Where Water Goes: First Book of Parables

Poetry has always been in my being from earliest memory. Even as a young child, I sought the highest branches to sway with the wind suspended between the immense potential of a star filled heaven and the banal motion of finite earth below. Even then my soul would sing in an unknown language, glorifying the majestic presence connected in every living thing. The first time a written poem inspires this part of me are rhymes read to me by my dearest mother from a book titled Little Drops of Water. I knew then my true calling in this life. Contained in a three volume collection are whispers of poetry listened to and transcribed by the poet through changing passage: reflections of a source representing grander potential than the written word only. I am in humble remembrance that I remain but a messenger in this present. Therefore, I freely share with the reader revelations freely shared to me in course of time. This volume of 101 poems titled First Book of Parables begins a journey into deeper passage, from innocence to death of innocence, and new beginnings resurrected on the other side.

Although less than once I thought I might become, I am more than ever I thought I could be. For this I am exceedingly thankful. I have died more than one kind of death in passing. Died to childhood vision to become a deadly instrument of the world. Died to mortal weakness and fear in the name of greater strength. Died to the cares of this living through power of spiritual resurrection. It is to this end given voice in season. Graduating from University of California Los Angeles with a degree in Creative Writing, I become enlightened to the knowledge that mechanics of writing often contrary to creative style, which runs a course not completely comprehended through academia. Not to say that academia unimportant. It serves as a regulator to a force of potential, but is not the definitive abstraction of the source. Poetry is a spiritual manifestation in natural context, channeled through flesh and blood experience. It is, and is not thought, as defined by reason. It emulates from multiple strings of invisible forces designed on a grand scale of elevation existing outside the clock work precision of space-time eventuality. This is why poetry reflects in the elemental present, while at the same instant elevates immutably transcendent. It is music of the spheres.