Poetry

John Beaulieu Poetry

Secret

I can see by your wings that you were only telling me a secret about the wind.

No concern at the summit to differinate a pathway from a trail

nor an epoxy bonded keyboard from sound.

LISTEN

Soft beams of cream colored light.

The clown, my face, listening to horizon lines.

The quite lullaby dream

turned

turning

into ice on a winter day

discovering orgone crystals of blue ice.

Eying twilight modules of energy.

This object, a wondering object,

blue shaped like a singing egg.

This singing object, mating with an unseen wind.

This object, hold this object in your mind.

Shape its blue form into a bird, a silent bird.

A bird without a chirp.

Look through your birds eyes into its song.

Let the bird go.

This is a song in your mind.

Let the song go.

This is a sound in your mind.

Let the sound go.

This is your mind.

Let your mind go.