What echoes linger in the chambers deep,
Where yesterday’s sweet songs still softly sleep?
What present bells ring clear in morning air?
What future chimes does hope in waiting keep?

The now flows swift between what was and might,
Like rivers fed by streams of past delight,
While dreams cast forward like the morning sun
To paint tomorrow’s canvas burning bright.

Three sisters weave the tapestry of mind:
One reads the patterns time has left behind,
One threads the needle of the present hour,
One spins the gold of what we hope to find.

In wisdom’s garden, three flowers grow:
The pressed rose of the past we used to know,
The blooming lily of the present day,
The budding promise of tomorrow's show.

Without the past to give the present weight,
Without the now to make tomorrow great,
Without the dream of what is yet to be—
Each faculty alone stands incomplete.

So let them dance, these powers of the soul,
Let memory and sense make fancy whole,
For in their triple-braided harmony
Lives wisdom that transcends each single role.

The sweetest music needs all strings to play,
The brightest rainbow needs each colored ray,
And consciousness requires its triple light
To illuminate our brief and wondrous way.

My Thread-bare Penitence a-pieces tore…

Now Summer’s heat burns fierce upon the plain,
And wisdoms lost return to me again;
The Cup that once I vowed to cast aside
Beckons with ruby depths of sweet disdain.

The Autumn winds may whisper of regret,
And Winter’s frost may cause the eyes to wet,
But when the Vine blooms fresh in Spring once more,
What sage remembers promises to forget?

The Tavern calls with sweeter voice than Prayer,
The Wine-cup glimmers like a jewel rare;
What use are all these vows of yesterday
When today’s sun reveals the world so fair?

The Sages warn of morning’s bitter rue,
But evening’s pleasures paint the sky anew;
Let those who will count beads and mumble psalms—
Tonight the stars are dancing, and the dew.

The rose’s sweet scent a thorn-prick’s worth…

For pleasure’s price in pain we gladly pay,
As night must follow even brightest day;
The sweetest fruit grows highest on the branch—
What worth the feast that costs us no dismay?

The desert sun burns fierce, yet pilgrims still
Press on to Mecca with unshaken will;
So too the lover bears love’s burning drought,
For one cool draught his thirsting heart to fill.

Each precious thing exacts its proper toll—
The pearl its dive, the flame its blinded moth;
What treasure gained without some pain to pay?
What wisdom earned that did not pierce the soul?

The nightingale who sings of love’s sweet pain
Would scorn a garden free of thorny vine;
For in this world of mingled joy and grief,
The price we pay makes sweet our hard-won gain.

“Now that we know the secrets of the universe, what remains as the ultimate question?” RascalPuff asked.
“It is, ‘Why do squirrels always run back under your car after they are already in the clear?’”
“Some things remain unfathomable,” ruminated Puff.

"The strain of cosmic travel took its toll—
An upholstery machine did swallow whole
My form, but I recovered well enough,
Though exorcists still claim my unpaid soul."

“How are you feeling? Wasn’t the trip quite a strain on you?” wondered Fredrick.
“Yes, I fell into an upholstery machine, but I am fully recovered now, but if I don’t pay my exorcist I may get repossessed.”

"Inflation stretched me thin," Nobody sighed,
"The road rose up to greet my wounded pride;
But weight I've lost since then, and gained some wit,
Though fortune-tellers short and small abide."

“Also, I entered a period of great inflationary expansion and suffered a small cut on my forehead when the road rose up to meet me, but I have since lost some weight.”

“Did you hear that the short fortune-teller who escaped from prison was a small medium at large?” asked WiseGuy.
“I have now. That is sure a puny pun that deserves punitive measures.”

"Does Nothing dwell out there?”young Fredrick pressed;
"No, nada, null and zilch," Nobody stressed,
"While pregnant possibility gives birth
To all invention, as Austin suggested."

“Does ‘nothing’ exist out there?” asked Fredrick.
“No, nada, null, zilch, naught, nix, nil, and zippo. Nothing is unconceivable of existence, while the pregnancy of possibility is the mother of all invention. Austin told me to say that.”

Of tainted money Profpat dared to speak;
"All money's tainted," said Nobody with pique,
"Taint yours and taint mine neither." Then at last
Came Austin's query of life's purpose deep.
“Since the government mostly paid for this trip, isn’t the money tainted?” asked Profpat.
“A lot of money is tainted. Taint yours and it taint mine.”

"Let life flow through you," Nobody replied,
Then told of memories from his father's pride:

“What is the purpose of life?” asked Austin, seriously.
“To let it flow through you.”

That first gleam followed by Olympic race,
Through tube to egg where spirit did reside.

“What is your first memory of flowing life?” continued Austin.
“I do remember being a gleam in my father’s eye, my first glint of spirit. And half of me seems to remember shooting down some sort of tube and emerging into some liquid, then some kind of Olympic swimming race and a merging with an oval football kind of thing and an endless floating about for many months.

Of floating months in darkness then he spoke,
Till voices cooed and ancient silence broke;
"There can't be more than water, calm and dark!"
Such wisdom from his pre-birth self awoke.

Then, about a month before I was born, I heard some sounds, like ‘Cootchy-cootchy-coo. Who’s in there?’ Then, the day before I was born, a voice told me that there is a whole big world out there, and I thought, no, there can’t be; there is only water and calm and darkness; that’s all there is; there can be nothing more. I guess I was not such a visionary back then.” “

"Born on my birthday," Nobody declared,
"Though parties waited till next year," he shared,
"My first words asked for shades against the light—
A writer's wit already well-prepared."

Then, the next day—I remember it well since I was born right on my birthday (but had no party until a year later), I was thrust into the light, and I think my first words were, well, it’s a bit hard to recall them since I was very young when I was born, but, since I am a writer, I did speak my first words early, and I think they were: ‘Does anyone have a pair of sunglasses; it’s awfully bright out here.’”

Then Lincoln asked why birthdays shift and change;
"February's confusions to arrange:
Fat Tuesday, Valentine's, and Presidents
All mixed in love's and skunks' shared monthly range.

The pancakes flow on Mardi Gras' wild day,
Then ashes mark our dustward-trending way;
Sweet Valentine's breaks Lenten fasts too soon—
Such paradox does February sway!”

Abraham Lincoln asked, “Why did they move my birthday?”
“Well, February is a confusing short month; for example, this year Fat Tuesday is on February 12, which used to be your birthday, before they moved it, and is the big finale of Mardi-Gras, when we’re supposed to eat enough pancakes and sausage to get us through the 40 days of Lent’s fast food (at Wendy’s & McDonalds), I mean fasting, and give up sweets, as of Ash Wednesday, the 13th, a sort of smoke-in day when we remember dust to dust and that we will eventually make ashes of ourselves, then VD on the 14th, I mean Valentine’s Day, when we are supposed to eat a lot of sweets again! What a mixed-up time. Also, Abe, we wanted another three-day weekend, so we combined all of youse guys birthdays into President’s Day. Plus, it is the month of love, as well as skunk mating season, but I repeat myself.”

Virginia, Austin's mother, sought to learn
The meaning road signs hold at every turn;
Nobody shared his wisdom of the way:
"Four ways to stop your car you must discern:

The brake, the clutch, emergency's firm grip,
And dragging foot—all four must make you slip
To standstill; STOP A-HEAD means just that thing:
A head blocks passage on your morning trip!

WATCH CHILDREN warns of romance in the air,
Get rooms, don't linger 'neath the signpost there;
And BIKE PATH leads between the yellow lines
Where cyclists claim the highway's central flair.

When yellow lights appear, just speed ahead—
They'll shift to green as physics' laws have said;
The morons crawl, the idiots race past,
While jaywalks grant the right to join the dead!”

“I don’t understand the new road signs,” stated Virginia, the only woman on ToeQuest, who is actually Austin’s mother. He signed her up so he could try to use her WebTV to get on ToeQuest from Chicago (it didn’t work very well).
“A 4-WAY-STOP sign means to use the foot brake, then downshift, pull the emergency brake, and drag your foot, as the four ways. STOP A-HEAD says that a head is in the road! WATCH OUT FOR CHILDREN means: Don’t hug, fondle, kiss, touch, or sweet-talk beneath the sign, for you may do the conceivable. So, get a room. BIKE PATH: The official path for bikes is between the two yellow lines in the middle of the road. Also remember that if you speed up when you see a yellow light it will never turn red, since its frequency shifts toward green as you near C, the speed of light! Furthermore, morons always drive slower than you and idiots drive faster than you! Finally, jay walkers have the right of death.”

“The reception’s clear,” Nobody declared,
“No static mars the footage that I shared.”
Then Shakespeare rose to pose his ancient quest:
“To be or not to be?” – Nobody stared.

“Thanks, everyone, for your support,” said Nobody. “The reception was great; no static or noise. I can take some questions before we start the film that filmed the start.”

The Bard’s hand rose amid the questioning throng,
“Your query?” Nobody asked before long;
“To be or not to be,” came swift reply—
“Good answer,” proved the riddle right, not wrong.

For in that ancient doubt lay wisdom deep:
The choice between the waking and the sleep,
The dance of being and of nothingness,
Where questions asked are answers we must keep.

The questioner and answer fused as one,
Like stars that both cast light and light outrun;
In paradox of presence and its void,
The deepest truth had only just begun.

When Nothing asks of Something what is true,
And Something answers Nothing’s point of view,
The circle closes on itself complete—
As question, answer, wisdom shine anew.

“Where found you sustenance?” asked Austin bold,
“I gathered frozen food from ages old;
And cooked it in the cosmic microwave,
While drifting through the universe’s hold.”

“How did you survive after you left the last Daily Planet restaurant?” asked Austin.
“I picked up some frozen food in the Ice Age.”
“But how did you cook it?” persisted Austin, his brain having been temporarily fried, boiled, and sun roasted in New Jersey.
“Remember, there were microwaves all around.”

“Your vacuum, sir?” Profpat inquired with care,
“I bought two units, split my work to share;
The salesman promised half the labor saved—
So doubling up seemed only just and fair.”

“What words,” asked RascalPuff, “could best convey
Your journey to the cosmos’ earliest day?”
“Veni, Vidi, Velcro,” came reply,
“I came, I saw, and I stuck around to stay.”

“Did you get lost?” young Fredrick dared to ask;
“Alternative destinations were my task;
For never lost am I in time or space,
Though different paths my journey might unmask.”

“I never get lost, even if I’m told to; I discover alternate destinations.”

“Did riches flow?” asked Graybeard, seeking more,
“And might I have your tires from days of yore?”
“Yes, wealth I found, but faced a cruel choice then:
’Tween work and daytime TV’s endless bore.”

“Did you make enough money to retire, and, if so, can I have your old tires?” inquired Graybeard.
“Yes, I did, but it’s really a cruel choice: Work or watch daytime TV.”

“Did Everything make sense?” came Fredrick’s plea;
“At times I thought so,” Nobody did agree,
“But consciousness returned to set me straight,
And mystery resumed its sovereignty.”

“Did you understand Everything?” asked Fredrick.
“Often I thought I did, but then I regained consciousness.”

Then ChickenMan inquired with solemn face
If cosmic eggs had marked primordial space;
“Inconceivable!” Nobody declared,
“Though in your query lies peculiar grace.”

ChickenMan probed, “Were any chickens harmed during the making of your film? Also, did Mother Earth and Father Time produce the cosmic egg?”
“Inconceivable, but I like your approach… now let’s see your departure.”

“What’s reality?” Mkirkpatrick mused;
“Much ado about nothing,” None refused.
Then Clinton asked of Hillary’s great run—
“Blame Macy’s sales,” Nobody’s words diffused.

“Is your journey responsible for Hillary running for President?” asked Bill Clinton.
“No, but there was a Presidents’ Day sale at Macy’s and men’s pants were half off.”

“I’m cured now,” said Bill. “There is no relationship, depending on what the meaning of ‘is’ is. There is really no safe sex from aides. Also, I went to a self-help group for compulsive talkers; it’s called ‘On and On Anon’.”

The Presidents debated dynasties,
Of Bushes, Gores, and Chads’ uncertainties;
“No politics!” cried Nobody at last,
“Those blood-sucking insects bring no ease!”

“Why are the two President Clintons always out beating the Bushes?” quizzed ElderBush of Bill.
“Because Al tried to Gore you and lost to Chad, so I must run for First Gentleman to restore our dynasty over yours. Plus, one handy lady bird is worth two bushes anytime.”
“Okay Presidents,” interjected Nobody, “no politics, a word that means many blood sucking insects. I’m still taking questions.”

“The answers simple are,” Nobody taught,
“Just yes and no and maybe interlock;
To children all mean yes, but questions still
Remain the harder part of human thought.”

Of X-ray vision Graybeard did complain,
“Now only bones appear!” he cried in pain;
“Perhaps an airport job?” suggested None,
“Where such a gift might yet some purpose gain.”

Profpat posed riddle of two scholars’ fate:
One versed in arts, one trained to calculate;
Their paths crossed where french fries perfume the air—
“Would you like fries?” sealed their unequal state.

“What did the arts graduate say to the engineering graduate?” asked Profpat.
“Would you like fries with your order, sir?”

Two branches of the tree of learning fair,
Two roads that led to meetings strange and rare;
One builds the world while one serves up its food,
In cosmic jest that neither planned to share.

The engineering mind may draft its schemes,
While arts explore the meaning of our dreams;
Yet here they meet where hunger levels all,
And wisdom’s not quite what it sometimes seems.

Oh irony of education’s way,
Where knowledge leads us down its paths astray;
Some build the restaurants, some work within—
While both still chase their bread from day to day.

Of ancestors and trees they spoke at length,
Of cheese that made the moon’s eternal strength;
Of holy water boiled free from hell,
And TV romance tested gravity’s length.

“Did you meet any of your ancestor’s ancestors?” asked Graybeard.
“I saw my family tree.”
“What the heck!” wondered Graybeard out loud.
“My great-ancestors descended from the trees.”
“What is the moon made of?” asked Rascal.
“Swiss cheese.”
“But it’s all hard and crusty, although it does have holes.”
“That’s what happens when you leave cheese out.”
“How do you make holy water?” questioned Profpat.
“You boil the hell out of it!”
“What do you think about sex on TV?” wondered Lloyd.
“It can’t hurt you unless you fall off. Now let’s get serious, folks. We’re all used to the new language features by now and the joke industry that they spawned.”

In Time’s own garden, Nobody did spy
The golden lights that danced across the sky;
Where CARE sat marking shadows as they passed,
And “now” became both answer and reply.

“What did you see in the Garden of Time?” asked Mkirkpatrick.
“There were glimmers and gleams and golden dappled lights like stars hovering and floating slowly about the scene, and a door that invited me into the inner sanctum of the night watchmen’s mainspring. There I found CARE, a gentle old man who sat silently by the sundial in Time’s Sanctuary and slowly marked the hours by the shadows that crept over the face of eternity. I asked him, ‘What time is it?’
“And he answered to my surprise, ‘Do you mean now?’“
“Yogi?” I asked.
“No, Yogi is my distant relative, twice removed, but he kept coming back.”

The riddle of the present moment stands:
Eternal reward flows through time’s swift sands;
Though never passing, always moving on—
This paradox that no one understands.

“Anyway, here is the riddle of now:“

A moment contains eternal reward;
Both past and future are rolled thereinward.
Time never passes; it stays as it is;
Still, it is ceaselessly moving onward.

The holistic right brain remains of course
For us to take in the overall view,
While the logical left brain is also there to recognize
The detailed relationships between objects.

As such, so goes the universe,
Since we are formed in its image.
So then this gives us a clue
To the nature of the universe.

Seeing that the brain is
Divided into two hemispheres,
Each with their own
Characteristic mode of thought,
Which can communicate with each other,
Means that we are looking very deeply
Into the way that reality itself is constructed.

These two complimentary aspects
To the cosmos are thus absolutely essential,
One being of the whole:
The apparently indivisible,
Continuous fluid entity
Although discrete at unnoticeable levels,
The other being the interrelationships of the parts.

Each interpretation may not appear
At exactly the same time,
But the Yin ever gives way to Yang
And ever then back to Yin, and so on,
The rounded life of the mind
Thus continuing to fully roll,
As the cycle of this symmetry
Turns and returns;
If not, one either gets totally lost
In the details or prematurely halts
After but an apparent whole.

The holistic right brain mode is unfocused,
As we see in some people
Who are unconcerned with details,
It always building the scene in parallel
To form a single entity;
Whereas, the focused left side of brain
Isolates a target of interest and tracks it
And its derivatives sequentially and serially.

Yet the two sides of the overall brain
Are connected to each other
And so the speed of the juggling act
Can meld them together
Into a complete balance like that
Portrayed by the revolving Yin-Yang symbol,
Each ever receding and giving rise to the other
Such does the universe go both ways too,
Its separate parts implicated
With everything else in the whole.

During conscious observation
The ‘hereness’ and ‘nowness’
Of reality crystalizes and remains,
We establishing what that reality is to some extent.

We define and refine the nature of reality
That leads to the mind’s outlook.

Counterintuitive? Cyclical?

Yes but it is the universe in dialog with itself;
The wave functions and yet the function waves.

The universe supplies the means of its own creation,
Its possibilities supplying the avenues
And the probability and workability
That carve out the paths leading to success.

So here we are, then and now,
The rains of change falling everywhere,
The streams being carved out,
The water rising back up to the sky,
The rain then falling everywhere,
The streams recarving and meandering
Toward more meaning and so on.

From time’s shores toward oblivion’s worlds,
The quantum ‘vacuum’ fields send forth their whirls,
The sea parting into base discrete swirls,
Unto stars and life—ephemerals pearled.

Quantum fields’ Presence, through transient veins,
Running Quicksilver-like, fuels our gains—
Taking all the temporary shapes as
They change and perish all—but It remains.

Since the quantum fields are everywhere,
The elementaries, like ‘kinks’, can move
To anyplace in the realms of the fields.
As in a rope, only the quanta move.

At each level of organization
Of temporaries in the universe,
New capabilities become available,
And so they take on a life of their own.

The quantum vacuum field waves are the strokes
That write the elementaries’ letters
As the Cosmic alphabet for wording
Of the elements and the forces that

Phrase the molecules’ interactions
Unto the cells’ sentences that make for
The lives’ paragraphs of the species that
Experience the uni-versed story,

In a book from Babel’s Great Library:
The epic tales of the temporaries,
Their glorious triumphs and sad failures,
Amid complexity’s unwinding spring.

The great needle plays, stitches, winds, and paves
As the strands of quantum fields’ webs of waves
That weave the warp, weft, and woof, uni-versed,
Into being’s fabric of Earth’s living braids.

Quantum fields are the fundamental strokes
Whose excitations at harmonics cloaks
The field quanta with stability
To persist and obtain mobility.

As letters of the Cosmic alphabet,
The elementary particles beget,
Combining in words to write the story
Of the stars, atoms, cells, and life’s glory.

The weave of the quantum fields as strokes writes
The letters of the elemental bytes—
The alphabet of the standard model,
Atoms then forming the stars’ words whose mights

Merge to form molecules, as the phrases,
On to proteins/cells, as verse sentences,
In to organisms ‘stanza paragraphs,
And to the poem stories of the species.

Of this concordance of literature,
We’re the Cosmos’ poetic adventure,
Sentient poems being unified-verses,
As both the contained and the container.

We are both essence and form, as poems versed,
Ever unveiling this life’s deeper thirsts,
As new riches, through strokes, letters, phonemes,
Words, phrases, and sentences—uni versed.

We have rhythm, reason, rhyme, meter, sense,
Metric, melody, and beauty’s true pense,
Revealed through life’s participation,
From the latent whence into us hence.

A poem is a truth fleshed in living words,
Which by showing unapprehended proof
Lifts the veil to reveal hidden beauty:
It’s life’s image drawn in eternal truth.