Tomorrow’s Butterfly

The shores of chartreuse are beckoning.
All surreal roads lead to heaven’s gate.
Laughing horses and flying mushrooms on brooms
filter through the cellophane
of my brain stem.

Words and measures are limited.
We’re looking for art that’s infinite.
We are bound by our media,
our processes, and our methods.
No one wants to plod through creation
but to lift up on wings of expression.

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Meditation

I want to warm up and thaw my psyche
till I glow
at that center we all know is our own.
A place where it’s swirling bright
in the utter darkness,
and deeper than twilight
whenever the sun’s glare
obscures our sight.
Where it’s always the right time
for quiet time,
alone with the self, and shared existence with everybody.
A place where nothing is too distant to reach;
a warm beach in the dead of winter,

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