Tag Archives: Glass Melancholiacs


A glass heart filled with black blood,

reverence unspilled,

broken and gleaming,

a sup from which blooms crystalline, emergent, sublime,

moments, wisps, ether,

solved but not answered.



Poetry is a little like ventriloquism, it involves finding that voice that both is and is not you. It is a voice above the everyday. An observer dancing on lights of meaning.  As practitioners in both fields have learned, following that muse can lead to madness. And even when put away, it is still there, merely quieted, invoking it again is just a sideways thought away.

As the Sufis have it, it is to speak with and to the voice of God.

This is your own voice echoing off the walls of God. Rumi