And so I wander once again into the nebulous causeway
of words, trying to decipher the hidden truths
of those who have gone before.
The Orient, the Occident, the wild fury
of Rimbaudian streets
where the initial word slingers rose up
out of the non restrictive ashes and burned in the fire
of the seer.
Tonight, I pay homage
to those torch bearers of infallible wisdom,
those sensitive few
who have resonated softly
inside the wind
of lucidity.
For they are he who has sat beneath
the pastelled canvas of femininity,
warm in the moisture
of a moon blessed caress
and who blinks his eye
and sees a verdant cathedral of beauty
chanting in the compassionate forest
of his memory.
She who swaddles the simple headed dragon
of menial drudgery,
enfolds the limp limbs of the heart wounded
and bathes their buckled bodies
in the pure water of an April rain.
He who embraces the velvet petals
of a philosophical lotus,
who realizes that the essence of such
a vibrant display of colour
is contained deep down in the mud
at the bottom of the pond where the roots take hold.
She who anoints her hair with a Himalayan rose,
who purifies the ashes of warfare
in a continuation of poetic phrases
brought forward from the outer edges of Elysium
and who faces the historical storm head on,
embracing a lantern of forgiveness.
He who steps unafraid
into the collosseum of politicians
and fences of barbed wire,
who shouts his truth into the undergarments of misery
and mediocrity
and although sometimes beaten down,
continues in his shouting.
She who trembles beside the fragile asylum,
keeping her eyes, her mind focused
and blessing the beloved infidels
who wander the desolate halls
intoning invocations of haunting clarity.
He who sings the hymn of spiritual revolution,
whose pages secrete sacred blood
from a treatise of equality world wide
and who understands
the many nuances of delicate prose
devoid of hypocrisy.
She who dresses in saffron garments
and with one million arms
coddles the disenfranchised and the downtrodden
to her aching breast
where they are soothed by the faint,
but tender echo of her heart.
He who shatters the windows in the White House,
Buckingham Palace and the Kremlin of the mind,
who pins a linguistic tail
on the proverbial jackass of the planet
and causes it to lie down in a field
of benevolent daisies.
She who bears the mystical fruit
from a garden of deep longing,
who reveals the mystery of midnight
and from the curve of her nipple
allows the milk of the creative spirit to pour down
from the heavens.
For he is a monk, a magi, a poet and a prophet
of no fixed address
and she is a nun, a sibyl, a priestess and divine oracle,
blissful in the aromatic seeds of poetics.
Together, these sensitive few
balance upon the pillow of our dreams
and whisper the soul’s yearning vernacular
into our yawning and sleeping ears.
Author notes
this has been recently edited . . . it is in many ways a homage to many of you on AP . . . you know who you are . . .
In a list
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Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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Excellent...
On the prairies of truth seraphic musician plays the notes of awareness, and with mellifluous voice, "the Sensitive Few" shows the vision of the One that poetizes life, and plays the piano of creative wonders.
I have learned from the lines of "the Sensitive Few". A true ontological tour through the valley of knowledge and historical
In respect and admiration
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
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yes, yes, yes...
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I am sitting here stunned....absolutely brillant...and exquisite....
wow!
It fed my weary heart...as it is too easy in this world to give up
and to live a blind and selfish life...
wow!
this is ABSOLUTELY STUNNING!
ears/Kathleen/Seattle
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!
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blessful
and powerful imagery ..
though most of the idea was understood, i failed to recocgnize some of the images and metaphors
this in no way is to be considered a con, i am merely stating my unregretful incompetence to contain all of the meanings meant to be.
with due respect.
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And tonight, dear Scribe, we all pay homage to you. Absolutely stunning work, Marc. Sheer f'n brilliance, my dear Friend. Off to the feature box you go, Maestro. 
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I find this poem to be totally captivating as I do most of your work. Line after line I find myself enthralled with the originality that flows from your pen. I find myself using your work to inspire me for my own poetry. I see your thought process as being introspective with a light hearted view of the world around you and for that reason your poetry is a joy to read and agree with or disagree as the case may be at times. Bravo and please accept the three allotted clappies!
Love,
Amera
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awww wow, an so much homage to these and thee from the circular hand in hand of the planets...
w a packet of fine turkish coffee
-Jas
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As I wipe away tears...
fuck. There's so much I'd like to say, but it's like wishing in one hand, and loose shat in the other... hon. I've told you often that, if I grow up, I want to write like you. These words roll, reasonate, and exist because of you. One of your finest.
sigh.
Always, Kathleen
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