We could spill it all out
In a good read about
How there ever came to be
Up in the sky . . .
…a poetry tree,
That never burns down
And in its branches abounds
The phoenix whose sounds
Are the silence . . .
of ETERNITY;
But what could we achieve
When the tale of all ages to believe
Was being plucked as the tail
Of the phoenix,
whose message be:
Only when from above
Is life’s lesson simple and straight
Precise in corresponding
With detail complicating,
Below in the gradings
Of matters of density
Established of space
In time continuum fabric;
Will
the word be real
And only then might nobody steal
Such that nothing might be
Of all the words blue,
One would think the sky true
And just as numbers
are to be believed
What goes up when in need
Just as feathers regrew upon me;
Just as poetry be a lonely old tree
Just as it is as it is in ETERNITY
For all of every word spilt,
God’s love is the only interpretive milk
And the Devil repay what ilk
My life in failed believe
That if birdsong it be,
Listened to have thee
Thy knowledge of need be need be
For the Devil fell not me
But all of God’s lore will be
Jesus who owns the throne of this tree
Grown that Solomon would make Sheba see
While I hear with the ear of unease
Between all those
who know me;
Better just let it be
As it is and believe
An URL of a video of me r