AGADIR

Here.
Where the earth twenty years earlier
swallowed fifteen thousand lives,
she said she could feel the ghosts
late at night on the beach.

They sat huddled together for warmth.

He thought the space had been
impressed for them-
stamped through catastrophe.

Only the most serious listener could hear.

In the morning it would be
the same story in another voice,
a gray tone, rich and immutable,
the sorrowful surf genuflecting under a shroud sky.

The oceans are nature's timepieces.

Here.
the measured history is a wailful remembrance.
Not so much for those who survived,
but to the ocean that felt itself
rearranged with jarring jolts,
deep rumbling screams as it
tore through its design.

Here.
Where the earth had
swallowed fifteen thousand lives,
it is the ocean that whispers
with memory and regret
the warning-
"This too will change."

Only the most serious listener could hear.

Disaster had stopped this steady rhythm.
The rhythm had resumed
and a wiser, more experienced ocean speaks.

Each day the sun strips
away the gray shroud,
each night the ghosts appear,
each morning mourns.

MANIFESTO

Should my spirit soar with singing and careless express itself
or rather to be measured and counted out so as to example good meter?
I had better use of my time than to work slavishly at Precision's bidding
and trust more fully my own heart's praising.
Let me, as Spring, seemingly overnight erupt fully present
And not to men's criticism fear so that eked out cautiously I reveal myself.
Glorious sun I take as my model!
Whose own light heralds it brilliant self.
Outside my window a bird's chorus teaches me nature's love of spontaneity,
and to seek less the good favor of men than my own perfect self in God.

GRACE

Through our unconscious we
even more alive and vital
to a greater working out of
Providence.
Be gentle to your conscious self,
It is most flailing
at the rim of the light
Projected through the cosmic dark,
Grace is there always
in the deep down bottom of your heart.
Your greatest fears
And grandest dreams
Kiss there.
Be there, revealed
And the light of the world
Is your reward
And gift.

Decemebr 7, 1991

Emergence

Genetic disruptions,
the discharge of madness-
Unforeseen anomalies.
Photographic evidence
of Bikini atoll
atomic blast-
The young men
protected by
sunglasses,
later ravaged
by decimating
cancer-
The crown of the head
of an Iraqi neonate,
deformed by
depleted uranium
tipped ammunition.
Ignorance and awareness,
Cosmic gestalts-
the bent of the mind,
the tyranny of consciousness
horrors from the id.
My future faced propulsion
into a collapsing Universe.
And the realm of Faery?
Love's redemptive power?
My responsibility
in Everything-
Always yes, Yes, YES
in louder
more desperate
screaming.
The circle around
the Yin/Yang.
The human race
to oblivion
or transformation.
Each of our part
in Everything-
Stay focused
on the highest possible
Vibration
as Assassins
follow orders.
Bleed throughs
from other
Realities-
the eddies,
the Whirlpool,
being sucked down
into a wormhole
to Atlantis.
Sisyphus's rock
while I roll
the dice.
Rolling the dice
The chances,
the changes
Mitosis/Meiosis
Overwhelmed,
Under examined.
The relentless march,
the Joyful Journey
And us,
each of us-
Everyday
casting our lot,
deciding our Fate
the Cumulus Nimbus
of Being.

Sawgrass Lake

When we were boys

we would play capture the flag there,

Or go climbing up the vines

that made a net up and over the trees.

The cow spiders lived there and

every so often you would

confront a web before your face,

with a large spider in the center,

Suddenly you were pumping adrenaline

and your heart was racing.

When we were boys

Sawgrass Lake was forbidden territory

(all the really fun places were,)

but most afternoon we were there.

Although I had my solitary times-

I’d walk to the lake on paths

covered with fallen rust colored pine needles.

Occasionally I’d be startled and terrified

by one of the large black hissers

essing its way across my path.

It was a personal archeological excavation.

The path ended in a protected clearing

where there was a discarded mattress,

several empty beer bottles -

and used condoms.

Relics of primal behavior,

My imagination would be piqued-

And sometimes I would make a detour on the way home

to a place I knew under the vine covered trees.

I can still see the mottled light

that filtered through the vines and leaves,

making a natural cathedral of the spot,

a place sacred and holy.

where I would kneel

and leave something of myself,

A sacrifice to the Mystery

that had inflamed my soul.

Years later when I returned home on a visit,

I discovered the county

had preserved Sawgrass Lake,

turned it into an environmental park.

I like to think my earlier pilgrimages there,

and my personal consecration of the earth

had something to do with this.

I still go there,

now that I have returned home,

and remember those times.

Sometimes I can hear our shouts

and see us scampering

through the jungle,

savages on the hunt.

Now there is a wooden boardwalk

that takes you to a lookout tower

so you can view the lake.

No mattresses,

empty beer bottles,

or used condums

That I can see.

It was really a tract of undeveloped land

Between two residential neighborhoods,

Meadowlawn and Fairview Estates,

Names more apt

before the construction

of hundreds of uniform

pastel colored,

Sparklecrete homes

with television antennaes

Like crucifixes,

attached to the side.

I thought,

when the interstate was built

it was doomed,

But only further tamed,

Civilization’s progress

concession to all

it had destroyed.

A last of prehistoric Florida,

A concentration camp

For the native wildlife

And for me

still sacred and

Like most holy sites-

Miraculous and horrifying.

You Here Now

You here now,
the one I feared would never come-
do not be shy.

Yes, our youthful beauty
was not ours to share,
But my embrace is no less full.
The seasoned selves we offer
have exquisite gifts
our younger versions had
only as potential.
The bud is lovely,
but nothing pleases more
than the full blossomed rose.
The beauty of that rose
is still in the wisdom
of the rose whose
first petals wilt and fall.
I see you look at the petals
on the table top
and know how well
you comprenend their meaning.

Needless are comparisons
to other times and selves,
All are here.
The sweet, subtle scent of each
are breathed in every smell I take of you.
All of them make
appearances still in your face.
The body I run my hands up and down
has the power to inflame me
with my most expansive desire.
All of the world I hold
when you I fold in my arms.

You here now,
the one I feared would never come-
Do not be shy.

January 9, 2011

Trove

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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