SO MANY PLACES

I've been to so many places
 seen the look on myriad faces,
purple mountain majesties
and plains so long--spreading in expanse.
I've been so far
and yet, not nearly far enough.

I've been so far away in so many places,
   places of the mind grounded in saintly reality.
I've studied the countenance
of thousands of worried weathered faces,
   faces placing souls in misty sad eyed regality.

The distance from here to there is measured
   not in leagues or legs,
the journey is framed in tears and sighs,
   from near to far,
the cost remains the sum of parts
    the cost remains
the harm to all,
the life and breath of breaking hearts.
 
 
 
 
 

ACTOR'S CRAFT

How sad,
   to learn one's part--
a dramatic role in an unknown tongue,
mouthing words without meanings,
memorizing and reciting sounds,
moving about a stage of other's set and sense,
  following marks and  taped arrows,
   stepping to the cue of a leering director.
How sad,
   accepting the applause--
knowing it to be meaningless and misapplied
    and worse,
smiling and bowing and calling it life. 
 
 
 
 
 

ANYONE’S DRUMMERS

So high and so far removed,
   iconoclastic meanderings in fields of tall grass,
running and hiding while standing in public squares--
      in plain sight
and in sunlit dark shadows.

So far removed and yet so high,
   marching to anyone’s drummers across barren fields,
  through verdant forests,
across wastelands
and Edens,
marching to perdition and salvation--
   not knowing one from the other
but celebrating the length and breadth of both
 and each.

Shams and recalcitrant shames abide and abound,
   choices left for the choosing loom large and succulent,
berries for the picking,
fruit on the vine indistinguishable from distances and directions.

These are the schemes and slight-of-hand maneuvers
that set sailors to climbing masts--
    these are the tenets of tested and untested faith
that send soldiers marching
   and poets crying,
these are the wails in the night and the battle cries
    ---the laments and sobs---
such are the rattles in the chests of the dying.

What’s real,
  what is not?
What’s tomorrow’s pleasurable pain,
   when does everything melt together with nothing,
   what is it for which the pained cry,
what’s not real and what is so invisible that it casts shadows?
 
 
 
 
 

AT LEAST TO LIVE
   A Study Of Lesser Positions
 
 

Clowns bound and proud,
souls eloping with drunken sailor spirits,
this is the way the world fends,
    survival but a metaphor
for being alive in a gutter
when haughty grinning eyed sports
parade by in limousines and stately coaches.

God knows his even as his are led to define their god
and translate his word into stone.

Breathe hard to take in the gutter,
still alive--
breathing by the created advice of this captain and lord

It would be a stupid generation
 that didn’t learn
not to question this dispensation’s creations
  and credits
or even its imaginations. 
 Lesser beings and other sacred debtors
will have other worlds and times to rule
   and doubt
and somehow live.

Lesser beings of more confused and questioning gods--
   gods not so sure of power and power’s flowering might
  --these are the stuff of patriotic fiber and fabric,
   from here grow the ties that truly bind.
 
 
 
 
 

ASCENDED MASTER

He doesn't really say this or that reality is true,
   he might call it fascinating or even intriguing
but he doesn't say more than anything or everything is possible
(listen closely)
all he merely says:
     here it is,
believe it if it meets you
   go on without it if it doesn't

the messenger was never the enemy
    the messenger was never the message.
 
 
 
 
 

A BRIEF GLIMPSE OF THE FAITH

Knowing nothing of forever or forever's follies
  and failed promises,
the pilgrim walked in wonder--
    twenty and thirty and forty years upon his head
and more,
 so much more--tales beyond wonder or remorse
     such were the paths and pains of the pilgrim's pride
Bits and pieces of wisdom and suffering
   ---suffering fools and welcoming little children---
such are the boundaries and byways of hope and folly
Of these are the kingdom
     to these are laughingly given the keys
Colors of the day remind us of forever
   forever leers of forgotten stances and paltry plans
All that glitters taunts of forgotten shores
       Darkness teases of another path
forlorn and forgotten trails
longevity is swallowed by brevity
and the pilgrim walks in sorrow tinged with satisfaction
   --of course it could have played out no differently
the sham wasn't of shame or anything close
All things end as they begin
   it's nature's law born of nature's deity
ashes to ashes and dust swallowed in dusk
The pilgrim walks in wonder and explores the night
so many seasons behind life's remorse
     Less proficient gods would've expected no more
and honored only pains and pale excuses.
 
 
 
 
 

COUNTING COUP

Scored triumphs of the first order,
     medal of honor stuff had the generals been aware,
laughing, crying, wailing,
    pleas into night skies--
  I knew of desperate and despairing
even when sunshine shown on plain and participle.
  This is it for when nothing said nothing better
    or different,
this is for when nothing meant hallowed walls
and cathedrals
   --now is the time
for all good men to come to the aid...
   of castles and chattel,
now is the time for breathless pursuit
   and calmness reminiscent of fading embers
in dying hearts and fires,.

Aye and amen,
how far north is North
   ---and how far into night and night’s gods
is enough?

These are the days and consummate plays,
of Jesus this and Moses that,
   The Buddha speaks,
Muhammad cries 
and a dozen Hindu deities plead.

A world of that and this disorder,
    medals and parades directed by those unaware,
     gales disrespected as mere winds,
This is the way--
   by whispers shouted above the din,
this is the way worlds sway and bend,
this is the way lives come to an end.
 
 
 
 
 

COUNTING COUP
       ...LATER THAT SAME SEASON OF DESPAIR

      A Most Suspect Interpretation,
       A Most Honest Effort
         A Fact Cast Among Strangers
           A Plea To Friendly Ears

“When in the course...”
it was then and there that they sold us the dreams
and slipped between the lines
their schemes
and warped misled plans.

As to the popular ethos,
from here to there I’ve done that
and experienced these and those--
I’ve marked and measured path and plat.

Searching will reveal nothing.

Should you brag about threatening me and mine
with last ditch throes of dire and doom
and memories pasted on walls and occasioned tombs,
   remember the admonition:
 it’s of rhyme and reason the preacher shouts
     ---in measured meter---
it’s life drowning in not so subtle doubts--
   (These are the replies and cries,
of pilgrims)
weeping,
of judgment and fear--
absurd theater of fear--
a lament of worlds forevermore in a wonder born in the bizarre.
  The last gasp is the first,
      but in the vineyard,
what is first
and what is last?
 
 
 
 
 

THAT YOU MAY DANCE IN EACH OTHER'S LIGHT
 

You see them trying on this style
   and that pattern of discernment.

It’s life and the working out of one’s own salvation--
    you’re entitled to your portion of confusion,
though you’ve dealt in like negotiations
        (those were your times and seasons)
    and in the deepest of allusions
you thus know of illusions and Summer cloud formations.

Life it is,
    and all we’re about is up for the saving.
      You see them day to day--
the big picture isn’t your privilege
(forget what you deserve, that wasn’t what was dealt)
the biggest of all pictures is being worked out before your eyes
and in precious places in your heart.

All is good ‘cause all is well intended.
No savior
   --nor any prophet or seer--
could have dreamed it or schemed it,
any other way.

The wheel turns
and the big mysteries
   --those things of the prophet’s delight--
are reserved for those who’ve earned the right
of dancing in the light .
 
 
 
 
 

FOR A FRIEND

Sweet brown eyes,
the storms we've weathered--
seasons that made war with our souls,
the clowns and kings that thought they owned us
and the times we tried to own each other,
  but it's blood shared that's forever
and sometimes forever is just enough.
Sweet brown eyes,
       the burdens placed upon us,
and those we placed upon ourselves,
the miles traveled and far places seen
and the nightmares that won't go away,
  these and so much more
--our schemes and dreams--
but most of all our love,
this is all there is
and all there is will surely be enough.
 
 
 
 
 

FOR THE FINDING

Liberty was the catchword that shook loose the dreams
  the church and state laid forth their schemes,
it was of moderate proposals 
  and intemperate promises
--things that waylaid prophets and pilgrims
and weighed so heavily on open highways,
    on free spirited waves and winds,
safe parody was allowed to be the disguise 
   or the precursor
of the critique of the emperor’s fine raiment.

The traveler’s soul cries out in pain
   lament being the ground of such being
the pain of travails of some souls standing
  being thus but a lament of such grounded few.

Freedom winds were the catch phrases that begat the schemes
   the open road oozed forth the dreams,
it was of promises and kings
   --today as the salvation of tomorrow--
today at least as the puzzle’s precise explanation.

The wayfarer’s heart shouts of the gain
  exaltation being of the clouds of seeing
the glory and story of some hearts sure landing
being but the product of smiles and a mountain view.
 
 
 
 
 
 

JUST PASSING THROUGH

Been living on the edge so long it’s begun to feel just like home.
   And always and ever there have been the forces
       ---things imposed from without and from within---
starving thoughts and raging feelings
things of the spirit born and the spirit killed.

Sometimes I forget
and that serves me just fine,
but nothing changes save the relentless flight
of the irreplaceable.

Had my sanity questioned today 
    --no offense taken, I’ve done it myself.
Been times, when through closed eyes I’ve seen music playin’,
seen the rhythms and felt the colors flashing,
   stood I did in wonder at dark tides rising.
Truth be known,
it’s for these times I long,
  and why,
I sometimes waste the days and curse the nights.

And for all that and all this, I get high--
singing laments of what is and what might have been.
With a notebook by my bed I breathe songs of the road--
                  knowing beyond knowledge,
I’ll do my time right where I am.

Had to take the long way--
   worked it out by shortcuts and quick steps--
made it fair and fast...made it so none saw it coming.

Journies though,
never  see an end when the biggest enemies are the ones
you’ve allowed to be inside your head.

Starlit nights are no allies--
   there’s a penalty for living and dreaming
   for daring to think--
  that’s the bullet you loosed not knowing about
self inflicted wounds and no places left to hide.

Homeward bound is a lonely trip.
Home to where you fit...where you belong,
so simple except,
when home is a place you’ve never been.
 
 
 
 
 

LIGHT SHOW
 

A man sought meaning and called out to God
to reveal himself for all time.
Hearing and seeing no answer,
he lowered his head to cry
     --the lament of all ages--
the quiet despair by which worlds end.
 It was then that he felt the sun’s warmth
and a refreshing breeze.
Looking up, he saw his child before him.
And man’s great search
   --the journey of all ages--
found refuge in a smile.
 
 
 
 
 

OUR MASTER'S VOICES

I knew the ending before I wrote even the first word,
    "instructed in the ways of creation"  said the smug inherited--
  "beaten down"  said the experienced.
The experienced were sentenced to Saturday night battles of absurd drunkenness--
   the higher classes were rewarded with a sensibility that said all was well
          when all was right.

I knew the ending even as I questioned the beginning,
  --the rest was calmly called the penalty phase,
  the smug said it was justice,
the privileged merely smiled
and said it was Tuesday or Friday, or Spring.

The secret was veiled in the skill of writing contracts--
   tightly bound in legal strings
and moral cords,
     --these things were to be enforced by gods
  and their consorts.

Of course I could foretell the ending,
  a child or a fool  could have sensed it looming,
   --captains and kings had tidal  charts,
and they’d long since staked seasonal higher acreage
--their’s was the burden and calling to say what was right and what was well. 
 
 
 
 
 

TO IMAGINE MAYBE
        (Alchemy As A God  Of Abandon)
 

My people were the Gypsies
  ah, my apologies if the word is a slight,
we were of a Saturday night culture,
      fly free--drink to the dregs--
we were just passing through
   and we were prone to falling for this and that scheme,
  Gypsies?
Well maybe just fellow travelers,
   willing dupes and co-conspirators,
innocent bystanders
--maybe just of a Friday night culture.

Life indeed was a strange cacophony of creeds and shouts,
   my people?
yea
maybe Gypsies and maybe not,
maybe just hopeful hopeless,
    maybe all’s well that finishes well,

Maybe all’s well
on May’s day
and tomorrow’s days and night.

My people?
    Maybe just this season’s product
Maybe this is all you get--
     all you can expect or dream,
maybe this is all there is or all there can be.

Imagine this (and that),
   imagine the wonder of one’s heart filled,
or at least one’s heart contented,
        or satisfied.
 
 
 
 
 

NEW RULES

There was this confusion
  when the nuns and appointed pundits
transferred the rules and the limits to us,
somehow the voids in the fabric
     and the tears in the sermon’s proud wail
came across as significant
     or at least of moral accusation.
This was no doubt an error of prophetic statement--
   a precursor,
of some sender’s system error.

How could our god-childs have known
    of the working out of such spirit’s plays,
    how could one plus one
have been three
or any other result
unless periodic tables and  rules divine,
   were less than markers and true maps
  of players and perpetrators of some perverse scheme or deal?

Is order then the origin of confusion?
Is confusion thus legitimate?

Is confusion the god we sought,
  or is confusion
merely what we discovered when we sought the divine? 
 
 
 
 
 

PERIOD PIECE

Do you want to win or do you want to be right?
All too well I know the defense,
   the predecessors strained for the barest of comforts,
  security,
paid in pained and sweated blood dedication,
   a discipline as it were,
a discipline for which all be charged,
    and yet,
it’s now a comfort  praised by  security upon the alter.
Do your time
   --years at a false helm--
imparting a departing dying wisdom
and then disappear.
Who has won and who has lost?
Who was wrong and who was right?

A lot of us can name more’n hundreds of places,
yeah, got the king’s best education,
but you must know as surely as all must not tell
that the folks in those places live lives of utter despair
   --and the facts of those indictments don’t care
where or when they fall.

Do you want to be winning or be right?
Curse the iconoclast as you must
   --damn fool ought to be happy--
livin’ the years and days entrenched in some great meaning,
 something transcendent and geared to glory,
     lost in familiar love ‘neath tall spires,
damned fool  could be dancin’ as supposed
to the dedication of flags and military marches,
   or some monetary predilection transcending borders.

Do you want to see it through everyone’s tinted glasses?
Bathe in what the sisters and brothers 
   --and their kind--
have had and held?
It’s there for the taking,
the sane and predictable trinkets and treasures.
But then of Colonial India,
  or colonial anywhere,
look and see barren lands looking like the moons of distant planets.
Study your charms in the reflections in sunken eyes.
Do you want to win or be right?
 
 
 
 
 

JESUS AND JOSEPH'S JOURNEY

Caught between The Wallowa and Canada,
so many byways and highways,
so long a path of sanguine thought laden flight,
Karmic doubt against steppe and plain,
  lunging in fear,
 headlong toward peaks and canyons, 
heart sick and heart strong--
    here it is and surely there it goes,
this is pawned for that
and to the victors belong the rules.

Caught and trapped,
    waylaid,
on the road and off the road,
somewhere 'tween here and  god's holy smile,
   a place staked out just this side of insanity,
  mountains in the view enough to be outta reach,
mountains now the laugh of despots.

Caught now in mid-dream,
    trudging amid practiced schemes,
trapped now,
in holy rolling tumbling  streams,
   lost and limping
in the rushing path of high country early rains.

Caught between spirits and reality,
  so many ways and troubled means,
here it was and there it faded,
most is lost in hopeless flight,
all is gone in the path of night.
 
 
 
 
 
 

ON THE SMILE OF SAINTS

Laughing Allegra,
she of the eyes saddened by the terms and times,
   life's blood spent in the mills and mines defining this season's minds,
laughing Allegra, because it plays easier than tears--
she comes to me with tales and treasures of this time,
    and next time, and those times only imagined and dreamed,
and how paths need to be cut through forests again primeval.
Laughing lips and saddened eyes,
  though they are Alpha and Omega of the same alphabet,
    the same code,
these are the ways and whys giving birth to any season's reality,
    these are the templates of life overcoming despair.

Laughing Allegra smiles in timeless fashion,
   looks that'd launch honest ships,
these are the eyes that require batons being passed,
she comes to me in wisdom and the beauty of hard earned truth,
serious lips and dancing eyes,
she comes to me like Spring welcomed morn, 
like Summer 's comforted breath,
laughing Allegra,
a spirit making life by just one wondrous step at a time.
 
 
 
 
 

TAXONOMY

Owl hurryin' home
   almost dawn
gray flight against a rapidly reddening sky
   red sky in morning...
Owl 
hurryin'
wings silently flapping through chilling air
scurryin' now, no time to soar
evil wind brewin'.
Gray growing dangerous
  in a black 'n' white world
where hiding in the green and brown
ain't now anyways an option.
 The glass grows tinted--
showin' everything bathed
in red and white and blue.
And the vine's a gift
   but not an escape--
vines tangle and trip
and form nooses,
besides,
either way and any other way
the horizons are gathering,
   and narrowing.
Owl
hurryin' home
against a warning sky.
 
 
 
 
 

THIS CLOSENESS
     --The Joys Of Beholding--

It’s been a journey,
  steps and stumbles,
this foot delegated to follow that step
    and still the strides in the snow show such a contempt
or at least a confusion.

This is how it had to be
   --this is how the world passes in summer breezes and
                      spring hopes.
 Of course it cries of bewilderment and intermittent chaos,
      of things making noises and fears in the night--
  had it been some other way the path would have been clear,
         well marked,
and easily trod and followed,
    easy as early morning
easy as easy does
    and comforts.

It’s been of the heart--this journey--
   easy never,
yet heart felt.
This is the way of beholding.
Love it is
   love it is never to be questioned  or limited.
Love it is--
       a grace that knows no bounds or preconceived limits,
winds and rains,
all this flowing into all that,
it of course has been of the heart,
  for the heart,
and about the heart.

Closeness,
   the joy of beholding,
this is of forever
    this is of the why and wherefore,
this is of forever,
this is of our piece of the existence
this which permeates and survives all that  satisfies as good,
        this...our contact with reality,
 our joy that transcends reason and rite.
 
 
 
 
 

OF TIMELESS THINGS

I've wanted to see and shout
from mountaintop and plains below,
the view from heights and to heights
is but a painful pleasing time capsule of eternity.
The sum of the parts 
is nothing more than the sound of breaking hearts.

It'll be this way in the flames of perdition,
   it'll flow and form like this,
it will roll and rock like this--
   of course one phrase begets another,
these things travel like that
   --these things sink or swim on such comparisons
and likelihoods of despondent glories.

This is how it will forever be--
    these pages are torn from journals,
  --bloody hands wrote and struggled for these seconds--
this is how icy stairs begat self directed triumphant minutes,
    this is for that
and those,
and for all things that fade in the heavenly embrace of midnight's hours.

I've been waiting too long,
   to shout and scream from mountaintop and rooftop
I was on a fool's journey when they organized the missions
   --I was seeking holy thoughts and sacred works--
Hell, I was striding  and strutting the walk of saintly steps,
   I was doing the work I'd begged them to promise.
 
 
 
 

THE WAY BACK INTO THE GROUND
     OF SPIRITUAL HEROISM

Hearing Heaven's songs as Nature's sound,
   so many sighs and so much beauty found.
Easy rhythms soaring
in cries of earthen windy rhyme.
The wealth of wonder no longer bound,
the glory of all stories freed in time.
Paths of peace 
  defined in the shade of trees,
life defined and death belittled.

The songs of all times,
rhymes of soaring rhythms,
stories gloried in times and wonders,
   nothing bound, nothing hidden--
peace and love in warm embrace,
life and death in paled disgrace. 
 
 
 
 
 

WIND AND RAIN

It was the wind that always tortured me,
  wild wind...calm wind,
it was the free wind that tormented me,
  North wind...West wind,
it was where the wind had been
                                  that bothered me,
   temperate wind, frigid wind,
it was where the wind was headed
                                  that burdened me.

And then there was the rain,
     and then,
all things were good and great,
         all things were as they should be.
The wind and the rain,
   yeah and amen.