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Through the 'Eye of a Needle' by Len Bourret (Copyright 2009)


Many people are unaware
of this fact, but the 'eye of
a needle' is a geographic
location, goal reachable
by self-determination.


Basking in a scent of violets,
in pots of icy peaks,
resting on blue firmament,
a poem written on the moon,
thoughts and feelings seem
to be like hands outstretched,
reaching and then revering,
giving thanks to the givers of
goodness, on the earth,
as sunlight's geometrics circle
on squares of black-and-white
marbled tiles, caught in triangles
of complicated and unresolvable
why questions, no x or z lessens
suspense, removes the tension,
mystery tantamount on curls of
smoke rising through the cold,
crispness of fall air,
rectangles of such frigid wind,
the trees shivering like the bare
bones of humanity, hiding their
golden age in rings of weathered
teeth, eroded by dark shadows
of bias and disbelief,
clarity and simplicity obfuscate,
on a wobbly base not grounded
or rooted in gainful actions and
charitable interactions,
aspirations, dreams and ideas not
even squinted at,
poems lucid, but now imprisoned
in repetitious flows of incessant
monologues of rhetoric,
measured by tests of inequanimity,
the last leaves within their breath of
life, so glossy green, starting to fall
like purple rain, bleeding, bleeding.
Their fruit no longer bearing, blame
placed on zigzagging, zigzagging.
Genuine gifts, lost only temporarily,
tend to be mortally imperfect. But,
look at percentages of probability.
Their track record only rarely fails.
Let the zigzagging resume.
The tortoise takes longer to get
there, but he finishes the race.


a line

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