Finding the Words (a work long and still in progress)

I am no poet, no singer
inked blank pages,
stacked bound tomes,
convince no one
that I in singing, scribbling

make my mark.

reified, the metaphor's
a joke—the mark a mar,
in margins full of papyrus,
a muddy flow, a stain
that blacks the whole.

a silent dark.

emptiness roars
through an exhausted skull
white bone caverns—
the supple, writhing Nile
Sheba for Solomon—

“Cerulean”

Euterpe's ghost intones
invoking sacred flow and holy Sky:
voiceless, unspeakable
infinite and

Blue.