Here then, now, still I see the reds,
russets and golds that once piqued Keats
to pen a tribute, from this bed
the colors flame up and repeat
the annual autumn's protest
towards summer's unfailing retreat.
I see the rising and falling
much like those in the Lake District,
And imagine Keats once walking
there and my own regal prospect
here and think us timeless beings
with our visions now intersect'd.
Beauty swells and undulates so-
a mottled colored weaving of
local vegetation that grows
and covers the mountain as though
expression of a blushing love-
All the landscape is overflowed
with Autumn's singular trove.
Asheville, NC
October 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Birthright
Such beauty produces such
a pleasurable lethargy in me.
Perhaps it is the schism
between the time I have
and the eons yet to be.
Everything in the natural world
testifies to the long history
of everything.
The natural world is every
person's birthright.
Too often squandered or
too cheaply sold.
We must break from
all the crucifying dogmas.
Every child should know the
Milky Way.
The land belongs to no one-
but is the inheritance of everyone.
I know I must leave here-
May this beauty continue
to sustain my soul.
October 2010
a pleasurable lethargy in me.
Perhaps it is the schism
between the time I have
and the eons yet to be.
Everything in the natural world
testifies to the long history
of everything.
The natural world is every
person's birthright.
Too often squandered or
too cheaply sold.
We must break from
all the crucifying dogmas.
Every child should know the
Milky Way.
The land belongs to no one-
but is the inheritance of everyone.
I know I must leave here-
May this beauty continue
to sustain my soul.
October 2010
Poem
Free me.
Pull me into forever
and always
in every direction.
Stretch me taut as the sky.
I want to peek
behind all of this
that is seen.
October 2010
Pull me into forever
and always
in every direction.
Stretch me taut as the sky.
I want to peek
behind all of this
that is seen.
October 2010
Mabel's View
What Mabel wrote is true
the land is so real that
people do seem trivial and false.
The light is everywhere--
great swaths of it over everything
but where the clouds create
shadows on the mountains.
The land rises and falls
and is dotted with junipers.
Today there is wind
and the large magpies
glide effortlessly on the currents.
Their large shadows move
across the grasses then in the room,
up the bed and then are gone.
It is marvelous to watch them soar.
My spirit sails with them.
Yes, people seem so trivial and false.
October 2010
the land is so real that
people do seem trivial and false.
The light is everywhere--
great swaths of it over everything
but where the clouds create
shadows on the mountains.
The land rises and falls
and is dotted with junipers.
Today there is wind
and the large magpies
glide effortlessly on the currents.
Their large shadows move
across the grasses then in the room,
up the bed and then are gone.
It is marvelous to watch them soar.
My spirit sails with them.
Yes, people seem so trivial and false.
October 2010
Wabi Sabi
At first the Rolls Royce
seems out of place here
particularly when in stark contrast
with the Pueblo village
of Galisteo we are touring.
But after a visit to his studio
where you see the lucid paintings
and the lush photographs
then you rightly understand
That the person who sees
and creates such beauty
deserves all the jaunts
in the Silver Cloud he wants.
For Forrest Moses
October 2010
seems out of place here
particularly when in stark contrast
with the Pueblo village
of Galisteo we are touring.
But after a visit to his studio
where you see the lucid paintings
and the lush photographs
then you rightly understand
That the person who sees
and creates such beauty
deserves all the jaunts
in the Silver Cloud he wants.
For Forrest Moses
October 2010
Taint Removal
You could imagine the natural
beauty still there underneath
all the layers of taint.
Taint removal is not such
an involved and complicated process
as he had anticipated-
Needed first was a place of Beauty
where the soul could be expansive
and remember the beginning.
Second was a great Stillness
where you could hear
your soul's secret language.
Miraculously the layers of taint
peel away, slowly and completely-
until That what always Is
is brilliantly seen and the
song of the Universe is heard
And the diamond underneath the
hard crust of Myth and Culture
appears.
October, 2010
beauty still there underneath
all the layers of taint.
Taint removal is not such
an involved and complicated process
as he had anticipated-
Needed first was a place of Beauty
where the soul could be expansive
and remember the beginning.
Second was a great Stillness
where you could hear
your soul's secret language.
Miraculously the layers of taint
peel away, slowly and completely-
until That what always Is
is brilliantly seen and the
song of the Universe is heard
And the diamond underneath the
hard crust of Myth and Culture
appears.
October, 2010
Cerillos
Here the eye is overwhelmed
by all there is to see,
something between the
vista and the light,
the rise and fall of the land
the sparse lushness of the vegetation-
Between the hummingbird
and the blue pinon jay-
the jack rabbits and the coyotes-
my soul responds harmoniously
with the connectivity of everything.
The fly traversing my thumb
and the spider in the ceiling's corner,
the rocks and bone beneath my feet-
streaking meteors--the Milky Way
And then the awareness of
all of the unseen, yet sensed.
Here, I am with everything.
October 2010
by all there is to see,
something between the
vista and the light,
the rise and fall of the land
the sparse lushness of the vegetation-
Between the hummingbird
and the blue pinon jay-
the jack rabbits and the coyotes-
my soul responds harmoniously
with the connectivity of everything.
The fly traversing my thumb
and the spider in the ceiling's corner,
the rocks and bone beneath my feet-
streaking meteors--the Milky Way
And then the awareness of
all of the unseen, yet sensed.
Here, I am with everything.
October 2010
Always
Always-
there is the emerging
and the vanishing
with the overlapping
occurring continuously.
Always-
there has been something
and so much is ephemera
and we the brief witnesses
grasp and can not hold.
Always-
the conundrums
the paradoxes
the enigmas
and the prayers.
Always-
the sate of wonder
the state of bafflement
the state of profundity
act of love.
October 7, 2010
there is the emerging
and the vanishing
with the overlapping
occurring continuously.
Always-
there has been something
and so much is ephemera
and we the brief witnesses
grasp and can not hold.
Always-
the conundrums
the paradoxes
the enigmas
and the prayers.
Always-
the sate of wonder
the state of bafflement
the state of profundity
act of love.
October 7, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
A Beattitude
Bless those who persecute in the name of righteousness
and understand the nature of their blindness,
a fearful striking out in the dark,
loneliness panicking.
And fill with compassion
those chambers of your heart
that first with anger would overflow
and overwhelm,
overcome
with love
and if be,
be struck down
tall and proud
full of God.
April 1991
and understand the nature of their blindness,
a fearful striking out in the dark,
loneliness panicking.
And fill with compassion
those chambers of your heart
that first with anger would overflow
and overwhelm,
overcome
with love
and if be,
be struck down
tall and proud
full of God.
April 1991
Queer Death
I dream of a day
when "they" are the minority
and most people
unreserved accept
our inalienable right to love.
A queer,
beaten to death
April first.
nineteen ninety-one.
No joke--
by four young thugs
full of fear
and ignorance.
May all rest in peace.
April 1991
when "they" are the minority
and most people
unreserved accept
our inalienable right to love.
A queer,
beaten to death
April first.
nineteen ninety-one.
No joke--
by four young thugs
full of fear
and ignorance.
May all rest in peace.
April 1991
In Cadiz
In Cadiz
we walked the street
that the guide book
called homosexual,
but only saw
dim lit rooms
with makeshift curtains
over doors
pulled back
revealing
fat whores
splayed.
Vulvae
that shocked us
and made me
think of my birth,
bloody and viscous,
and sailors
emptying into them,
the whores
and how
possessive I was
with your cock.
Mine.
All in all
disappointing
that dark forage,
until later
when we sat
on the wall
of the old battlement
and watched
the two young men
swimming naked.
A gift--
from our gods.
Moorish domed
thick turrets,
even with you
or especially,
I was Querelled
and itched
compulsively
with mad dog foaming
and hungrily
checked out
all the
mysteries.
You went for a drink
and I went upstairs
to the top floor.
A singular bed,
small window.
Moonlight
stretched
across my
naked body.
Releasing,
I ached
for you.
In the morning
you departed
for a medieval village
and I reclaimed
my being
and later
under Orion
hunted the street
the guide book
called homosexual,
Unfulfilled,
Anxious.
August 1987
we walked the street
that the guide book
called homosexual,
but only saw
dim lit rooms
with makeshift curtains
over doors
pulled back
revealing
fat whores
splayed.
Vulvae
that shocked us
and made me
think of my birth,
bloody and viscous,
and sailors
emptying into them,
the whores
and how
possessive I was
with your cock.
Mine.
All in all
disappointing
that dark forage,
until later
when we sat
on the wall
of the old battlement
and watched
the two young men
swimming naked.
A gift--
from our gods.
Moorish domed
thick turrets,
even with you
or especially,
I was Querelled
and itched
compulsively
with mad dog foaming
and hungrily
checked out
all the
mysteries.
You went for a drink
and I went upstairs
to the top floor.
A singular bed,
small window.
Moonlight
stretched
across my
naked body.
Releasing,
I ached
for you.
In the morning
you departed
for a medieval village
and I reclaimed
my being
and later
under Orion
hunted the street
the guide book
called homosexual,
Unfulfilled,
Anxious.
August 1987
The Fortunate
Blake's glad day older.
Is it in greater time's nature?
Recall the zest full youth
But do not praise him overmuch
else marvelous that may yet present
and eclipse glory's zenith
so that the grandest vision is enfeebled
our loudest "ah" multiplied.
This maturer appearance
seems made of less splendor
seems a less radiant shimmer,
But how solid and reliable, powerful
forces forged this figment,
this idiot's tale full of sound and fury
makes sense only to the experiencer
and so we stop reaching out
of ambition and quietly resolve
that all is as it should be
and the youthful frenetic motion
has now found full command in stillness.
More still, yet,
the wise old man hears in the silence
Creation's' triumph.
Nature applauds as he dying, smiles.
Thursday before Good Friday 1995
Is it in greater time's nature?
Recall the zest full youth
But do not praise him overmuch
else marvelous that may yet present
and eclipse glory's zenith
so that the grandest vision is enfeebled
our loudest "ah" multiplied.
This maturer appearance
seems made of less splendor
seems a less radiant shimmer,
But how solid and reliable, powerful
forces forged this figment,
this idiot's tale full of sound and fury
makes sense only to the experiencer
and so we stop reaching out
of ambition and quietly resolve
that all is as it should be
and the youthful frenetic motion
has now found full command in stillness.
More still, yet,
the wise old man hears in the silence
Creation's' triumph.
Nature applauds as he dying, smiles.
Thursday before Good Friday 1995
Faith
To want otherwise, deems the scheme flawed
and is intolerant, presumptuous pride's
(un) entertaining ignorance of the soul
that sighs and sings, "Succumb! Surrender!"
Faint unflinching energy pulsates at the
edge, while atoms jump exuberant,
sub-atomic dancers out mambos
matter, the least little bit before nothing
beyond the imagination is
out of bounds, out of the blue, out in left field
ever, in the something out of nothing or
always something mystery maker
and if intolerant, presumptuous pride,
otherwise wants the scheme's flaw and deems
the singing, sighing soul be silent
Then who hears, "Succumb! Surrender!" but
the pure, patient heart undeterred by
Eternity's modern memory design.
April 2000
and is intolerant, presumptuous pride's
(un) entertaining ignorance of the soul
that sighs and sings, "Succumb! Surrender!"
Faint unflinching energy pulsates at the
edge, while atoms jump exuberant,
sub-atomic dancers out mambos
matter, the least little bit before nothing
beyond the imagination is
out of bounds, out of the blue, out in left field
ever, in the something out of nothing or
always something mystery maker
and if intolerant, presumptuous pride,
otherwise wants the scheme's flaw and deems
the singing, sighing soul be silent
Then who hears, "Succumb! Surrender!" but
the pure, patient heart undeterred by
Eternity's modern memory design.
April 2000
PARSIFAL
i.
Before the lid was closed
I looked in and saw the child in repose.
Protecting him I held my tongue
And watched as they stood with their
Backs to the casket--one was doing laundry,
The other, in uniform, looked
about him for any criminal activity.
"Murder, Murder! Murder most foul,"
in my heart's chamber echoed,
Muffled by my urgency
And my Friar Lawrence habit.
I put the boy in the sepulcher
And burned candles,
Held secret vigils,
strewed the floor with sweet smelling flowers.
The one changed her hair color-
The other accepted promotions.
I forgot also.
Except in my dreams,
Except in my drinks,
Except in my drugs,
I forgot also.
ii.
Oh the men and boys I have gamboled with!
Not sweetly innocent on clover fields,
But darkly separate anywhere we could.
Hopefully out of sight,
Out of light,
Hopelessly married in the night.
"Are you my father?"
"Are you my son?"
"Is it possible that somehow we are one?"
The unasked questions behind the introductions-
"Is that his real name?"
"Is he really seeking love?"
The hastily unzipped pants,
The ravenous feedings,
Priapic vampires
Each others only mirror.
Recognized, acknowledged, tasted, spitted out or swallowed,
heated reciprocity,
Stone-cold giving, kneeling in the dark, kneeling in the dark, bleeding in my heart
Stake less, eternal pain. There are many roads to the wastelands. Many positions.
In the shrub shrouded privacy of public domain we perform our sacraments, primitive,
Fearful, make me hurt, numb this pain, quickly rezipped, a bow, and all the demons in
My head drive me tormented away, "I am unlovable."
iii.
Sisyphus lies down,
"Not again," his soul whispers.
I am tired, bruised and scarred.
I have been the width, breath, height
And find no egress.
It is dark.
There is music.
I am tired, bruised and scarred.
If I lie down to sleep
The Harpies descend.
I eat only to feel empty.
iv.
Beneath this castle,
Beneath this walled fortress
Is a sepulcher.
All the seeming world is crying out,
"Parsifal! Parsifal!"
The enchantment ironically ends the magic.
Klingsor, my brother,
Dark ruler of my impotence.
Beneath this castle,
Beneath this walled fortress
Is a sepulcher.
All the seeming world is crying out,
"Parsifal! Parsifal!"
Gurnemanz lives at Grand street
(not grandiosity place)
and patiently,
lovingly teaches Parsifal.
Gurnemanz tells him of the sepulcher.
The unasked question remains so.
The man in the uniform dies at Christmas.
Without crucifixion there is no resurrection,
the neurotic only fools himself.
The woman doing laundry rests, breathes
New April showers sweet that pierce to the
Root the drought of March.
Timely,
Synchronicity.
The male mantle falls upon the shoulders of the unbowed Parsifal."
"Conjure, Klingsor!" challenges the Grail knight,
Recalling in a vision wonder--
Breaks the depriving spell
And Klingsor defeats.
v.
Beneath this castle,
Beneath this walled fortress
is a sepulcher.
I have strewed sweet smelling flowers,
Enter the Grail knight.
He moves to the casket.
I have burned candles.
Compassion infusing his being
He turns to me.
I have kept secret vigils.
"Is the child sleeping?"
vi.
Oh resplendent moment!
Transfiguring question!
"Yes!" I joyously cry.
I take the sleeping child
And give him to the champion.
New vigor surges through the land.
The flesh knows its own glory.
The soul its finest peace.
The man in uniform spirit
Makes strong the sinews of the knight.
The woman who has rested, gardens.
Kllingsor hates himself no more.
I have stopped the bleeding.
Parsifal coos to the child.
Oh resplendent moment.
Most wondrous integration.
There is light
And there is music.
vii.
The days of Lohengrin,
The golden knight.
The son of Parsifal.
"Are you my father?"
"Are you my son?"
"Is it possible somehow we are one?"
Yes.
Comes my swan.
Comes my unicorn.
Comes the magic.
Come the singing mermaids.
The days of Lohengrin.
January 1993
Before the lid was closed
I looked in and saw the child in repose.
Protecting him I held my tongue
And watched as they stood with their
Backs to the casket--one was doing laundry,
The other, in uniform, looked
about him for any criminal activity.
"Murder, Murder! Murder most foul,"
in my heart's chamber echoed,
Muffled by my urgency
And my Friar Lawrence habit.
I put the boy in the sepulcher
And burned candles,
Held secret vigils,
strewed the floor with sweet smelling flowers.
The one changed her hair color-
The other accepted promotions.
I forgot also.
Except in my dreams,
Except in my drinks,
Except in my drugs,
I forgot also.
ii.
Oh the men and boys I have gamboled with!
Not sweetly innocent on clover fields,
But darkly separate anywhere we could.
Hopefully out of sight,
Out of light,
Hopelessly married in the night.
"Are you my father?"
"Are you my son?"
"Is it possible that somehow we are one?"
The unasked questions behind the introductions-
"Is that his real name?"
"Is he really seeking love?"
The hastily unzipped pants,
The ravenous feedings,
Priapic vampires
Each others only mirror.
Recognized, acknowledged, tasted, spitted out or swallowed,
heated reciprocity,
Stone-cold giving, kneeling in the dark, kneeling in the dark, bleeding in my heart
Stake less, eternal pain. There are many roads to the wastelands. Many positions.
In the shrub shrouded privacy of public domain we perform our sacraments, primitive,
Fearful, make me hurt, numb this pain, quickly rezipped, a bow, and all the demons in
My head drive me tormented away, "I am unlovable."
iii.
Sisyphus lies down,
"Not again," his soul whispers.
I am tired, bruised and scarred.
I have been the width, breath, height
And find no egress.
It is dark.
There is music.
I am tired, bruised and scarred.
If I lie down to sleep
The Harpies descend.
I eat only to feel empty.
iv.
Beneath this castle,
Beneath this walled fortress
Is a sepulcher.
All the seeming world is crying out,
"Parsifal! Parsifal!"
The enchantment ironically ends the magic.
Klingsor, my brother,
Dark ruler of my impotence.
Beneath this castle,
Beneath this walled fortress
Is a sepulcher.
All the seeming world is crying out,
"Parsifal! Parsifal!"
Gurnemanz lives at Grand street
(not grandiosity place)
and patiently,
lovingly teaches Parsifal.
Gurnemanz tells him of the sepulcher.
The unasked question remains so.
The man in the uniform dies at Christmas.
Without crucifixion there is no resurrection,
the neurotic only fools himself.
The woman doing laundry rests, breathes
New April showers sweet that pierce to the
Root the drought of March.
Timely,
Synchronicity.
The male mantle falls upon the shoulders of the unbowed Parsifal."
"Conjure, Klingsor!" challenges the Grail knight,
Recalling in a vision wonder--
Breaks the depriving spell
And Klingsor defeats.
v.
Beneath this castle,
Beneath this walled fortress
is a sepulcher.
I have strewed sweet smelling flowers,
Enter the Grail knight.
He moves to the casket.
I have burned candles.
Compassion infusing his being
He turns to me.
I have kept secret vigils.
"Is the child sleeping?"
vi.
Oh resplendent moment!
Transfiguring question!
"Yes!" I joyously cry.
I take the sleeping child
And give him to the champion.
New vigor surges through the land.
The flesh knows its own glory.
The soul its finest peace.
The man in uniform spirit
Makes strong the sinews of the knight.
The woman who has rested, gardens.
Kllingsor hates himself no more.
I have stopped the bleeding.
Parsifal coos to the child.
Oh resplendent moment.
Most wondrous integration.
There is light
And there is music.
vii.
The days of Lohengrin,
The golden knight.
The son of Parsifal.
"Are you my father?"
"Are you my son?"
"Is it possible somehow we are one?"
Yes.
Comes my swan.
Comes my unicorn.
Comes the magic.
Come the singing mermaids.
The days of Lohengrin.
January 1993
Monday, December 6, 2010
Oberon's Anchor
In Faery it easy is
To be airborne overmuch,
Take Oberon, ruler of
the seldom seen magic realm.
Folk lore are his flights
on nights with moon boats
He sailed the cerulean sea
Seeking Love's fancy
And floating o'er the sea
He espied his own reflection,
But naught it proved to be
But another, of his perfection-
A troubadour of hopeful songs
That sought Love's fancy too
And gazing at the Elf King
He wooed his eyes of blue.
And knitting so a love knot
Tied one unto the other,
This Anchor secured for him
The tether of the Magicker.
With equal zeal they pulled until
The space between them was less
That in good measure by their will
Their lips met in a deep kiss
And ever since when told are tales
Of Oberon's high adventures
Always companioned is he now
By the Singer, his heart's new owner.
May 2010
To be airborne overmuch,
Take Oberon, ruler of
the seldom seen magic realm.
Folk lore are his flights
on nights with moon boats
He sailed the cerulean sea
Seeking Love's fancy
And floating o'er the sea
He espied his own reflection,
But naught it proved to be
But another, of his perfection-
A troubadour of hopeful songs
That sought Love's fancy too
And gazing at the Elf King
He wooed his eyes of blue.
And knitting so a love knot
Tied one unto the other,
This Anchor secured for him
The tether of the Magicker.
With equal zeal they pulled until
The space between them was less
That in good measure by their will
Their lips met in a deep kiss
And ever since when told are tales
Of Oberon's high adventures
Always companioned is he now
By the Singer, his heart's new owner.
May 2010
Gifts with Secrets
Today my heart enlarges
the compass of the Sky.
The irrational world is
a hale fellow well met,
even the murky fertile
Unconscious is gregarious
sharing gifts with
Secrets, like modest
kisses offered explanations.
Oh splendid word splendid is
for describing my mood,
How entire this transformation,
Magic best not questioned
or analyzed.
Submerged and rising in an
uninterrupted moment,
a caramel dipped ice cream
cone handed to me by
My newest friend.
Introductions permitted but
depths unfathomable,
So no essay is brokered-
What is not needed
is not required.
Conquistador
And why not?
Discoverer, teacher, participant
In my soaring heart
Where the refrain of
My Song of Myself
now is accompanied by
Tolling bells and new light
flashes celebratory joy.
So many gifts-
Gifts to be re-gifted
As is the way
The Masters said
for the generous open
Heart, most especially
the Gifts with Secrets.
What can I say about
These gifts with secrets?
Only all that is revealed
By the promise kept,
All of all, in time.
January 7, 2010
the compass of the Sky.
The irrational world is
a hale fellow well met,
even the murky fertile
Unconscious is gregarious
sharing gifts with
Secrets, like modest
kisses offered explanations.
Oh splendid word splendid is
for describing my mood,
How entire this transformation,
Magic best not questioned
or analyzed.
Submerged and rising in an
uninterrupted moment,
a caramel dipped ice cream
cone handed to me by
My newest friend.
Introductions permitted but
depths unfathomable,
So no essay is brokered-
What is not needed
is not required.
Conquistador
And why not?
Discoverer, teacher, participant
In my soaring heart
Where the refrain of
My Song of Myself
now is accompanied by
Tolling bells and new light
flashes celebratory joy.
So many gifts-
Gifts to be re-gifted
As is the way
The Masters said
for the generous open
Heart, most especially
the Gifts with Secrets.
What can I say about
These gifts with secrets?
Only all that is revealed
By the promise kept,
All of all, in time.
January 7, 2010
The Salvage
The highest aim of the human heart
is digraced by culture's constrictions.
Cramped, choked, swallowed whole
by the indulgers in conspicuous consuption,
exposed of the obscene, obtuse, obssessives
who unleash more lessons than learn,
pilfer from their own storehouse
until poor in spirit,
Rail against the cruelty of life,
condemn themselves to dire deprivation,
banished, bankrupt, wrecked
barren bounty.
The native hungry hearken
to emulate the madness,
multiplying insult against
cashiered compassion's gllimmer.
Their ceiling is the floor
of the examined
human heart owner-
amply nourished
Universebartering
with soul revenue
of accrued wisdom-
Love's generosity,
solvent of all
Spitritual debt-
Saved.
is digraced by culture's constrictions.
Cramped, choked, swallowed whole
by the indulgers in conspicuous consuption,
exposed of the obscene, obtuse, obssessives
who unleash more lessons than learn,
pilfer from their own storehouse
until poor in spirit,
Rail against the cruelty of life,
condemn themselves to dire deprivation,
banished, bankrupt, wrecked
barren bounty.
The native hungry hearken
to emulate the madness,
multiplying insult against
cashiered compassion's gllimmer.
Their ceiling is the floor
of the examined
human heart owner-
amply nourished
Universebartering
with soul revenue
of accrued wisdom-
Love's generosity,
solvent of all
Spitritual debt-
Saved.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Solitude
I sit alone in my car waiting
for my mother to be finished
in the dentist's office,
a few moments of
a very rare solitude,
captured at odd moments,
frequently a solitude in crowds-
grocery shopping is a zen meditation-
particularly standing in check-out lines.
It was last night I realized
how little alone time was mine.
Journeys in the car, daily, a moment to be seized.
And yet yesterday you called
from a rough surf beach, alone,
and wondered why we weren't on the beach more often.
I don't know.
Please come and get me.
But what do you tell
the other man with you,
not on the beach,
but in the store buying shells
for his creative output,
his shell art?
What do you tell
the other man who is me?
Why aren't we on the beach more often?
I don't know-
Why do I so often feel stranded
in cars,
in grocery lines,
the week-ends he is back in town
and the two of you go shopping
for shells,
he in a store,
you on a beach, alone,
calling me wanting to know
why aren't we on the beach more often?
I don't know.
Please come get me.
March 2010
for my mother to be finished
in the dentist's office,
a few moments of
a very rare solitude,
captured at odd moments,
frequently a solitude in crowds-
grocery shopping is a zen meditation-
particularly standing in check-out lines.
It was last night I realized
how little alone time was mine.
Journeys in the car, daily, a moment to be seized.
And yet yesterday you called
from a rough surf beach, alone,
and wondered why we weren't on the beach more often.
I don't know.
Please come and get me.
But what do you tell
the other man with you,
not on the beach,
but in the store buying shells
for his creative output,
his shell art?
What do you tell
the other man who is me?
Why aren't we on the beach more often?
I don't know-
Why do I so often feel stranded
in cars,
in grocery lines,
the week-ends he is back in town
and the two of you go shopping
for shells,
he in a store,
you on a beach, alone,
calling me wanting to know
why aren't we on the beach more often?
I don't know.
Please come get me.
March 2010
Mercy Angel
He came to me with broken wings
looking for love and a healing.
I stripped his cares and underwear
So much of him was appealing.
And my senses were filled with love-
I felt his wings jagged edges,
This naked, lovely, earth bound dove
injured by unfulfilled pledges.
I wondered could I keep my word
and leave his embrace with honor.
His whispers asked me not to go-
I wanted to stay forever.
When he enveloped me and touched
my own wings in need of repair,
I showered with tears, healing much,
soaking his chest of dark, thick hair.
I closed my eyes and wished us whole
and heard him as he prayed the same.
His nakedness begged me to hold
him close, with joy were we inflamed.
He came to me with broken wings
looking for love and a healing.
Together now we fly and sing
the power of love's redeeming.
May 2010
looking for love and a healing.
I stripped his cares and underwear
So much of him was appealing.
And my senses were filled with love-
I felt his wings jagged edges,
This naked, lovely, earth bound dove
injured by unfulfilled pledges.
I wondered could I keep my word
and leave his embrace with honor.
His whispers asked me not to go-
I wanted to stay forever.
When he enveloped me and touched
my own wings in need of repair,
I showered with tears, healing much,
soaking his chest of dark, thick hair.
I closed my eyes and wished us whole
and heard him as he prayed the same.
His nakedness begged me to hold
him close, with joy were we inflamed.
He came to me with broken wings
looking for love and a healing.
Together now we fly and sing
the power of love's redeeming.
May 2010
Sad and Lonely
The woman who sweeps and
mops my mother's hospital room
floor is very sad.
So sad, she perhaps does not know
how audibly she sighs.
And why is she so sad?
I can not ask her,
As a rule, you don't ask strangers
why they are so sad.
Is she lonely?
Sad and lonely?
Or am I projecting feelings
I do not want to acknowledge
as I sit in my mother's hospital room?
But I am neither sad nor lonely.
Not since you came into my life.
But that is romantic nonsense,
isn't it?
As an existentialist I know
all of us are alone.
But I imagine my dying now
and your company
keeping me from feeling
Sad or lonely.
But if I am alone?
If I am the one
who kept you company instead-
Will I be sad and lonely
or eager to be reunited?
I indulge in romantic nonsense-
You more than anyone
know that about me.
Still,
the mopping woman of audible sighs
seems sad and lonely.
mops my mother's hospital room
floor is very sad.
So sad, she perhaps does not know
how audibly she sighs.
And why is she so sad?
I can not ask her,
As a rule, you don't ask strangers
why they are so sad.
Is she lonely?
Sad and lonely?
Or am I projecting feelings
I do not want to acknowledge
as I sit in my mother's hospital room?
But I am neither sad nor lonely.
Not since you came into my life.
But that is romantic nonsense,
isn't it?
As an existentialist I know
all of us are alone.
But I imagine my dying now
and your company
keeping me from feeling
Sad or lonely.
But if I am alone?
If I am the one
who kept you company instead-
Will I be sad and lonely
or eager to be reunited?
I indulge in romantic nonsense-
You more than anyone
know that about me.
Still,
the mopping woman of audible sighs
seems sad and lonely.
Discharge
We are waiting for the
physician to come and sign
off on discharging my mother
from the hospital.
Two days ago another
doctor drained an egg size
aneurysm that had ballooned
in a vein that fed blood
to her liver.
The square of blue sky
Out the window is obscured
by a large, brown
electrical box.
You can see the top of some pine trees distant.
It is a room with a view-
just not a great view.
Two days ago,
when you came with me
for one of several visits
You had commented on
The view,
So today as I look
out the window,
I think of you
and this improves the view
immensely.
There are people who will
have a discharge of another kind-
Not to home,
Well, to a larger home, perhaps.
My mother will be discharged
from this hospital to her home.
She will walk out of here.
The other ones, discharged
from their bodies,
They will fly from here.
All of us fly eventually-
Home? I hope.
February 2010
physician to come and sign
off on discharging my mother
from the hospital.
Two days ago another
doctor drained an egg size
aneurysm that had ballooned
in a vein that fed blood
to her liver.
The square of blue sky
Out the window is obscured
by a large, brown
electrical box.
You can see the top of some pine trees distant.
It is a room with a view-
just not a great view.
Two days ago,
when you came with me
for one of several visits
You had commented on
The view,
So today as I look
out the window,
I think of you
and this improves the view
immensely.
There are people who will
have a discharge of another kind-
Not to home,
Well, to a larger home, perhaps.
My mother will be discharged
from this hospital to her home.
She will walk out of here.
The other ones, discharged
from their bodies,
They will fly from here.
All of us fly eventually-
Home? I hope.
February 2010
More Love
I have been writing poetry all morning,
Or I have been putting order to words
and some construct of thought
little rhyme, some reason.
The rhythm of my speech, a cadence
slightly loftier than usual.
Is it Poetry?
I say yes,
but can hear others
say no.
My mother sits up in bed
to catch her breath-
And I debate whether
I am a Poet or not.
I know all things die,
I do not know if death is final.
My father died.
My brother died.
My mother will die-
I know all things die
But I do not know
If death is final, an
end all where all ends.
At any moment there could be a code blue
and it will be announced
via an intercom
so everyone here will hear.
It will serve to remind us
that all things die-
But not everyone will listen.
I imagine I listen
as the Poet.
This puts some distance
between the mother
who sits up to get her breath
and the mother who will
no longer move.
But Poetry?
Who can say?
I know that another half-moon,
not exactly the same position-
But another half-moon will
rise in the sky,
Similar to the one that rose on
the night I first lay my hand on you
to feel your heart beating-
I know because last night
We stood outside and looked
at the moon as we spoke on our cell phones.
I remember this, sitting in my
mother's hospital room
and all is made bearable,
All is made bearable
by us being together-
Two Poets are better than none.
We know all things die-
So we talked about the moon
On the phone for more love, more light.
February 21, 2010
Or I have been putting order to words
and some construct of thought
little rhyme, some reason.
The rhythm of my speech, a cadence
slightly loftier than usual.
Is it Poetry?
I say yes,
but can hear others
say no.
My mother sits up in bed
to catch her breath-
And I debate whether
I am a Poet or not.
I know all things die,
I do not know if death is final.
My father died.
My brother died.
My mother will die-
I know all things die
But I do not know
If death is final, an
end all where all ends.
At any moment there could be a code blue
and it will be announced
via an intercom
so everyone here will hear.
It will serve to remind us
that all things die-
But not everyone will listen.
I imagine I listen
as the Poet.
This puts some distance
between the mother
who sits up to get her breath
and the mother who will
no longer move.
But Poetry?
Who can say?
I know that another half-moon,
not exactly the same position-
But another half-moon will
rise in the sky,
Similar to the one that rose on
the night I first lay my hand on you
to feel your heart beating-
I know because last night
We stood outside and looked
at the moon as we spoke on our cell phones.
I remember this, sitting in my
mother's hospital room
and all is made bearable,
All is made bearable
by us being together-
Two Poets are better than none.
We know all things die-
So we talked about the moon
On the phone for more love, more light.
February 21, 2010
For J
When you came into my world
I knew your face
like my own in a mirror,
so familiar and yet
so strange.
When we embraced
I knew my arms
were meant to hold you.
I don't know what
we can do about the
People with cardboard
signs on the street corner
Usually at the on and off ramps
of an Expressway.
When we meet their eyes
what do they think of us?
Is Haiti fully recovered?
What star supernovaed last night?
When you shyly offered your kiss
was it wrong of me
to take it
and value it
Above everything else?
Should I have refused
the kiss, my joy
until none were hungry?
And yet,
More with you than anyone
am I certain that if we
can do anything
for the people with the cardboard signs
and for people hungry everywhere-
Now having met, embraced and
Kissed,
If we can do anything
more than ever
We will.
February 2010
I knew your face
like my own in a mirror,
so familiar and yet
so strange.
When we embraced
I knew my arms
were meant to hold you.
I don't know what
we can do about the
People with cardboard
signs on the street corner
Usually at the on and off ramps
of an Expressway.
When we meet their eyes
what do they think of us?
Is Haiti fully recovered?
What star supernovaed last night?
When you shyly offered your kiss
was it wrong of me
to take it
and value it
Above everything else?
Should I have refused
the kiss, my joy
until none were hungry?
And yet,
More with you than anyone
am I certain that if we
can do anything
for the people with the cardboard signs
and for people hungry everywhere-
Now having met, embraced and
Kissed,
If we can do anything
more than ever
We will.
February 2010
For Christopher Isherwood
With all due respect
I am not a camera
And I am certain
in time your Guru
made you see this.
In time we are caught
and we are the photographer.
We know the tree
in the camera is
part of a forest.
Even more,
I am aware of the
Photographer being
on a planet,
in a galaxy.
I even sense
the Photographer
outside of time.
Yes, the complex
in the mirror
Still holds
the child I am always
And the corpse
I become.
With my eyes closed
Time is gone.
Yet I am here
in an inner space
that mirrors
the outer space
with the planet
and the galaxy.
The Universe
runs through me
Like Blake's etchings
All is an organic whole
And I and the All
are never separate
Even while,
or more so-
As I press
and take
a picture
of a tree.
February 2010
I am not a camera
And I am certain
in time your Guru
made you see this.
In time we are caught
and we are the photographer.
We know the tree
in the camera is
part of a forest.
Even more,
I am aware of the
Photographer being
on a planet,
in a galaxy.
I even sense
the Photographer
outside of time.
Yes, the complex
in the mirror
Still holds
the child I am always
And the corpse
I become.
With my eyes closed
Time is gone.
Yet I am here
in an inner space
that mirrors
the outer space
with the planet
and the galaxy.
The Universe
runs through me
Like Blake's etchings
All is an organic whole
And I and the All
are never separate
Even while,
or more so-
As I press
and take
a picture
of a tree.
February 2010
A Crayola Sunrise
A Crayola Box sunrise
and I am up to witness
and be dazzled.
Where are you?
you whom I also
witness and am
dazzled by.
The Aeon Clouds
heralded the light.
It was cold on my
bare feet.
How your warm breath
and kisses
are missed.
I know the glint
in your eyes
as you take
my foot
in your hand.
I know how
my own sex
reveals
how much
your love
fills me.
St. Valentine-
Be Mine.
My lover
Take all my kisses.
I give them
freely to you-
all for you.
A Crayola box sunrise
and I am up
as witness
and dazzled.
February 14, 2010
and I am up to witness
and be dazzled.
Where are you?
you whom I also
witness and am
dazzled by.
The Aeon Clouds
heralded the light.
It was cold on my
bare feet.
How your warm breath
and kisses
are missed.
I know the glint
in your eyes
as you take
my foot
in your hand.
I know how
my own sex
reveals
how much
your love
fills me.
St. Valentine-
Be Mine.
My lover
Take all my kisses.
I give them
freely to you-
all for you.
A Crayola box sunrise
and I am up
as witness
and dazzled.
February 14, 2010
Afternoon with a Satyr
The room is dark with diffuse winter light
and filled with cold air.
The craving for heat, like violin music, a shivering
vibrato, the frantic rubbing of bow and string
is felt in the core.
The satyr is better
suited for the icy chill, his fur covered
cloven feet are some protection.
Yet his half man bared flesh, his chest,
Patterned charmingly, with soft curly hair that narrows
into a line and directs the eye to his sex
bending out of a thick bloom.
The tremble of trepidation can easily be
mistaken as the craving for heat.
Danger as much as libidinous excitement floods the body
and the held breath of fear is too similar to the pants of lust.
Both are read in the satyr's eyes, divinely demonic, intent and fixated on you.
You don't know what to do with your hands
and yet imagine them doing so many things.
But is this you or has the satyr's stare entranced you
and these images more his want than your need?
You want to sit, but wait for the satyr's move.
You want this to be his dance,
You are prepared, but not rehearsed.
But he is in no hurry and converses freely about love
songs of medieval troubadours.
And after all, is not it
a bit oxymoronic, a civilized satyr?
But it is as much
for the conversation that you come
than the Dionysian abandon when you come.
You open your eyes as the flying
exclamation points punctuates your chest
and just a maddeningly
the entire of Eliot's Prufrock,
another song, another troubadour,
rushes like a tsunami of what is and will not be.
The painting of the Satyr
is in your line of vision in the room dark with diffuse
winter light and filled with cold air.
The trembling trepidation and
the craving for heat id too close.
All of the experience is felt to
keep away the pain you will not feel.
January 5, 2010
o
and filled with cold air.
The craving for heat, like violin music, a shivering
vibrato, the frantic rubbing of bow and string
is felt in the core.
The satyr is better
suited for the icy chill, his fur covered
cloven feet are some protection.
Yet his half man bared flesh, his chest,
Patterned charmingly, with soft curly hair that narrows
into a line and directs the eye to his sex
bending out of a thick bloom.
The tremble of trepidation can easily be
mistaken as the craving for heat.
Danger as much as libidinous excitement floods the body
and the held breath of fear is too similar to the pants of lust.
Both are read in the satyr's eyes, divinely demonic, intent and fixated on you.
You don't know what to do with your hands
and yet imagine them doing so many things.
But is this you or has the satyr's stare entranced you
and these images more his want than your need?
You want to sit, but wait for the satyr's move.
You want this to be his dance,
You are prepared, but not rehearsed.
But he is in no hurry and converses freely about love
songs of medieval troubadours.
And after all, is not it
a bit oxymoronic, a civilized satyr?
But it is as much
for the conversation that you come
than the Dionysian abandon when you come.
You open your eyes as the flying
exclamation points punctuates your chest
and just a maddeningly
the entire of Eliot's Prufrock,
another song, another troubadour,
rushes like a tsunami of what is and will not be.
The painting of the Satyr
is in your line of vision in the room dark with diffuse
winter light and filled with cold air.
The trembling trepidation and
the craving for heat id too close.
All of the experience is felt to
keep away the pain you will not feel.
January 5, 2010
o
Thursday, August 19, 2010
The Years
Awakening from a slumber,
over and over again-
When did I doze off?
And if I thought myself awake then,
what now?
Is it more dreaming
from which I will
awaken soon?
I know I was awake!
And you were there,
and you, and you-
but now when
I look at the photographs,
I no longer recognize
me or you.
But you woke me up,
didn't you?
Wasn't it you
who laughed and shook me
entreating me to wake up?
Did we fall back to sleep together?
Did you go
to the deepest sleep ever?
I don't know
when I will find you gain.
Do we find one another again?
The years-
the months, days, hours, minutes, seconds,
Time,
never enough-
goes too slowly
the waiting and hurrying,
the years-
for what?
Someone else is waking me up,
he is laughing as he shakes me
entreating me to wake up.
I must stay alert,
pay attention this time.
How unobtrusively slumber
can come upon us.
How can you fall asleep
during the movie?
I didn't know I had.
What did I miss?
Someone else is waking me up?
How can this be?
When did I fall asleep?
The years-
The months, days, minutes, seconds,
Time,
never enough,
goes too quickly
the waiting and hurrying,
the years-
for what?
Oh the love!
Now I remember,
the beauty-
the dawn,
star-filled nights
the wild wind,
scudding clouds across
the face of the brilliant full moon-
such beauty!
yes, yes, yes
the song of the birds,
the smell of jasmine,
the warmth of the Gulf-
Your kiss,
You
who have awakened me again-
the love.
The years-
the months, days, minutes, seconds,
Time,
for beauty,
for love.
I must stay alert,
pay attention this time.
And you, and you,
and you,
Awake?
over and over again-
When did I doze off?
And if I thought myself awake then,
what now?
Is it more dreaming
from which I will
awaken soon?
I know I was awake!
And you were there,
and you, and you-
but now when
I look at the photographs,
I no longer recognize
me or you.
But you woke me up,
didn't you?
Wasn't it you
who laughed and shook me
entreating me to wake up?
Did we fall back to sleep together?
Did you go
to the deepest sleep ever?
I don't know
when I will find you gain.
Do we find one another again?
The years-
the months, days, hours, minutes, seconds,
Time,
never enough-
goes too slowly
the waiting and hurrying,
the years-
for what?
Someone else is waking me up,
he is laughing as he shakes me
entreating me to wake up.
I must stay alert,
pay attention this time.
How unobtrusively slumber
can come upon us.
How can you fall asleep
during the movie?
I didn't know I had.
What did I miss?
Someone else is waking me up?
How can this be?
When did I fall asleep?
The years-
The months, days, minutes, seconds,
Time,
never enough,
goes too quickly
the waiting and hurrying,
the years-
for what?
Oh the love!
Now I remember,
the beauty-
the dawn,
star-filled nights
the wild wind,
scudding clouds across
the face of the brilliant full moon-
such beauty!
yes, yes, yes
the song of the birds,
the smell of jasmine,
the warmth of the Gulf-
Your kiss,
You
who have awakened me again-
the love.
The years-
the months, days, minutes, seconds,
Time,
for beauty,
for love.
I must stay alert,
pay attention this time.
And you, and you,
and you,
Awake?
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Once again into the breach
The body, using its sense date, becomes more aware of itself and more fully alive as it constantly creates and then perceives its life. The freer and more extensive our physical expression, the more leeway we allow our mental and emotional life. The more the body is used and enjoyed, the greater the responsiveness and its sense of being-in-life and within-the-world, and the greater the feedback and stimuli for further physical and mental expression.
I don’t believe that we become more spiritual by denying the flesh, or that we can expand our consciousness by not using the kind of consciousness we have, hoping that if we close our eyes to this world we’ll see another world more clearly. Instead, we must begin by learning to use the great flexibility available to us—a consciousness that we can turn in many directions while still keeping our earth focus clear and brilliant. Exploring our creaturehood and all its abilities may teach us some basic truths about the really valid mystical elements of nature that we seem to have forgotten.
For reasons beyond the scope of this book, our religions have emphasized repression, restriction, and penance rather than benediction, expression, celebration, or love. They have generally failed to help us love “God,” but have taught us to distrust ourselves and our physical existence instead. They have consistently taught us to deride our creaturehood; and nearly all religions, Western and Eastern alike, have shown a suspicious willingness to surrender the conscious self—the focus personality—either to a bland heaven or Nirvanic blessed imbecility.
Seth maintains that this tendency has to do with the development of our consciousness more than anything else. Sometimes we find the freedom of conscious decision and contemplation too much, and yearn “back” toward what we imagine to be unconscious bliss.
If God is individualized in us, then it’s precisely that God-given-identity, that God-knowing-Itself-as-us, that we want to throw off. Even in our terms we’re a combination of conscious and unconscious activity. Are our cells blissful? Why do we seem to think that self-consciousness can’t contain the experience of bliss, while it seems to have no trouble feeling the greatest kinds of horror?
No wonder so many of the poor saints were nearly insane, forced as they were in their system of beliefs to interpret their revelations through such a dark mirror. Attain godliness by mutilating or denying the body—that miraculous manifestation of spirit made flesh in the world of time and seas ns? Self-surrender? Far better, surrender to the self and the joyful development of its abilities.
The focus personality is whatever godhead there is, individualized in earth life. Perhaps we’ll find a god that we don’t have to crucify, and a concept of selfhood that doesn’t see perfection as dependent upon its own annihilation. But neither of these abilities can occur until we trust our own nature and no longer find our individuality a burden. When we let ourselves be ourselves, we may discover that when we think we are sacrificing ourselves, we actually have nothing to give. Even a god would suspect a gift so desperately offered.
And to what great acts and heroism have such ideas led us?—to fanatically held concepts of Good for which we have gladly killed; to dogmas that are based on the premise that we are damned by reason of our creaturehood, by the very fact that we are alive. Many of our greatest crimes are committed when we think we are most in the right, yet seldom do we question our ideas of right and wrong.
When we think we’re wrong, at lest we often stop to consider; we’re hesitant and sometimes even humble. Yet when we’re self-righteous and feel ourselves justified, we often become cruel and unthinking. Certainly we’ve run rampant across the planet with little respect for it or other kinds of life, because we’ve believed we were given a mandate from God to use the earth as we see fit.
Yet, often we trust nature but not ourselves. As I type this, for example, the shadows are lengthening. It occurs to me that this happens with no help from me. Last week my cat, Willy, sustained a bad wound; the injury healed itself easily, in the same secret way that the evening comes and goes or the light changes and the shadows lengthen. I took it for granted that the cat would heal himself. And most of us trust the seasons in their coming and going. Why do we find it so hard to trust ourselves in the same way?
I stew and fret, and sometimes it seems I never give myself a moment’s rest; yet I know that my breathing in and breathing out is as natural as the tide’s rhythm and that life is breathed in and out of me all the time, without my knowing. I know that my existence is as inevitable and right as my cat’s, and that all of us ride on the great given breath that sustains us. I know that my personal life rides on the same sure order, my life opening up to a particular time and place in the same way that a leaf opens. Surely the leaves trust the trees, Willy certainly trusts himself; his every motion is bathed in the knowledge of the rightness of his being.
If a cat trusts the universe, why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t you? The cat trusts his catness—his leaping and his chasing of birds, his appetites and desires. And these qualities of catness add to the universe, and I bet those characteristics are reflected through it in a million unknown ways—as they are in our world, with the panther and kitten and my specific housecat.
So why don’t we trust our peoplehood? Or, more to the point, why don’t we trust our specific personhood as it’s reflected through our unique individualities? Why can’t we trust that in nature’s greater order, all of our The cat in killing birds does no wrong, but fulfills himself and in so doing helps nature regulate itself.
I’m certainly not trying to justify murder, but most of us have the idea that, left alone, our natural feelings are somehow wrong, and that left alone we’ll ruin everything for ourselves, privately and en masse; that all nature is right but us; and that we’re the one blight on nature, the mistake that still survives.
Yet some part of me insists on my right to that same grace; to sleep and waken with the animal’s supreme innocent trust. And my cat, Willy, incidentally, doesn’t have to pray, “My Father who art in Heaven.” He doesn’t have to imagine a cat god or do sacrifice or homage.
I can’t begin to explain our atrocities or our cruelty to one another, yet I can’t see why nature would be right—in every other respect showing order and rightness—and be wrong when our race emerged. Are we an experiment gone askew, to be destroyed, its parts disassembled or loaned out to others, distributed safely, defused, to a thousand other species? Are we never to happen in the same way again?
Everything in me shouts out against such condemnation.
Then why do we condemn ourselves? And how can we look at our history and not condemn ourselves? I don’t know. But as I sit appreciating the deep sensual integrity of this particular moment, I know that the kind of creature who can have such perceptions can’t be something to condemn. Right now I thrill to the shape of my hand on the white paper, the shadow of my pen and arm on the card table, the mountains of light and shadow piled on the white walls. And no creature with that kind of appreciation can be bad. Maybe the universe needed to appreciate it. Maybe we are nature’s mirror.
From Jane Roberts Adventures in Consciousness 1975 p.192-195
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)