The Roses

A pair of roses--color of my blood--
Two torn tickets to my heart--I desire
The coppery taste that's mixing with the mud
That's smeared across my face--you'll taste the fire
That sears the blood, that lights the bush that will
Not be consumed, but speaks upon the hill.

Utopia

Utopia is poured out on the land
From books, from fiction and from poetry,
To make all airy nothings into grand
And beautiful new possibility
That guide the thinking into branching time
That stem from words in patterns, rhythms, rhyme.

To Potential Poets

You enter the abyss to gain a mask
So you can tell the truth in rhythmic rhyme
That's given to you as you make the climb
Into the world---but now you have the task
Of making words into a crystal time.