Poems by T.Collins Logan

A smattering of poems by T.Collins Logan, Copyright 1979 - 2013  Creative Commons License


Spacious World

Spacious world

unlock our hearts

plunder us with wonder

unveil your indescribables

define what we cannot

awaken every senseless sense

with mysteries of emptiness

overfilling all we are
illuminate our souls

in certainties which contradict

now bound harmonious

by laws our spirit deeply knows

This thoughtful creature

a paradox that walks

tries wooing your shy depths

in reckless love

intent on conquering

until its ego’s hasty denouement


Forgive us, then

your earnest prodigals

when we belatedly return

from panicked journeying

away from what we are

to rest beneath your spanning grace

heads bowed before the gift of life


Inspire us, spacious, wondrous world

as we begin again

like joyous children with a friend

each moment rich with sharing

and a beckoning from deep within


Today’s Libation

Intellect weighs sideways glances
thoughts fermenting ego into clear broth
whoa…that’s a hit! 
felt this tingling before
at a baptism maybe
ahas submerged in groupthink
stillness drowning in pop culture
liberation gurgling through a lake of cravings
touch the flame with pointed rhetoric
dissemble with erudition
these strange sensations of the Void
“I caught you peeking!” say the smiling gods
wagging an indifferent finger
but I feel blind and dumb
numb to questions circling on themselves
can we name them?
can we name the psyche’s sycophants
however inward their narrowing gyre?
c’mon, don’t hold back!
name them please
it’s academic
(though not essential)

So I, a mystic in the modern age
pretend to a translatable gnosis
ink blots, Rorschachs
swirling into pixels
approximating quanta
locally coherent
across digitized swelter
and that's the end of it:
nothing springs forth
into nothing
and once again the letting go
the boiling of clear broth
the steam of relinquishment
like a frothy belch on a crisp autumn day
let’s not confuse that
for proof of life
or spiritual certainty
but hey, it’s a writer’s lament
to become this empty-handed
toiling in anonymity
because all the story’s characters
have no names
ah, well
this is still the best story of them all

My own?
maybe I evolved yesterday
maybe I congealed
some pedigree of emptiness
that complains no end
to revised perceptions
or higher degrees of compassion
or attenuating self
that resonant essence
chuckling through the muck
intending with constancy
and immutability
to excel Beyond
exhorting others to excel
hinting at the cost
here, now, the many themes and pieces
the many levels and vectors
of infinite spirals within
all yearning to comply
crying out in bashful creativity

But while the sea swells
and waves break
in illusive movement
is there only eternal returning
to the darkest depths of being?
perhaps the question is misnamed;
if being is a point
intersecting all dimensions
where does it reside?
in which direction does it move?
how can it evolve
other than to expand beyond itself?
perhaps the noble ones
who say “there is no more becoming”
have apprehended this paradox
but I am not so noble
so I merely speculate

Thus immovable foundations
crash against irresistible impulse:
to live and grow and thrive
in echo of this fateful union
where consciousness emerges
questions and stories
questions and stories
questions and stories
when we exhaust the asking
and the telling
I bet that’s Death
and between this moment and that moment
a pathless land
irradiated with art
wafting the scent of love
luridly luring the Abyss
with mortal, undulating dance
welcoming unspeakable felt sense
to climax in unknowing

So I do not know…
my ignorance is vast
and I’m too proud of it
the way a child is proud of a new toy
even though it does not belong to me
secretly I weep
because I cannot keep this gift
it will vanish at Dawn
and I will be responsible to myself once more
but for now
I revel in the rap-tap-tapping
grateful for impermanence
and the long arc of forgetting
and smell of frying onions
and the kindness of a friend
and all the little pains
and fractional efforts
that forestall the really big ones
someday, I hope
I will be less a coward
but for now
my doubt and knowledge
weigh equally on my mind and heart
and I tuck my secrets
under my pillow when I sleep

So that’s today’s libation
flavored by a yin/yang soul
a pinch of Buddha mind
and lots of Sufi heart
a spicy dash of Ganesha’s flesh
infused with the spirit of Christ
brought to a simmer
amid this vale of years
sometimes held reverently
sometimes carelessly spilled and splattered
but here, now
in my overrunning cup
an offering to fellow celebrants
please enjoy
and drink it deep.


True Events


From the choking, coiling foam

I rally into glinting bright

Where all shades blue invent themselves

And I can reach for breath

In blinking, spitting salty sting


What passive words, “to float,”

When every energy I have is spent

In wriggling weary limbs

And ducking massive walls of white

Ever watchful of the never-ending next

Then I am lifted, turning, stretching out

My length upon the swell

Eagerness becomes my light

A curling gasp of windy spray

And DOWN! I go


Whooping, thrilling speed

Chest compressed with nature’s need

A lifted child, an offering

Cradled in winged spirit’s flight

Harmony of source and supplication

Turning and returning to the womb of all

Conjoining truth with laughing roars

Voices of the sea and me


But wait, who is this creature?

Racing shadow, big as I

Sharing an adrenal moment in the tide?

It is a dolphin leaping forth

Glistening gray

Every muscle curving play

As soon there as gone

Not confirming or denying what belongs

But kinship, unafraid

And I suspend all certainty

For this one instant merged with awe

Penitent for what I claimed to know

Until the sandy firmament

Slams against my skin


My mortal frame remains

Slogging forth into a shaky stand

Kelp entangled, dripping cold

Assured in frail humility

Once again

That in all things

           Sole self is not alone.


The Faery Call


Lovely Heart

look out your window

Do you see the elf with the sunlight in her eyes?

Watch, now, as she lifts her silver horn

and calls from worlds just out of sight

with notes too lovely to be heard

the eager spirits of your fancy

the faeries of your wishes, fair and free

Are you surprised?  You shouldn't be!

They fly forth because of you

drawn by the magic of your hope

to wait like prancing children

for you to come outside and play


Lovely Heart

look out your window

Do you see the elf with the sunlight in her eyes...?




So intricate

These moments without warning

Folding secret wishes deeper

Awakening an avid touch

Only to turn away

At the last instant

Like a frightened child

Who burrows beneath pillows

To hide from the dark


How delicate

These hearts that reach

For simple and lasting truth

When happiness comes easy

And all our worries find relief

In stillness and warmth

Coddled gentle-tight

In the memory of what could be


O Infinite

Come to us as beautiful dawn

Ignite the purest light

Of Choice and Chance

And prod our meekly peeking souls

From beneath these pillows

To renew the tale of love

A tale that reads:

"Once upon a time

And evermore." 

Shaping Apples


worm inside the sheaves, my love

thick raucous leaves upon that tree, my love

so long ago we wandered from

       the tiny chasms of each dark stroke

       to dip beneath the superficial green

for what? 

certainly we wondered then

       our reason for reason

       canals of vital probability

       light-filled, greedily beheld

       shifting in the breeze of Eden

and there your finger lifts to turn

       purposed without contrition

       the velvety rasp of knowledge

       two worlds on edge

       beneath a prohibition


       fiction for our guiding truths


       sweet syllables you bring to me

       all innocence and joy

       plucked from the gardens of Gethsemane

and so, intoxicated by delightful heft

I ponder the dogmatic shape of apples

       this pneuma, this perceived instant

       a careless Word which carries us

       from hypnotic ignorance

       to manifest divinity

       your disheveled hair

       and pursing quiz of contemplation

       as you gaze into a page

I can’t help but smile

       to witness life

       thriving despite its mortal banishment


       let’s prance wantonly

       in the warm illumination

       of our questing souls


       let’s harvest untamed miracles

       of virid Spring beyond the Fall.


I Love Oak Trees


What if

Fulfillment begins

As we break free

To see the world anew

Drifting weightless

Our future resting

On a breezy whim?

What if

All the spanning effort

Of our growth

And breadth of our experience

In redeeming green

Only readies us

For letting go?

And what if

The shapely motion of our flight

That hint of bliss in our descent

Is the greatest art

Our lives will ever know?


Canoes on the Bay

part noisy ducks

     and slapping paddle boats

 dodge silky swimmers

     powder-blue sky

     and chalk dust clouds

mirrored in the choppy green sheen.

Lemonade at fifty cents

warms lazily near a ringing pay phone.


nosy plodding pigeons 

          lure dogs on leashes in line

                  behind dogged skaters

                  with cranky ankles

                          and pigeon toes. 

Solitary mushroom pickers 

one of them pregnant

stoop to pack

their wrinkled paper sacks. 

Kayaks carried overhead

shoo canoes. 

Blue salty smells

in soft hollow spaces

are smothered with damp towels.

Bugless autumn breezes nimbly lift old limbs.

Distant cars and buses rumble.

A small skinny boy

with big dark eyes

chases invisible butterflies and stumbles 

on stubby legs.

A Mallard feather burrows in brown dirt 

unyielding earth beaten down

by golden webbing. 

Languid lawn chairs

                     tilt and yield to pristine views.

Radios blast rap and bluegrass

in a morass of giggling kids

and someone waiting in a dark car

honks their horn.

Starlings herd each other near the beach

and a woman reclining on the grass

elbows locked behind low

breasts lolling across her

smooth white stomach


A curly-headed matron lumbers

hands on hips

gray spectacles trained

                                    on the spectacle of youth.


NOT FOR PUBLIC CONSUMPTION says the sign upon the shore.  

Now who's this?  A blackbird

elegant and cultured

long legs

narrow neck

tapered torso

so handsome!

Hopping in the shade of craggy bark

and glistening leaf  

        red wings flashing.  

A girl of three or four

beefy but earnest

with blue eyes and pursed pink lips

hunts down the slim

frail bird.


A grandfather shows his prodigy

the slow casting of imagination

a phantom fishing amid blurs

of hurried city seasons

never reeled in.

And then...a white STAFF shirt says

“Clear the wading pool!”

and instigates a chemical annihilation 

of evil pathogens in soft ripples

ending everything.

The families flee. 

The day ends.

I let a piece of paper blow

off the table where I sit. 

It is not my piece of paper

     it was here before I came. 

A man stoops to pick it up

not looking at me

and I wonder what  he intends.

I stand and gaze at a lone rock

settled in the sand

stolid and invulnerable

observing everything but never acting

now occluded and consumed

by the steadily rising tide.


Above the Hum



Above the hum

I ride the surge

intranquil as the Demiurge

feel my gritty effervescence

sighing into musty light

unfiltered flittyness, unmindful

of distressing dress codes

standard me erect and fling me high

so I create my death

slough cells of thought like skin

no kinder word than “Yes”

O Yes!

don’t bind me up, please

reject control-disease

glut thinly finished style

in erudite non-contrite editions

lift up! my sacred tome

in coarse, hoarse voicing

scream the ogling patrons

to abeyance

and PAY me for my selfish joy


Above the hum

I eat orange-gray, crunchy things

packaged fertile with promises

while societal subservience

grates against my goads

but I will not wake!

from me

or crave sophisticated deeds

to opiate consumer angst

or obviate my prurient need

it’s LUST

ugly, rotting, festered want

which uncoiling toils its greasy hide

about my love

and wrenches from good sense

the tensions of my emptiness

so fill it up, damn you

this undervalued caffeinated eke

mustering fresh desire

in the pyre of wasted time

give it rooooom;  give. it. room.

I have endless volumes to fulfill


Above the hum

we scribblers

prey on ancillary evocations

and aphoristic tropes

and meting out our eloquence

call it glossy pliability or “prose”

wretched, kitschy and maudlin

in cozy Feng Shui flow

our ruthless charity

of aesthetic without means

means no more, no less

than felled trees

and fallen ideals

and cramming like-mindedness

between the bulging spines

an author’s braying

will kiss the hairy ass

of priestly conformance

we know, and it’s okay

because we’re fitting in

(that deafening of soul’s chaotic din)

or maybe opening a mystic door

for some oppressed illiterate

to view the world askew

once more


Above the hum

jerky hands sort savagely

my indecisive rant

petulant and childish

that I can’t can’t can’t

and the ugly silliness

of poetry

and the bowels of years

ground down to brown ink

spread inexorably across these shelves

time after time

I try dipping in

but can’t contain the swilling mediocrity

is everyone a writer, then?

is solipsistic rambling

a right?

too critical, I wilt and grunt

the green wad

drowning in the sad, tired cunt

of capitalism

give me liberty, or what?

not this, by God

flag me down or waive me on

                                    far, far above the hum.


Piecemeal Loss


Door closes


‘nother one gone

Hapless bamboo rake

scratch scratch

amid scattered, reaching pages

what my heart takes, aches

and the words pile up

“Baby, you left the closet door open!”

old luggage

angry, hungry luggage

from waaaay back


‘nother one gone

Rings, rings on my true love’s hand...

oops, already got one

round and round we go

eye + want + word = own

same sad sappy song

‘nother one gone

Sweet charity

why do you smell like summer to me?

why hot kisses like warning beacons

carving the meat of me?

eat of me!

salvation, salve-hate-shun

Maybe I’ll leave the thriftless

shifting of desire

in the evening’s gentle choir

who goes to bed early nowadays?

‘Nother one gone, oh.