Third Letter From Zeno Poem by Barry Middleton

Her laughter was a starburst,
a 4th of July explosion
in his heart.

When he walked with rivers,
as a child walks, there was no time
for a harvest of tears.

To claim to know the universe
is an arrogant attempt
at divinity.

God asks for love,
men lay death at his feet.

He sang to her a love song
that was like
a bird is a silent forest.

The late rising moon
lights the darkest night,
surpassing the stars.

God fights his death,
but, in his love
and his passing, sets us free.

The cherished virgin
vile mankind
has made a target.

When he feels the wind blow,
he knows the planet turns.

The sun fires
priceless diamonds
on a frosty morning.

If she loves his song,
he knows the raintree blooms,
the seed of another year.

His neighbor's roof blew away.
Of its destruction,
he will build his home.

The orchid waits for men
to depart
for it does not fear the snake.

What price must he pay
for his personal tyranny,
for forgiveness?

Power becomes a club
but it should be a question.

Ah yes Rabi, the hill is but
a failed attempt at heaven.
We climb to never reach.

If one song of his
wafted to a single ear,
that was all he sought.

The fear that he is nothing
is a prison where he,
safe from scorn,
hides from your eyes.

The sky holds its breath
and waits for an embrace.

The green parrots came
taking the sunflower's bounty
and never asked nor thanked.

A melody he hears in the wind
tells him the work
is not yet done.
There is a solemn hymn
drifting in its rushing.

Where the dove waits,
beside a silver gate,
the jeweled peace beyond
is a psalm.

To take more than the need
is to devour one's own soul
as the earth grieves.

A vanished love leaves
an airless vacuum,
years without breath,
then the lungs fill.

He swore to remember her kiss
and still he does. But some forget
there was a pledge.

If he could be content
with his philosophy
as the sun sets,
he would embrace the night.

We can grow wisdom
out of pain; a world
of professors nod and bow.

He curses the clouds
that he creates because
they block the sun.

The paradox is silence
for we all hunger
for the words.

If he was the servant
of a god he did not know,
then what a great surprise
in paradise.

He waits for her
to share with him
the evening meal
and all eternity.

The stream of thought,
that comes from
the eternal man,
awaits a weeping sky,
reunited in stardust.

Deep in the pond of memory
lie all his loves and all his love
beyond all words.