proud to
  have written our ( EVER SO ) personal feelings for others to see. 
  It is their very  own chance, and mine, to explore the further
  depths of their souls through the eyes and enjoyment of others....
  it's the least they deserve, as lovely weavers of a magickal
  science, where the placement of one single word, is all consuming,
  and important, which we call, in English, simply, POETRY...
      
  
  							              Pedro Sena



  
  
   ķ ķ ķ         ķ      ķ ķ ķ ķ  ķ ķ ķ
                                                     
        Ķ Ķ                                       ķ
                                                       
          Ľ       Ľ        Ľ Ľ                Ľ
  
  



                            TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
    Publication Page
      Issue Title ...................................Pedro Sena
      Notions About Linguistics  .................Jorge de Sena  
    Introduction
      Preamble of a Man with a Few Words.............Pedro Sena  
    Table of Contents  
      When I say...................Jorge de Sena and Pedro Sena
      Whoever has.................................Jorge de Sena
      The Minotaur...................................Pedro Sena
      Whispering Breeze..............................Pedro Sena
      Ayers Rock Meditation..........................Pedro Sena 
      You Are No Longer A Vision.....................Pedro Sena 
      Together.......................................Pedro Sena  
      The Art of Music, ( Pt 2 Of Course )...........Pedro Sena  
      Special Sound..................................Pedro Sena 
      Sweet Scented Heart Of The Night.( Pt 1 )......Pedro Sena  
      Erin, Erin.......................( Pt 2 )......Pedro Sena  
      Gentle, Radiant and Smiling......( Pt 3 )......Pedro Sena  
      Angels Have A Heart............................Pedro Sena  
      Shauna.........................................Pedro Sena 
      Blindsided.................................Michael Stroup
      I Feel The Same............................Michael Stroup
      Miles To Go.................................Jan Kingsford  
      Edgar Allan................................Ruby I. Bender  
      Drying Drops................................Jan Kingsford  
      Manic's Refrain............................Ruby I. Bender  
      Honesty.....................................Jan Kingsford 
    Post Scriptum...............................Klaus J. Gerken
      Centipede Information ( Published Issue )
      Ygdrasil Publications Information
      Copyright Information 




   
                               WHEN I SAY 
                               ~~~~~~~~~~

            ( Quanto eu disser - April 1953 - Jorge de Sena )
               ( Translated by Pedro Sena - October 1993 )

                       Quanto eu disser no ouas
                        quanto eu fizer no vejas
                        e, se eu estendo as mos
                        nao me estendas as tuas.
                                    
                   Aceita que eu exista como os sonhos
                            que ningum sonha
                   as imagens malditas que no espelho
                         sao noite irreflectiva.
                                    
                            Talvez que ento
                             da pura solido
                            eu desa a vida.
                                    
                     
                                    
                    However much I say, don't listen
                     however much I do, don't watch
                        and, if I extend my hands
                         do not extend me yours.
                                    
                   Accept that I live like the dreams
                           that no one dreams
                   the cursed images that on a mirror
                    are a night without a reflection.
                                    
                               Maybe, then
                          out of pure solitude,
                           I'll come to life.
                                   ...
                                    
                     ( add on Sept 1993 Pedro Sena )
                                    
                                   ...
                          and write a few lines
                     that might lessen a difference
                            between you and I
                        brought on by a language
                            different culture
                         and separate realities
                            where what I say
                         means not much to you, 
                                anymore,
                          ( it might have, then,
                            had you read it,
                              who knows ),
                                   ...
                             to anyone even,
                                  or  
                       to the many who might, yet,
                           read a few letters
                                 perhaps
                             and ignore them
                            as another folly
                     another selfish act of my own,
                         some mere masturbation
                         in the heart of a hand
                           whose desire to be
                           has been still-born
                                   ...
                             until recently.
                             



                             
                               WHOEVER HAS....
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~

          ( Quem a tem... -- December 1956 -- Jorge de Sena )        
                      ( Translation by Pedro Sena )
                                    
                       Nao hei de morrer sem saber
                        qual a cor da liberdade.
                                    
                         Eu no posso seno ser
                        desta terra em que nasci.
                        Embora ao mundo pertena
                        e sempre a verdade vena
                        qual ser ser livre aqui
                      nao hei-de morrer sem saber.
                                    
                        Trocaram tudo em maldade
                          quase um crime viver.
                        Mas, embora escondam tudo
                        e me queiram cego e mudo
                       nao hei-de morrer sem saber
                        qual a cor da liberdade.
                                    
                     
                                    
                     I shall not die without knowing
                          the color of liberty.
                                    
                      I can't but be anything from
                      this earth, where I was born.
                      Though to this world I belong
                        and always the truth wins
                    how will it be, to be free here,
                    I shall not die without knowing.
                                    
                   Exchanging every thing maliciously,
                      it is almost a crime to live.
                     But while they hide everything
                       and want me blind and dumb,
                     I shall not die without knowing
                       the true color of liberty.








                               THE MINOTAUR
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~

    ( Written in 1988.  This poem is a 'reply' to one of my father's
             best known poems IN CRETE, WITH THE MINOTAUR. )
                                    
                       In Crete, like the minotaur
                       without verses or much life
                     without country, or any spirit
                        with nothing... no one...
                          except my dirty paw,
                    I'll drink my coffee peacefully.
                                    
                  I have sat here many days and nights
                  I am told there is such a difference
                  how would I know, I haven't seen much
                        since the day I was born.
                                    
                   I've lived here, in total solitude
                            at times peaceful
                        other times frightening,
                       a few horrors enter my mind
                      and some occasionally feed me
                          something, anything,
                        ugly maidens and children
                         sacrifice to the gods,
                                  yeah,
                         as if I were an animal
                          which to many, I am,
                               but to me,
                         I can think, feel, cry,
                         and what would you care
                        you are not here with me
                          and haven't seen this
                                 this, 
                       endless cave, my very home
                               some home.
                     the only one I have ever known.
                                    
                          I am a beast of prey
                          a minotaur, the poet
                       tells me, my only visitor,
                         and I need to have some
                            benefits for life
                        except the decisions were
                          made a long time ago
                         that I should stay here
                       incarcerated by the ideals
                         which befall your ways.

                               I was born,
                       half a man, half an animal
                      and to this day do not know 
                      why I am treated so harshly.
                          Don't men and animals
                           all live together?
                           Aren't they a part
                      of a large world? Somewhere?
                                    
                         But I am an aberration
                        of the union of the right
                           and wrong feelings.
                                    
                        My ancestors talk of such
                     there were bulls and erections,
                     there were swans and soft beds,
                   there were horses and great lovers,
                     there were birds great flyers,
                          and how could anyone
                       not expect some odd results
                             here and there?
                                    
                             Were I maimed,
                          deaf, dumb and blind,
                         what's the difference,
                           a minotaur, but no,
                       after all is said and done
                         your lust is satisfied
                          you forget the result
                             forget yourself
                          and all that mattered
                            was your pleasure
                          that became my pain.
                                    
                       These days there are humans
                            many more of them
                      children of unsatiated lust,
                     who think they aren't animals,
                          all of them, anymore,
                            but man and women
                         a part of the kingdom,
                   some lands that I never have seen.
                          Many times I sit here
                      and talk with my only visitor
                             ... and tutor,
                     about justice, and philosophy.
                         And he brings me coffee
                        that's what he calls it,
                             it tastes great
                    and better than the piss streams
                         I find here, and there
                      in the depths of these caves.
                  He's asked me not to fear, or judge,
                      to forget all the ugly past,
                               and grudge
                 the mistakes that time made me a beast
                and has to answer for, soon, in the least
                 in full, for its error and sad neglect
                and allow me some love, a bit of respect.

                  He's a good man of lines and letters
                I can't write like, yet, like he tatters
                  you see, I have no fingers in my paw
                 with which to recommend a very new law
                 which may find room for man and a bull
                  and close the book of errors in full.
                                    
                And I tell him the stories of the feasts
                and how all the women ran naked and wild
                 attacking men and anything like beasts
               in ways that are now unusual, and not mild
              showing everybody how they all were so virile
               and capable of making this earth so fertile
                          in its proper season
                                   ...
                     as a bull, I have a long prick
                    and few people desire less of it
                                and us...
                  the stupid beasts of talented arousal
                   know nothing of refusal and arousal
                and to our share, must live like a beast
                   and have our members hardened, for
                        some men ... old men ...
                      who hope for yet another lift
                        to support their old body
                             before they die
                                   ...
                      but I haven't asked the poet
                       why me... and the dirty paw
                                   ...
                         scent of a whore, maybe
                                   ...
                   stains from the poet's ink and pen
                                   ...
                     maybe he feels as alone as I do
                 and as he writes, he can't help notice
                      all the weakness, and faults
                     and hopes of correcting it all
                       being that I have no chance
                        to fix any law, anything
                         and will eventually die
                        for the errors of it all.
                                    
                   He says that it will be remembered
                  through all the thick and thin minds
                    until it be known we all murdered
                    the hopes, the dreams, the love,
                       from our very own lives...
                       I know not what I would do
                        without the poet's heart
                         to soothe my weary mind.






                                   
                            Whispering Wind 
                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                          (Writted Dec 11,1988)
                                    
                       A whispery breeze of wind,
                             slipped by me,
                                   ...
                            I barely noticed,
                                   ...
                           but I stood there,
                         on this desert island,
                                 amidst
                                  land,
                               dried land,
                         waiting for another...
                               whisper...
                     from that scintillating mother,
                                   ...
                              of pearl,...
                               of life,...
                       whose sweet and moist kiss,
                     brings life to the inert body,
                             that is dry,...
                                   ...
                            and thirsting,...
                           for nourishment,...
                             yeah, life,...
                           amidst this desert,
                                arid,...
                            and desert land.
                                    
                      And another whispery breeze,
                                shook me,
                                   ...
                           out of my slumber,
                          out of my long dream,
                               of waiting,
                                   ...
                            and nourished me,
                                like,...
                                like,...
                       another sweet kiss of life,
                                 yes,...
                            it did feel like,
                            life,..real life.

                              Out here,...
                            in the desert,...
                               we live,...
                                   we,
                             manage to live,
                          in spite of all odds,
                   and manipulations of our nature,...
                              or heart,...
                               or heat,...
                        yes, we live, and dream,
                         to see another sunset,
                          as the dawn slips by,
                         on my side and I draw,
                          my slight petals in,
                             for warmth,...
                          perhaps to sleep,...
                        to be awakened later,...
                                 by,...
                    another whispery breeze of wind,
                          that will slip by me,
                            and take me away,
                                   ...
                              and I guess,
                                out here,
                          in the desert lands,
                      there is nothing else to say,
                                   ...
                               except,...
                    it was such a long time away,...
                                  and,
                            oh yes, and then,
                         another whispery breeze
                  of that wind just kissed me aw......






                                    
                               Ayers Rock
                               ~~~~~~~~~~

                            January 12, 1993
                                    
                                    
                        That we shall all connect
                       despite creed, love or sect
                    and join together in this flight
                    to meet true love in its height.
                                    
                        Near a rock are we today
                      as we sit, and lovingly pray
                    the words, the feelings of a care
                    which teaches, praises, we bear.
                                   ...
                      the life of true spirit being
                     like god, and capable of seeing
                      wishing its care to be taught
                      lest it be wasted in thought.
                                    
                     As we gather here in real life
                   let us set apart always the strife
                   and help end any, and all distrust
                     into the night of ugly disgust,
                       let us this day accomplish
                     all deeds of healing and bliss
                   and take it back to all our friends
                  to help a world, in its many amends.
                                    
                                  Amen
                                    
                  ( and enjoy the rock by all means! )




                                    

                          You... Are No Longer
                               A Vision, 
                               or a Poem.                               
                               ~~~~~~~~~
							   
                             August 4, 1989 
          ( Written after a series of visions and meditations )
                                    
                                    
                                  You,
                                   ...
                         are no longer a vision.
                                   ...
                               Or a poem.
                                       
                                       
                            There was a day,
                            and many a night,
                               of wonder,
                                of hope,
                               of waiting,
                               and perhaps
                            of expecting,...
                         and, I have often felt,
                            ..'what daring'..
                                 have I,
                           to stand and think,
                        much less,... even more,
                              write a poem,
                                of hope,
                              prayer like,
                         that one day this will
                           all come to happen,
                                somehow,
                           amid all the daily
                                   ...
                                 events
                                   ...
                        and rotten repercussions
                          of doubt and belief,
                               some mine,
                             most by others,
                                  that,
                                   ...
                          somehow, in some way,
                             I would one day
                                stand up
                            across your path,
                              and blatantly
                             tell you, that,
                                   ...
                              I loved you.


                           And you might say,
                                   ...
                             do you know me?
                                   ...
                               And I'll say,
                                   ...
                         what is there to know,
                          that can't be proved
                             by your being,
                                  and, 
                             standing here,
                                   ...
                                    
                                         
                             I had to grow,
                             you had to see,
                             I had to learn,
                             you had to be,
                                and now,
                         as the end of the past
                                 nears,
                             ever so softly,
                              I can finally
                             see your eyes,
                                 truly,
                                   ...
                                 fully,
                                   ...
                                and feel
                           what can't possibly
                                  ever,
                            be felt by many,
                           but the lucky few,
                                   ...
                              chosen ones,
                                   ...
                               yes,...You,
                                   ...
                         are no longer a vision.
                             Or even a poem.
                                    
                                         
                            And from my dream
                              of our climb
                       along the many splendour'd
                             shaft of light
                        shall the truth of truths
                            forever be born,
                          that no one can ever
                       cast a side glance of doubt
                         over the power of hope,
                               or of love,
                              and of care,
                                   ...
                          (yes, I have cared,.)
                                  ...
                              and of trust,
                             Oh yes, trust,
                         that indomitable faith,
                             which can make
                           or break all of us
                      into worthless,unhappy beings
                            whose desires are
                          masters of oblivion,
                           and reality is but
                            a shadow of what
                              it all could 
                               and should,
                                   ...
                               forever be.
                                    
                                    
                            Sure it was hard.
                                    
                                    
                          And, it was painful.
                              But worth it.
                           For in one second,
                           all that ever was,
                           only but a vision,
                         perhaps a hope or two,
                          and a wondrous sight,
                                 is now,
                                so true,
                                so clear,
                               so perfect,
                            and so inspiring,
                            that I'm not sure
                          that there even exist
                        in this unfathomable idea
                       of eternal time and space,
                           enough ink and lead
                            to describe you,
                                   ...
                                   or
                                   ...
                  enough notes, scales and instruments
                                  to,..
                            to surround you,
                                   ...
                                   or
                                   ...
                       enough paints and canvases
                            to delineate you,
                                   ...
                        which will truly describe
                              the feelings
                         not even a second long
                       of a vision within a vision
                                which is,
                           an incarnate truth,
                                   ...
                          a specialized moment,
                                   ...
                           of unbearable joys,
                                   ...
                       when all time stands still,
                                   ...
                                    
                             and shines,...
                            like only the sun
                           ever can and will,
                          oh yes, it shines,...
                          ever so brightly,...
                            hot, desireable,
                      when it finally can be said,
                            once and for all,
                                   ...
                                   You
                               ( my dear)
                                   ...
                         Are no longer a vision.
                                   ...
                                   Or,
                                  even,
                                  just 
                                 another
                                  poem.




                                    
                                Together
                                ~~~~~~~~

                              October 1993
                                    
                                Together
                               we embraced
                               each other.
                                    
                           Didn't seem enough
                            even when naked,
                             with your warm,
                               gentle body
                            your smooth skin
                            the velvet touch
                              the slim arms
                           the many times when
                            we came together
                              to celebrate
                               our meeting
                                of mind,
                               of bodies,
                                of soul,
                            and further yet,
                               of spirit,
                          when the two energies
                                  meet,
                              and no longer
                              side by side
                              but together
                           as one, one source
                               one energy
                              one new form
                                of life,
                                of love,
                            of a special care
                         which I have hoped for
                             and dared think
                             that you would,
                                as well,
                           and accept this man
                       with his heart in his palms
                       and his poems in his hands
                         as a part of your being
                            one he could have
                           one he could enjoy
                      a feeling he wanted to share
                                with you,
                                   ...
                              maybe a need,
                          on occasion a desire,
                          maybe even a demand,
                                   ...
                                  ...
                       but not without full heart
                           to share the warmth
                          and our little desire
                             some small lust
                           for life and living
                         the kind only spoken of
                              dreamed about
                           more often than not
                            totally forgotten
                         amidst our daily lives
                           where love is just
                        another word or argument.
                         No, none of that stuff.
                                    
                                Together 
                               we embraced
                               each other
                          in an unspoken desire
                      to be together further still
                      within and without the body.
                                    
                          And together we came
                             both our bodies
                         bathed in sacred sweat
                          a sign of the intense
                          love of god, not lust
                          until we knew we were
                         experiencing something
                        so exciting so beautiful
                        we couldn't talk about it
                             the energy flew
                                it danced
                                it jumped
                                 it flew
                                 it ran
                                 it went
                                 it came
                               it swirled
                        stirring a slight breeze
                        that only a true spirit 
                              can ever feel
                          the kind that we want
                               rarely find
                                   ...
                        I never wanted it to end,
                          what was a holy union
                        so meaningful to the few
                              who have met
                        the spirits of the heart
                                   ...
                             and dared share
                            their total soul
                            with nothing else
                         absolutely nothing else
                              between them.

                                Together 
                         we embraced each other
                                yet again
                                   ...
                          because it was right
                          yes, it was alright,
                               and we had
                                 finally
                            found each other
                              and were then
                         able to feel each other
                                  alive
                               truly alive.
                               


                               
                               
                            The Art of Music
                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
							
                           Part 2, Of course.

       Music is the guiltiest rhythm in my life.  It has made me what
  I have wanted to become, although my immediate family would rather
  I let go of the inane wonderings and transmutations I live to enjoy
  it.  With it, I have become an artist of the heart, and learned to
  feel what has created most of my visual imagery. 
  
       Many times, during upheavals, or moments of depression and
  inner disarray, my only drug that works, is music.  It has never
  failed to lift me unto another world, and many nether spheres
  somewhere in this universe, of the mind.  It is the endless realm,
  the only one of the kind I have ever met.  And the realm I cherish
  and love like no one I have ever met, or wished for.  And this
  special love has taught me not to differentiate between the
  bourgeois styles of music and the proletarian snobbish ways of
  listening to it.  Regardless, both musics accomplish the same
  thing, though they may use a different road.
  
       There was a time when I was going to learn the piano, but the
  teacher had as much talent for teaching as the worst teacher we
  have ever met.  Or at least, she never tried to tell the child that
  one had to learn a few things first, so he could eventually learn
  how to emulate what he was hearing, and figure it all out.  All in
  all, I think all of the children were 'encouraged' ( fun thing to
  know -- so nice -- you play so well, but don't make it a career --
  we already have one bum here ) to learn something about music, but
  none of us had the gall to stick to it and one day stand in the
  limelight to either sink or swim.
  
       In that time, music was something which was seen, and
  occasionaly heard on the radio.  When we went to Brazil, my father
  was finaly able to buy a record player, and his collection started,
  and increased to almost 3,000 albums.  I started my own collection
  of unusual things, ecletic tastes, which my father also had in his
  collection.  At one point I had over 3,000 albums as well as the
  knowledge of classical music.  Together we had over 6,000 different
  albums of music.  I ventured to give my father a TOMITA album, to
  which he graciously replied "..very nice..", though I think his
  idea of electronic music by that time was more along the cold lines
  of Stockhausen and Heinemman, than they should be of a japanese
  artist trying to do one of his favorites, Debussy. 

       My musical tastes had expanded.  I still tend to like the
  sound that is more symphonic, and almost always aim for mood and
  any creation of imagery, which I long for for every minute of my
  life.  It doesn't matter to me if it is created by an orchestra, or
  a synthesizer, or if it is created by a single voice, or a
  teaspoon.  All of my tastes lean towards what is known as 'avant 
  garde', 'experimental', or even ( heaven forbid ) 'electronic'.
  These are labels which I do not accept, but people are generaly
  afraid to like something which is not the norm, or the pattern in
  the radio speakers, or in the ears of their friends.  Regardless,
  all of it is an inspiration to what I tend to consider a rather
  empty and lonely life, where I have found that love is another
  lyric in a song, or just another word in a plastic sign with a few
  colors around it, and a good relationship on all levels is
  impossible, and another dream to be found.
  
       I find it difficult to build a consensus on music.  To me, the
  feeling closest to mine WHILE creating a poem, or a new story, or
  another screenplay, all for the sake of using excess wasted paper
  and electricity, is that of listening to a piece of music that just
  dares you to close your eyes and go along with it.  This is what I
  live for.  And there are times when I wish to write a few lines
  about those visuals which a specific piece of music has given me,
  but rarely have I succeeded at it, and I think I figured out why. 
  One is that the original composer of the piece has an idea, or
  theme, sub-conscious or otherwise, and is trying to get it across. 
  The other is that I am also a living entity, who is experiencing
  the music, but also has his own wavelength to follow up on.  The
  difference between these two is massive, and prevents me from
  concentrating long enough to write about it.  But there are
  benefits.  I have learned to let these moments live for the
  duration of the piece, and enjoy a heck of a movie, be it mine, or
  the composer's.  And there are certain pieces of music, TANGERINE
  DREAM's Mysterious Semblance At The Strand Of Nightmares that
  always manage to command direct attention, and they defy me to
  listen and fly away with it, rather than bother writing... I have
  never been able to describe that non-euclidean space, and its
  colors and vibrations in any form which was satisfying enough for
  me.

       I've been told that all this means that I am a natural
  musician, with untold capabilities.  To that end, I occasionaly
  strut my trusty Fender Bass, and have in my agenda a plan to get a
  very good synthesizer and midi system ( my weakness is keyboards )
  with the hopes of developing some more music.  While I can't
  exactly play Chuck Berry very well ( it is simple enough ), I can
  compose pieces of music that allow me some inner space, to which I
  can easily write lyrics or a poem, depending on my mood.  I have
  been assuming that this is another implementation in my tapestry of
  creativity.  The instrument allows me to enter, easily, into a
  specific inner space where taking notes and writing is effortless.

       I have also been told that my poetry is very musical.  I
  attribute it to two things.  One, quite often, not as much as I
  used to, I am listening to some music.  This also helps in other
  ways.  For example, the poems dedicated to Erin, were a perfect
  example of a similar inspiration.  We were in conversation and
  ANTHONY PHILLIPS' Slow Dance was playing behind us.  During a
  special moment she noticed the music and it brought tears to her
  eyes ( hopefully not sad .. ) and the lucidity of that moment went
  on to create several poems.  The memory of that one moment in time
  of that lovely lady has become such a steady force of inspiration
  for me, than I could imagine.  And I hope to have the chance, one
  day, to find out why the music was so sad for Erin, or was it just
  a memory of something so good, that didn't work.   The other thing
  happens to be that the only feeling which I can relate to in any
  art is a fluidity which I can only explain with the sensuality of
  music, which one could say is something which I long for.  And when
  I describe it, it seems to come off fluid and musical.  
  
       More often than not, these days, I write in silence, since
  almost all of my work is dependent on listening to myself, and
  paying special attention to my inner visuals that develop so fast
  and frequently.  And the less I am distracted, the better my
  ability to stay with it and transcribe the inevitable
  hieroglyphics.  The clearer the visualization, the more detailed,
  the more fluid, all these images appear in the paper.  Not a bit of
  this process has anything to do with THINKING.  It is merely a
  'frozen moment in time' which I have learned to gather long enough
  in my field/vision screen, until I have had a chance to write it,
  or tape into a small recorder.  In many ways, this is a process
  derived from my experiences in transcendental meditation. I have
  even been told that much of my poetry is PSYCHOTROPIC in nature,
  which I consider a compliment, and attribute it to my living of
  each special moment, through a few lines and words.  I never
  thought that Aldous Huxley, Carlos Castaneda, Luis Bunuel and
  Salvador Dali would ever meet, but if there is a moment, here they
  are sharing a cup of tea, or their favorite wine.    

       There is a special flow, if there is such a thing, which keeps
  me busiest.  It is music to my heart, and it generates a feeling
  which very few things in my life have ever done, from any
  inspiration to any one single person.  There isn't a single piece
  of music or a woman, that has ever been so exciting as the special
  moment when a line like,  
  
                                     You,
                                 are no longer
                                  a vision...
                                      or,
                                    a poem.
                                    
  and the ensuing sequence of images which follows, that I have ever
  seen... or, 
                                     sweet
                          scented heart of the night
                                      ...
  when an eternal flame and desire for a perfect muse, a real love,
  is always lit into a stupor of romantic notions and visions.  Yes,
  I do write for a dream I have not dreamt yet.  Yes, I do write for
  a love that has not met a vision, or vice versa.  Yes, I do write
  for a peace that is not here which feels incomplete, or cut in
  half. A moment of sharing, soothing, several tears in an oasis of
  dry, deserted sandy dunes, tears no one will ever seem to hear or
  have the ability to feel.  In many ways, I live for these moments
  for they are all I have found, and at this point will gladly die
  for them.
  
       In this, I do differ from my father.  He had no chance to be
  a romantic, as his life pegged him to a pair of shoes he didn't
  like ( I don't wear shoes by the way ) and a life of servitude to
  a thankless system of education which killed him, though I admit
  that I am very proud of the level to which his ability has been
  admired.  I look at it all, as UNFINISHED. I may yet die the
  eternal young man in love, hoping his Juliet will still appear and
  dance, or paint, or love, one more time, in her own special way,
  just so I can create yet another refrain to keep her remenbered
  forever.  Maybe I'll write for her to paint.  
  
       Music led me to all my visions, dreams, which I had to harness
  in one way or another.  It was trancendental meditation which
  taught me to appreciate much of these moods, and at the same time
  enjoy something which is inexplicable.  I can't even write about
  all the FIBERS, COLORS, and STRANDS OF ENERGY I meet in those
  travels, or have ever found a language good enough to translate
  them with.  There just aren't enough words available for such an
  undertaking.  I try to place these images in a poetic format,
  because there are no other viable forms which I have found that
  helps describe a feeling with one word.  POETRY, then, is the best
  language, with which I can express so many images, and keep them
  moving since they are always moving, in such an easy fashion.  I
  take it that if I were a musician, I would do the same thing with
  a string, or wind instrument, or a few keys.  If I were a painter,
  there would be so many layers that one would never know where to
  start looking at the piece.  Through meditation, and writing is
  really a form of it, I have learned to increase the level of
 awareness, both inner and outer, in order to be able to see it all
  a bit longer, which I have been able to store in a buffer, long
  enough until I have worked with it.  In many cases it is ready, and
  I barely make any changes, with the exception of a few words here
  and there.  The spacing of the words is a factor of the feeling
  depths and their ministrations of my visual imagery.
  
       All in all, I find there is no difference between music and
  me.  Together we resonate as one, and express ourselves likewise
  with our specific tools.  The music comes through the instruments
  while my images born out of the etheral space play via my hand,
  through a pen, or computer keyboard, into the eyes of those who
  will enjoy it, regardless of rhyme or reason.  I can't think of a
  better way to live, or even conceive of living without any music,
  the spacious heart of the soul, expressed in such a meticulous
  way... as to the personal hopes, that remains to be seen.
  October 1993
  



                                    
                              Special Sound
                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                           September 17, 1993
                                    
                              Special sound
                          Methodical Vibration
                         weaving a color thread
                              thru a space 
                               an eternity
                                   ...
                                to reach 
                                somewhere
                                   ...
                                 in time
                                   ...
                                a feeling
                                   ...
                           perhaps an illusion
                             of love, hate,
                             even a thought
                                   of
                                   ...
                         that wants to tell you
                                something
                                anything
                              maybe nothing
                              but, that you
                            should experience
                             in its fullness
                            al of its secrets
                                languages
                                  notes
                                 fingers
                          deciphered as a form
                                of energy
                              that we call
                                  sound
                               made a hand
                             who felt it all
                                 deeply
                              the vestiges 
                              of its truth,
                               the dharma 
                              of its heart,
                               the rings 
                             of its energy,
                                the pain 
                              of its body,
                                the life
                              in its death,
                               the living
                               of its day
                                  ... 
                           for a mere second
                            that reaches you
                             and touches you
                                 somehow
                          don't even know how,
                             in yet another
                             minute feeling
                            making you shiver
                              inspiring you
                              one more time
                           before it moves on
                            to another oracle
                              another time
                               endlessly,
                               endlessly,
                              but forever,
                                   ...
                          and it will never die
                          it is a special sound
                           such a special feel
                          glowing in your space
                              it is a life
                               of its own
                               on its own
                                way.....





                                    
                                  Erin
                                  ~~~~
                                    
                            August 7, 1993 AM  
                                    
                       Scented heart in the night
                       lives, loves, learns, cries
                      seemingly alone, staring away
                      looking for a sky of thought
                                   ...
                      breathe, breathe in that air
                      take, absorb,  nature's care,
                      and tell me o'your loud dream
                       so I can write more, scream
                              occasionally
                                   ...
                       when virtue fails my sight
                       scented heart o' the night
                        live, talk to me, and cry
                       all the beauty you see, try
                      'til I can no longer take it,
                      hide, write, or even fake it,
                                 that, 
                                  that,
                                   ...
                       there's feeling in my heart
                       that I see, tears me apart
                           ( not your fault )
                       and it can always be shared
                       if we could, and only dared
                                  ... 
                        to forget a past, forever
                       till a new dawn comes e'er
                                 to show
                     the scented heart o' the night
                      lives here, shines so bright
                                   and
                       will light such sweet face
                       w'lines of love, and grace.
                                   ...
                      ( thanks for the inspiration )
                      
                      
                      
                      

                      
                      
                               Erin, Pt 2
                               ~~~~~~~~~~
							   
                             August 21, 1993
       ( The music playing is Anthony Phillips' SLOW DANCE Pt 1.)
                                    
                            Erin, erin, erin
                                  sweet
                            and scented heart
                          that has been living 
                                in much 
                                darkness,
                                 awake,
                                 awake,
                       ( I whisper one more time )
                                 awake,
                              for there is
                            yet another song
                           which can be shared
                         and could be danced to
                              before it is
                            all said and done
                                forgotten
                            on the way to be
                                forgiven.
                                    
                            A long sad, life,
                          of a shattered dream
                            that didn't exist
                           but left you hurt,
                          and with heavy heart,
                              please awake,
                              here's a kiss
                            just plain warmth
                               simple care
                                 to you,
                             a little love,
                            a lot of feeling,
                              some desire,
                           which can be shared
                            as friends, even,
                             for much good,
                                 should
                                ( could )
                             it be possible?
                                    
                           That in your heart,
                             you could give
                              your vision 
                             another chance,
                             before you lose
                               that sweet
                              scented heart
                              into the deep
                               dark night,
                           of our memories,
                              of nothing, 
                                nothing,
                        the darkest space of all,
                                no love,
                                no cares.
                                    
                            Erin, Erin, erin,
                                 Awake.
                                  You,
                           the inspiring muse,
                                  where
                            your love lives,
                             not in fantasy,
                             but in reality,
                                in life,
                             at least where
                            you can also gain
                          a seedling of respect
                         a few measures of love
                             some pain, yes,
                           but also some more,
                         developing your desire
                           that has been hurt
                           rarely appreciated,
                            often dismissed,
                                   but
                               ( for me )
                             never forgotten
                                ever felt
                            many times wanted
                         I wish it were possible
                         rather than a horrible
                        dream, out of frustration
                         with a few more lines, 
                              of adulation.
                                    
                        Sweet, and e'er so sweet
                       scented heart of the night
                       full of stars we see, meet,
                     make it all, desire, and might
                               to find it,
                              to learn it,
                              to love it, 
                              to share it,
                             to nurture it,
                             to care for it,
                            so it can be told
                             in a few lines
                              full of words
                            with few actions
                        ( except in the mind's )
                              that there is
                                out there
                             in those stars
                       spread amidst this universe
                               one person
                               who cares,
                                  and,
                          will gladly share it
                                   all
                                with you.
                                    
                                    
        
            



            
                               Erin, Pt 3
                               ~~~~~~~~~~
							   
                              October 1993
       ( The music playing is Anthony Phillips' Slow Dance Pt 2 )
                                    
             Gentle, radiant, smiling, you take yourself far
            And as you sway, the doors open, the windows ajar
             The winds behind you, colorfully tender breeze
           Caressing you, like a feather with such soft ease.
                                    
          Life is rough, we can be rougher, and you'll survive
          Yet to the end, we all have, and shall to see, arrive
           Then, you'll see all you have been through and done
            Loved, hated, cared, failed - more and then some,
                                    
                             We'll show you
                   Your experience has been worthwhile
                                 To you
                                  To us
                             As you learned
                                And grew
                               And became
                                A vision
                               no, no, no,
                                A person
                         To a poet of few words
                     Hidden behind the many numbers
                         A man with some letters
                         A human with such heart
                        A spirit of a little care
                           A soul with desire
                                   ...
                   It isn't always the battle it seems
                  The efforts we push forth and endure
                   But with a few smiles, loving whims
                    You'll yet sway, through the sure
                   and true clear path you have wove.
                                    
                    Nothing like a little inspiration
                     for a poem of heart and no soul
                    But with love and true radiation
                 I give it to you in a plain round bowl
                                   ...
                   while a fish in a glass still pouts
                                   ...
                              and we watch
                                   ...
                                 I did,
                           and wanted to meet 
                                   you
                                   ...
                         a feeling of freedom
                           you, to share      
                             a scent of air
                           you, to give      
                             a tender mercy
                           you, to feel      
                             a gentle breeze
                           you, to touch     
                              a gentle skin
                           you, to whisper   
                                   ...
                            yet another poem
                         from this lonely heart
                               into a life
                                   ...
                             a hope to live
                           a chance to survive
                             a need to give
                            a hope to inspire
                                   ...
                       a few thoughts into a face
                          that has beauty in it
                      somewhere hidden behind much
                          but not enough, such
                          that one can not see
                      what is there ready to appear
                       at anytime and in all truth
                              really should
                                   BE.
                                    
                      ( thanks for the inspiration )
                      


                      



                      
                           Angels Have Heart
                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
						   
                               April 1987 
                              ( For Vina )
                                    
                All angels have a heart for us all to see
              let it show, then, all its glory, shine, be,
                                  ....
                                  dive,
                                 splash,
                                 woosh,
               and our hearts carry the wings, a blancket
              for you and I to sleep in, with some warm air
              or a coolish breeze from the earth's thicket
                and we live on, with many tasks to bear.
                                  ....
                                 dive, 
                                 splash,
                                 clean,
                                  turn,
                                  then,
                              take me away,
                  the feathers so soft, sound so pretty
                  appear, disappear, and fly so gently
                     until the time we have them not
                             and feel empty
                       and that loneliness appears
                           and our heart cries
                                  again
                                   ...
                         the missing beat nears
                           we look to the sky
                             away from here
                             hoping to find
                                  ....
                                  dive,
                                 splash,
                                 swish,
                                  run,
                                  fly,
                      and caress, softly, with me.
                          The flight is so high
                         the dive is quite pure
                       your heart will clean much
                        pain, fear, hurts, anger
                           you'll find a cure
                        and many shall feel free
                               once again
                          to dance in that hall
                      where his legs and feet stand
                              and await you
                                to shine,
                            and never to fall
                              ( or fail ).

                                dive,...
                               splash,...
                                 run,...
                              fly away,...
                            and here we stand
                                and watch
                               such beauty
                               such care,
                               such love,
                              that few know
                        or will ever understand,
                               or desire.
                                    
                          We have been together
                             and have shared
                                 it all
                         from the loveliest wing
                          to the greates heart
                              of them all.
                                    
                              and yes, I do
                             miss that heart
                               yes, I do.



                                     
                                     
                                 Shauna                                                                         Shauna
                                 ~~~~~~

                             August 21, 1993
                             ( For Shauna )
                                    
                           Cuddled, we slept,
                            your back to me,
                          tucked in next to me,
                            my arm around you
                             my right hand,
                          on your left breast,
                        and I could feel a heart
                           palpitate, quietly,
                                smoothly,
                             writing a song,
                            spelling a dream,
                            perhaps a vision,
                         the feel of that heart,
                           so soothed my life
                         made it easier to live,
                            simpler to hear, 
                                 you...
                           you moved a little
                            there was a sound
                           in the large window
                          right in front of us,
                         amidst the spring green
                          of the early morning,
                              stood a deer
                            rubbing its nose
                            against the glass
                             you got up, ohh
                     the emptiness of your departure
                         hit me like a thunder,
                          the arms were cooler,
                            the warmth cooled
                         and you naked and free
                            moved your body, 
                             ever so gently,
                            ever so quietly,
                              to the window
                           as the deer watched
                                carefully
                            took a few steps
                              then returned
                             to the window.
                       Your presence was stronger,
                            and it knew you.

                          You passed the table,
                           grabbed the cereal
                            and walked slowly
                        quietly, breasts swaying
                            secretly, lightly
                           towards the window,
                         you made a few sounds,
                       the deer's ears perked up,
                        I had heard these before,
                               right here,
                           it understood you,
                         because it didn't move,
                            somehow it knew,
                          somehow it just knew.
                                    
                      You opened the window slowly
                        I could see a silhouette
                            perfectly, short
                            well proportioned
                           smooth, beautifull
                          a painting, but alive
                            and with feeling.
                                    
                       As the window slid upwords,
                          the deer steped back.
                         You poured some cereal
                              on your hand
                        brought it to your mouth
                                kissed it
                              ate a little
                             then, sloftly,
                                 gently
                           stretched your arm
                            holding the food
                                holy meal
                          to the curious animal
                      who immediately moved forward
                            and began eating
                            out of your hand,
                          it's peace was clear,
                         its ears moved slowly,
                          but only when needed,
                              no fear now,
                             its love alive
                          its thankfulness near
                    the amount on your hand was done
                      the animal licked your palm,
                            and looked at you
                            and moved closer,
                            took a few licks
                             of your wrist,
                               arm, neck,
                               you smiled,
                          it wanted more food,
                          it kissed your face,
                          you laughed a little
                        and poured some more food
                              on your hand
                       and the deer ate it gladly.

                      Then it suddenly moved away,
                          it scampered quickly,
                        as we heard some bustling
                             in the bushes,
                            you never moved,
                          you must have known,
                                and soon,
                       some little ones appeared.
                                    
                              You sat down
                           on the window sill,
                           garcious movement,
                          and you fed them all,
                          until they were full
                           satiated, thankfull
                      and rubbed their little heads
                        on your leg, on your arm
                           on your smooth body
                              on your heart
                         as if suckling for milk
                                   ...
                                I got up,
                           came to the window
                             ever so slowly
                       the animals were no longer
                                 afraid,
                             they knew you,
                               trusted me.
                                    
                      I brought them a little more
                                  food,
                       and patted their soft fur,
                          their attentive ears
                         their slight foreheads
                  the mom kissed my hand for some more
                          and I gave her some.
                                    
                           Alas, out of food,
                          we patted them again
                            wished them well.
                                    
                          Shauna and I kissed,
                             mouth to mouth,
                              body to body,
                              soul to soul,
                            spirit to spirit,
                         I then kissed her eyes
                         I kissed her forehead,
                           all under the eyes
                        of our gallery of beasts,
                              and I kissed
                          that beautifull body
                          that ached for peace
                          in the animal kingdom
                         for a life in the wild
                               for a dream
                            of total freedom,
                            and we made love,
                              right there,
                            by the window,
                          with the curious eyes
                           watching, laughing
                            and occasionaly 
                            nibbling my back.
                           We went back to bed
                           satisfied, satiated
                               free, happy
                            shauna cuddled me
                           kissed a thank you
                                 turned
                             cuddled tighter
                          grabbed my right arm
                     and covered her figure with it
                           and then tucked it
                           on her left breast
                             over her heart
                            and I, once again
                                listened
                            to the heart beat
                                of a life
                       there was a little rustling
                               in the wind
                               and I knew
                         that our blessed beasts
                               were gone,
                             gone for today,
                            but this moment 
                               never, ever
                                 will. 
                                    
           (c) Copyright Pedro Sena 1993. All Rights Reserved
                                
                                     





                               BLINDSIDED
                               ~~~~~~~~~~
                                    
                             Someone speaks
                             Across the room
                         A sobbing voice breaks
                       Love soaked days and nights
                            Cancelled by fear
                          Of repeating mistakes
                                   ...
                               And I was -
                                    
                               Blindsided
                       I didn't even see it coming
                             Can't fight it
                         Before I hit the ground
                     You were already running away.
                                    
                               ( bridge )
                   It don't get any clearer than this
              Believe it like the taste of a goodbye kiss.
                                    
                                  I was
                               blindsided
                         Nothing I can say or do
                              Will it right
                          You won't come around
                       And I'm already fading away
                                   ...
                                    
                               One morning
                    All alone with someone who cares
                             Without warning
                       The fabric of reality tears
                                   ...
                               And I was -
                                    
                               Blindsided
                       I didn't even see it coming
                             Can't fight it
                         Before I hit the ground
                      You were already running away.
                      

                                      -- Michael Stroup



                                      
                      
                             I Feel the Same
                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                           I carved your name
                               In the desk
                        The first time I saw you
                             In gradeschool
                          And I carved a heart
                               In a tree -
                                    
                              By the brook
                         Where I walked with you
                           For the first time
                             Read you a poem
                           That did not rhyme.
                                    
                          And I felt the shame
                               In my heart
                      The first time I lied to you
                             And like a fool
                             I made you cry
                                Over me -
                                    
                               In the park
                          Where I talked to you
                            For the last time
                            Spoke of my life
                        Oh, but I wasn't in time.
                         ( instrumental verse )
                               In the life
                        Where we thought we knew
                             We were in love
                            I didn't realize
                           It's never enough.
                                    
                           And I feel the same
                               On this day
                         As I did the last time
                              I kissed you
                          And I felt your hair
                              On my face -
                                    
                               On the lake
                        Where the full moon light
                          Made your eyes shine
                          you gave me your love
                            I gave you mine.
                                    
                                  And 
                             I feel the same
                               Baby, I do
                             I feel the same
                           Darlin', don't you?
                           
                                    
                                      -- Michael Stroup








                               Miles to Go
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~
                                    
                            I drove across the
                          flat farm land in the
                             purpling evening,
                          speeding past memories
                         of grandparents, kitchen
                          pumps and cottontails,
                              to say goodbye.
                         Silhouettes of cornfields
                        and grain elevators settled
                            against the remains
                         of the parting sun as it
                            painted the sky in
                            a childhood vision
                                of sunsets,
                          pink rays fanning into
                              the heavens as
                         the stench of manure and
                         feedlots coated the air.
                            And there you were,
                           wearing a quiet smile
                       that spoke of the secret you
                               finally knew.
                         I stood and caressed the
                           red of the flag that
                        covered you and shared our
                         communal silence of love
                              one last time,
                           staring at your hands
                             no longer shaking
                  no smoking cigarette dripping ashes....
                           but still your hands,
                      overwhelmed with love for this
                          prison that was yours,
                         and wished you farewell.
                                     

                                      -- Jan Kingsford







              
                                    
                                    
                               Edgar Allan
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~
                                    
                     I dig and hoe get seeds and sow
                   And water them and watch them grow
                        If I don't do this I know
                      My gardens will no color show
                    My soul will surely fill with woe
                     can't stand and chat I gotta go
                     And get the shovel and the hoe
                   And till the earth and start to sow
                   And plant some flowers tall and low
                   And water them and watch them grow
                     And dream about the color show
                       No I'm running out of time
                   I'm running out of words that rhyme
                   Too bad the key word here is "hoe"
                Sounds like this verse was penned by Poe!
                

                                      -- Ruby I. Bender
                






                                    
                              Drying Drops
                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~      
                                    
                      Dreams run down my windowpane,
                       drying drops of summer rain.
                My heart chatters endlessly, restlessly on,
                 telling it's stories from dusk till dawn.
                   It calls to you and sighs your name,
                   the echoing silence wounds and maims.
                   Trying too hard to be seen and heard
                   stumbling, tumbling on just one word.
                     Trying to free my hearts desire,
                      caught in a choking muddy mire.
                 Please be the wings for my dreams to fly,
                 don't let them flutter, sputter and die.
                 Your words speak truths my heart can hear
                 quelling and quenching the nameless fear.
              Let the river of your vision overflow my banks,
                 let me sing you a song of joy and thanks.
                                     
                                    
                                      -- Jan Kingsford






                                    
                                    
                             Manic's Refrain
                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
                                    
                       Have you tried the Lithium
                          Haldol and Navane too
                      Tranzenem Thorazine, Triavil
                Elavil or Prolixin just to name a few - -
               Well if you have, you may join this refrain
                       By and large all reek havoc
                      And not only with oyur brain
                     Though professing to stabilize
                      In truth they mostly paralyse
            Both mind and limb your body through and through.
          Though some appear to thrive on these legalized meds
    Most patients plead for mercy as they stagger towards their beds
         Now it's time for Dekapote; is this another sour note?
                      I won't know until tomorrow;
                       Will tomorrow be too late?
                  Is this just one more failure or - -
                          Will it rehabilitate?


                                      -- Ruby I. Bender








                                Honesty 
                                ~~~~~~~

                             A moment of truth
                          held in a bar of soap,
                           Synchronicity's song
                          in a health food store.
                    Aching heart reaches out and talks
                    of the warmth of a marmalade sun.
                        An hour later the owner of
                       the heart stands in a store,
                    holding in her hand a bar of soap 
                        whose label wants you to  
                      imagine yourself in a Portugal
                 orange grove an a bright summer morning.
              Marbled orange, color and scent, spicy sweet, 
               it calls itself "Portuguese Breakfast" and
                  it whispers truths to the aching heart.
                      And the aching heart remembers,
                          listens, understands. 
                                    
              Remembers anger flashing, concealing the pain.
                    Other voices raised, other battles
                    joined, the aching heart retreated
                    licking and picking it's wounds.  
                  A poetic voice, offered as a branch of 
                 understanding was heard through wounded 
                  ears and scarred heart, wounding other
             ears, scarring other hearts.  Of all the raised 
             voices, the source of her pain was silent and she
                     shivered, cold, behind her walls.
                                    
                 Listens to the sound of breaking silence,
                  breaching walls, a poetic voice handing
                 her anger back to her calmly and quietly,
                wrapped in love, tied up in understanding.
                                    
               Understands the sad silence that has wrapped
               her aching heart, the mist of tears that has
                 blurred her landscape, muffling her pain,
                           disguising the truth.
                                    
                    And standing in a store, holding a
                   bar of soap, the marmalade sun breaks
            through the mist, steam rises from the wet ground,
                  a miasma of love ignored, love denied.
                 And in the clearing sky, the aching heart
                realizes, the aching heart sees, the aching
            heart knows.  The aching heart is falling in love.


                                      -- Jan Kingsford








   ͸ ͸ ͸ ͸        ͸ ͸ ͸  ͸ ͸    ͸
   ;    ͸             ͸     Ѿ    ;           
       ; ;             ; ;             ;   
  

                                  
                            THE MINOTAUR
                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~
                                  
                            The Minotaur
                            After a long
                         Long journey home
                            Lies asleep
                            In his lair
                        With his eyes closed
                         Afloat on a dream
                              That his
                          Exhaustion airs
                                  
                            A dream of a
                           Girl so young
                            As he is old
                         With mushroom eyes
                          And hair so wild
                           Lost and alone
                            The minotaur
                         Stirrs in his lair
                          He sighs for her
                                  
                        A dream which forms
                          Each single tear
                        That's gathered here
                        Throughout the years
                        Throughout all time
                         Tangled with vines
                           A dark lament
                        His heart has wrent
                                  
                          A tear which has
                           Repeated that
                          "I loved so much
                          And how I loved
                          And who I loved
                          And why I loved
                          No one can know"
                        The minotaur stirrs
                            In his lair
                          He sighs for her
                                 
                            The Minotaur
                            After a long
                         Long journey home
                            Lies asleep
                            In his lair
                        With his eyes closed
                     And a thorn that's lodged
                          Within his side
                       A tear extracted from
                           His gentle eye
                                  
                     So with his heart bled dry
                         Beneith the sword
                             Of Thesius
                         He howls and cries
                          For want of love
                          For want of life
                           A life that is
                          But now a dream
                         A life that still
                          Retains the lie
                                  
                        But once this dream
                         Revealed the truth
                          How two were one
                          But now no more
                         It's just a dream
                            As any dream
                             A penalty
                        Where death becomes
                           The Labyrinth
                         Lost love exposed
                                  
                            The Minotaur
                            After a long
                         Long journey home
                         Reclaims his lair
                         Reclaims his love
                       Reclaims what's there
                            The minotaur
                            After a long
                         Long journey home
                                  
                              Dies...
                                  
                                  
                                Coda
                                ~~~~
                                  
                            The minotaur
                         Stands by her side
                         Protects the light
                       That shines on her...
                                  

                                      -- Klaus J. Gerken






   ͻ
       A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers    
   Ķ
        - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet   [9310]     
   Ķ
    (C) CopyRight     "I Write, Therefore, I Develop"     By Paul Lauda 
   ͼ

       Come one, come all! Welcome to Centipede. Established just for
       writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A place
       for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and learn
       from all.  A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
       Even a chance to be published in a magazine.

       Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area,
       an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and
       speculated history & publishing.  In all of the ten conferences,
       anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends.
       For that is what CentNet is here for: for you.  Ever wonder how
       to accent a poem at the right meter?  Well, come join our
       PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out.
       Have any problems in deciphering your dreams?  Select The Dreams
       echo, and you're questions shall be solved.

       The Network was created on May 16, 1993.  I created this because
       there were no other networks dedicated to such an audience.
       And with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to
       grow, and become active on Bulletin Board Systems.

       I consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
       specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
       Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most
       nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest
       to a writer--which is where Centipede steps in!  No more fuss.
       A writer can now download the whole network, without phasing
       out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to
       the writer's interests.  This means that Centipede has all
       the active topics that any creative user seeks.  And if we
       don't, then one shall be created.

       If you want to find out more about Centipede, give us a call
       at +609-896-3256, and join one of our conferences.  You'll
       not be disappointed!   Or, check out the latest info packet
       being distributed in the format: CENTyymm.[ARCHIVE].





                              CENTIPEDE

           A Professional Mailing NetWork 
                       European Edition Notes  
              
                          - A  or   -

        Welcome  to  Centipede, a Professional Mailing Network.   
                        Modem or Otherwise

        Centipede, was created by the effort of Paul Lauda and a very
  special group of friends, with the intent to encourage the
  sharing and distribution of poetic material.  It was our feeling,
  THEN, and it is, NOW, that there are certain things in life which
  should be treated with honest feeling, and not be censored,
  because it might have one word, or one feeling which someone did
  not like.

       When we first started, we centered ourselves around POETRY. 
  But, no sooner were we ready to go on the phone lines, we all
  also wanted a few other things to enjoy and share.  Immediately
  a few other MESSAGE BASES were added to the Network, to appease
  the needs and interests of the several members who helped place
  this on the map. All in all, we find that we are a group of
  dedicated lovers of art, and specially the beauty of the art of
  writing.

        And it wasn't long before we found out that we differed from 
  others.... we revered POETRY.  And before we knew it, it was being
  posted in French and Portuguese, with the help of a few friends in
  Europe.  We had done it.... our vision was so international, and so
  open that we had done what the major networks of mail had not been
  able to do... communicate and share our true thoughts, through the
  purity of words.  And it was exciting to find that other people
  spoke of this language as the dream eye'd language of the 'poet
  Shakespeare and my dear beloved Emily Dickinson'... 

        The CENTIPEDE, at this moment, houses mostly POETRY, and is in
  the process of handling several other MESSAGE BASES, which allow for
  us to meet, and find, the needs of the main menbers of the network,
  and appease the needs of the readership.   We remain dedicated to the
  art of writing, and poetry in special, but have given in to Pedro Sena's 
  request that they place a FILM CONFERENCE, since he is such an avid
  seer of foreign film, and an able reviewer himself.  If he ever wondered
  what his reviews of foreign films, returning to those countries, will 
  ever do fof him, he will not have long to wait.

       This is the exciting time for those involved with the CENTIPEDE.  
  We are in our growing stages, and still looking for a few more nodes 
  on the European continent.   The development of CENTIPEDE has created 
  a complete new set of ideas and possibilities, which no doubt this 
  issue is but a test.  Pedro wished to have this issue also available
  in a PUBLISHED FORMAT, so he could send it to various literary sources
  and connections he feels he may have in Europe.  Pedro believes that
  this could open up a complete new avenue for the handfull of participants
  in the YGDRASIL, not to mention a heck of a lot more work for KLAUS
  GERKEN.  Pedro would also like to reach the many professors, and
  academics, which he has known and met through out his life, and try
  to secure a connection, which he has missed.  He's not sure this will
  work, altogether perfectly, but he knows that even if it is all 
  ignored, he will have helped develop something new and different, and 
  added another dimention to it.  

       The editorial versions of this issue are different, in each issue.
  We are assuming that the MODEM readers, are not quite the same as those
  who will purchase the PUBLISHED ISSUE.  We felt that the different
  audiences might require the separate note sections in the end of the
  issue to make it all work right, and to have them reach us... 
 
       Thus, you may read this issue, without some of these notes, over 
  a BULLETIN BOARD SYSTEM, which is almost all pure TEXT and no frills.  
  The only glare you will get is from the monitor you are looking at.  Or, 
  you can acquire the PUBLISHED VERSION, through YGDRASIL PRESS, and then
  sit back and enjoy the border art work of Alicia-michelle Norgaar, with 
  the poems set within those boundaries.  It creates another atmosphere 
  that requires a cup of coffee, or tea, in your hand.

       At any rate, CENTIPEDE and YGDRASIL hope that they have interested
  you in the concept, and that they have succeeded in getting you involved
  in their endeavour, which is to create a solid, SOLID, forum for writers
  and poets, the world over.  We have already seen poetry in a couple of
  labguages POSTED on the Bulletin Boards... now we are awaiting the rhythms
  of languages we haven't yet met.... through you.
     
       CENTIPEDE, would like to have your patronage, and would like
  to make sure you can see for yourself what it is we are about.  We
  may give us a call, the nodes and numbers listed below, we will
  gladly find a way for you to interact with us. 


                                                    Thank You
                       Peter, Paul, John, George, Igal, Klaus, Ringo et al..  
  




                              CENTIPEDE

           A Professional Mailing NetWork 
                       European Edition Notes  
              

  This is the list of the CENTIPEDE nodes, for you.... we hope to hear 
  from you.... if you leave us a note, the SYSOP ( * ) will let us know 
  you asked, and we will get back to you.....



   Surreal BBS               * Marcus Breese      * 219-262-9371  
   User Friendly BBS         * Don Shackelford    * 317-784-8401    
   Bitter Butter Better BBS  * Tom Almy           * 503-620-0307  
   Mandate Systems BBS       * David Empey        * 519-862-5663 
   The Exchange              * Chuck Blaisdell    * 609-259-9267  
   Revision Systems          * Paul Lauda         * 609-896-3256 
   Top Cat BBS!              * Gerard C. Johnson  * 813-885-5797  
   Synapse BBS               * Daniel Coulombe    * 819-246-2344
   The Brampton Free Zone    * Mike Stafford      * 905-840-2176 
   The Database Warehouse    * Mel Molder         * +49-6301-3622  
   Hermes Center BBS         * Philippe Cheve     * +331-69007672    
   The Late BBS              * Alex Scerri        * +356-437-435  
   The Late BBS              * Miguel Scerri      * +356/492-964 
   Skyship BBS               * Mario Pozzetti     * +3511-3158088 
   The MAD Board             * David V. Keeney    * *CURRENTLY MOVING* 









                  
                      
                   
                          
                                       
                             
               
                   
              
      

  
            THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken
            FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken
            THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
            DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
            FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
            KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
            ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
            FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken
            THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
            POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn
            THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979) a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
            STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS, poems by Igal Koshevoy
            BLATANT VANITY, poems by Igal Koshevoy
            ALIENATION OF AFFECTION, poems by Igal Koshevoy
            LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE, poems by Igal Koshevoy
            THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
         ( and coming soon ... THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena )
         ( THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena )
         ( INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena )    
  

    All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each, and may be ordered from:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             

  YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from  the  same  address:  $2.50  an
  issue (To cover disk and mailing costs), specify computer type (IBM or Mac),
  operating  system and version, disk size and density and allow 2 weeks for
  delivery.

  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems
  BBS (1-609-896-3256).




  
                 Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ    Ŀ      Ŀ
                         Ĵ      ڿ Ĵ   
                                 
            ķ  Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ ķ 
                           Ĵ              
                                   
  


  All poems copyrighted by their respective authors.   Any  reproduction  of
  these  poems,  without  the  express written permission of the authors, is
  prohibited.

  YGDRASIL A Journal of the Poetic Arts: Copyright (c) 1993 by KJ Gerken

  The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS:
  No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from
  there.

  Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or
  anything else  appropriate  should  be  addressed,  with  a self addressed
  stamped envelope, to:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS




