MINIATURE BROWN SAILS DYING

There is no mistaking the North Wind,
breathless fear comes sweeping,
icy blasts transform as if by a magic...
a magic done without mirrors or rules,
epitaphs being the only things worthy to be fixed in stone.
Mild mocking autumn winds know this,
dressed in summer skins they lull us to false serenity.
Victims thus ripe for conquest,
the biting winds come cutting and slashing,
tearing as they will through our lives.
Black birds huddle and mass in warning,
wings moving late the sound of retreat.
Miniature dying sails turn brown and fall out of control,
leaving only us and our innocence exposed
as icy fingers find every loose seem and buttonhole

SLEEP COME ROUGHLY

Now comes the night
slowly,
surely,
calmness draws the first hint
...sharp rays have been dulled for a time,
fierce winds subside as if to rest.
Nighttime comes stealin'
nighttime--death time
fear time--
the dark kingdom,
a world of unknown fears and themes
...haunted delusions of well respected realities.
Now comes the night slippin' into its realm
slowly.
Natives retreat to brick huts
wooden huts
thatched huts
safe places once.
The night belongs to the night,
The kingdom seeks its own.
Night calls and night answers
but none now know the sorcerer's words
those sounds and utterances that would have sway...
for now come stealin'
comes the night.

BOX CANYONS

Gently and softly it comes 
in grinning mimicry of the way worlds end, 
    sadly, 
the travail inherent in knowing too much, 
of knowing the big secret 
and having to play it out anyway. 

The wind whispers of sadness 
and the foggy cozy comfort of being alone... 
even lonely. 
The realization comes too late 
of forbidden thoughts and knowing too much, 
of box canyons of the mind 
and the lost co-dependent affairs of the soul. 
And the pain wearies so soon 
from fighting the wind with fists... 
being driven to pound a drum 
in a season of outlawed sound, 
owning a candle...
knowing full well its brevity 
in a world where darkness reigns... 
from saying yes 
when to have said no meant sanity 
and survival, 
knowing all is well because all is wrong, 
desperately knowing 
about tales and rumors 
of being free and setting free, 
of torn sails and heavy anchors...
and more desperately 
knowing the cold sweat terror 
of waking to your own screams, 
heart pounding, 
haunted by Stygian images with come hither leers, 
and most desperately knowing the folly 
of putting pen on paper 
and drifting somewhere else inside your head, 
escaping only briefly 
before the reality of life’s blood lost returns 
bringing thoughts of love and peace 
and how much we long for them, 
how they tease us with brief glimpses 
and how easily they elude us... 
a world beyond our comic opera propitiations, 
unreachable, 
when we know enough to be desperate, 
when we feel too much, 
when the unattainable leads us to know enough 
to be dangerous...
victims now of self inflicted wounds 
born of forced secrets willingly loved and lost, 
dying pilgrims on the road to oblivion, 
lamenting the tragic finality of worlds without end 
and an end without worlds. 

VISIBILITY
AN OLD SWEET SONG

A walled fortress fog
gray and unyielding,
a soul dead, world dying view
...no hope on the surface...
a let’s build from the ashes kind of morning.
Mixed emotions might be claimed
indeed,
cold and damp to the essence
wafting in the promise of sunshine,
alive and free another day,
once more at the noble pursuit
--little victories in the mind--
for times like these.
The survivor has all he needs
no more, no less.
Wild night creatures will return
to call in the night,
nothing’s changed of that terror
for those living consciously
--condemned and cursed--
on the living terror edge of lies.
The hope then,
and only then,
is the morning light will come last.





 

ICE PALACE

The world in winter,
waiting,
doing its season of silence.
Cold winds at night,
whistling in pines
and warning
that winters aren’t to be measured
in terms of ice and snow,
instead,
the scale is made
of slowly lengthened days--
of occasional teasing warm spells--
these are the hints that illuminate.
Winters are measured the more
by Autumn’s contentment
and the splendor of
spring’s promise.
Winter’s palette,
brown and gray
and frozen white,
these are happy colors--
the hues and tones of tomorrow’s glory,
these are the colors of hope.
Gray and brown,
earth’s winter crown.
Crystalline snow and frozen white,
earth’s ermine robe.
And the cleansing cold winds are not bitter,
they are the songs and hymns of futures,
the French horns announcing
the wondrous news--the miracle
of a world about to be born again.

FOR ALL SEASONS
...PEOPLE OF THE REALITY

The difficulty lies in squarin’ truth
with the reality of longevity--
striations roaming across sunset’s sky
one more day in the life,
mountains stacked like cord wood
against some heavenly attrition.
Pray Hallelujah
the news from the front is of God:
only a few from our side
while multitudes from the other,
were slaughtered today.
And how much darkness defines deadly truth...
how many smartly folded flags equal success?
Of course peasants are peasants precisely because
(those who direct the accounting assure us,
that our father’s God knows this)
these lesser ones,
they cannot multiply one half billion by one million;
besides,
their children also have this potential for limited vision.

Surely and consistently,
there is no such thing as free exercise of incredulity
...it’s forbidden, like inquiry into existence...
it’s myth making,
disguised as debates over free lunches
and necessary evils.

The jurors form a circle and are polled,
those on the night watch are assigned tasks
and watched closely--
night sounds are believed the voices
of misguided adventures,
(silence does have a roar...
staccato beats, driving rhythms)
though closely watched
all affectations are to be feared and measured.
Borders too, are a key,
it’s a well organized insanity
full circle again
and again,
as the day watch sees that paradise found
is paradise lost.

THE OLD NORTHWEST TERRITORY

--The Profound Meekness Of Prophets

Inspiration drawn from night skies
an’ stormy skies
---lightning slashes---
fear of god flashing---
signals of experience the grim teacher
--souls in half bent terror--
the preacher screams there are no safe places
now or ever again--
from here it’s an eternity from everywhere equidistant
it’s sharing time
making love
yea, it’s making love when life and death
say making war or making hate
says more for forever.

See now,
how life without death is death now delayed
or mistaken.

Autumn breath skips a beat
Spring melts,
a Summer solstice field of sad eyed hurrying travelers
so exquisite is the pain
so welcome--
a crescent moon promise fulfilled--
and will there be more moons of any stripe or dimension?

Now can your prophet smile?

CLOWNS AND KINGS
(How Subtle Differences Matter)

The ultimate reality is not a matter
left well to choice
better--
it is a decision of timing and style.
The swashbuckling tenor booms his operatic voice
--bold assertion--
but he leaves the stage by the taped marks
of the sad eyed clown
Who then decides the issues
of morality and nobility?
Who is thinking,
who prays truthfully for direction,
who is alive?

BELIEVER’S TRUTH

Climbing far above the tree line
forbidden territory for any but declared saints
alone in the wild
on the trail of the way back into a psychotic age
fear now chooses to evolve
chilling realizations from within
---the words and forms of my dedication
have relevance only for me
and a life unto themselves--
of themselves manifested for themselves.
The child becomes the father
and far above the clouds a sacristy forms
a forum for just culminations
a place to effect what’s already been commanded
inside the head.
The words come easy when the spirit oozes life’s treasure
when the pursuit falls short
--and from the pondering of such meanings comes the facts
the fears were always well founded.
The meaning of it all was nothing and nothing multiplied
compulsions of desperation demanded the tearing of one’s grip
from the earth of clinging cowardice
falling free
no encumbrances binding
the most daring act of the age
performed without nets
alone as it was prescribed to be
a statement for these times and those times
for all times and seasons--
bindings confined to one mind--still floating free
hidden for the threefold days
thus proving the point--
an act for laughs because that’s all there is
a free form demise in the life of the mind--
a last gasp reach for the light
knowing well of darkness and worse expectations
body and soul disunion interrupted only by the mercy of dreams
-conscious and unconscious--
mystical illusions
perfect guides for a metaphysics of the absurd
old dreams in realms of time forgotten--
unconscious thoughts of imprisoned freedom--
stream of the conscious unconscious
rules not needed.
The essence is captured in emotions
only to be lost in instants--
seconds with a strange thought
--an instant to soar--
a glimpse of the kingdom,
and a chance to touch God.

HADITH

Insight into the mind of troubled consciousness,
the gift you should have refused
but couldn’t--
forced fates for whatever reason,
are none-the-less, fates.
The question looms,
will you surrender to confusion
and be bogged down as in a mundane job,
or will you pursue the dilemma
--turning tables on the predator--
and make the pursuit your life’s work?
Sometimes
the survivor is the pilgrim
who chooses oneness with his cross.
One plays the hand he’s dealt--
triumph being in the degree of willingness--
or one pulls the trigger;
victory thus expressed by controlling the future.
When it’s foggy like this,
you have trouble with distinctions,
for the low road winds and turns
while the high road twists and curves.

The mother tongue is so confusin’
you’re wonderin’ even as you should be wanderin’--
it’s a show of shams
and a sham of a show.
At best, we’re only performin’--
clowns and minstrels,
knaves and scoundrels,
quick steppin’ fools wanting to be kings,
studying the skies for directions
and falling in ditches,
testing the wind for warnings and warrants
and stumblin’ over sunsets and tumbleweeds.
Yet through it all
despair and despondency are themselves doomed,
failing in the face
of the deep belly growlin’ principled stand.
a tormented soul in consciousness
is at the least and at the most,
in control.
Prophets could wish no more--
the struggle is enough,
to be the delight of the soul.

OLD SWEET SONG #2
(An Endless Road to Nowhere)

I’ve known bein’ cold and tired,
been wet and alone
and scared,
been abused, accused, and confused
been set upon and spat upon,
been down this road so long
I could be the tour guide.
Heads they win,
tails I lose,
and someone else gets to keep the coin.
Thusly imprisoned by such great and grand commissions
--captive of proceedings and conventions--
claiming to represent freedom,
I’m left to a strange liberty--
being totally free to pursue as I’m pleased
as long as I please the gods of other’s delight,
time and space
to do anything but question space and time.
Thick dungeon walls grow thicker,
each etched with fingernail scratched despair,
dried blood evidence
of the yearning to sketch reality,
even to create it out of mists and smiles,
to paint it in blood if necessary,
all in a world,
where you’re expected to recognize it on sight.

THE CISTERCIAN’S GIFT
 
It’s been a lifetime tryin’
to outrun the rain
and now I’m tired,
my feet hurt,
and I’m soaking wet.
Time it is now
to sit in the downpour
and revel in its essence,
to hear its sound among trees,
to nod and smile
to the rooftop tapping of simple gifts
in a code--
spelling easy comforts for the soul.

LONG GRAY TIME DAWNIN’

Morning
comes a long gray time dawnin’
tauntin’ requests of God
as to what it’s all about,
askin’ after so long
and still not knowin’.
You’ve tried it all--
the demons and the drugs,
the gods ‘n’ the kingdoms of understanding
and enlightenment,
and still you’re asking
and lamenting,
wanderin’ and wonderin’
and crying out
against star lit skies--
yet and still,
mornin’ comes,
a long gray time dawnin’.

WEATHERING THE DAYS

A poem in black and white
because the gray is fading,
it’s that kind of world--
with those kinds of feelings.
Train and tracks recede into the night,
elements of necessity in a discordant age,
tumbling one now upon another,
a crashing thrashing entangling of hopes,
lies turned inward
walls closing in
limitations drawing near
and clear.
That for which the effort was made
rings now hollow and wanting,
for the best and worse never change
in realms such as these--
kingdoms of discontent
on the trip of the glass viewed darkly,
weathering the days,
seeing it clearly for the first time,
knowing of warm rain instants on the edge
feeling it dearly
and agonizing the nights.
Alive now on an ocean
but stranded in the doldrums
with all depth and breadth equidistant
from nowhere and nothing.
And still the war goes poorly--
“It’s only a chemical condition,”
says the expert;
“With only a chemical solution,”
replies the chemist.
And the death toll mounts
where there is no cure
for the human condition.
adrift and vulnerable,
when the death rate is absolute.

THE PARK
A DAY BETTER THAN MOST

“I done it all”
the old man says,
spitting.
“I done it all
an’ it ain’t nothin’--
none of it.”
Steel gray eyes flash coherently,
briefly,
alcohol-- aw, for sure,
but still,
those eyes burning through me.
“I did it all,
I did it,
and it ain’t nothin’.”

TO KISS THE MOON’S REFLECTION

I am from the valley,
and It’s being from the valley, my friend,
that changes everything.
We’re just hiding out
in a niche,
waiting for the big bad Karma clouds
to gather their nonsensical sensitivities.
It’s being of the valley.
survivin’ by viewing peaks
--unknown peaks and paths--
survivin’ by wishing and planning.

Now I’ve walked some of those peaks,
an’ I’ve imagined the rest.
On the paths I’ve scented, even tasted, victory--
those late nights and early mornings,
they mean something as never before,
the winds of remorse are weak,
changed into warm soothing caresses now.
Praise now the warm breathing lover’s whisper
that no things are forever,
and yet,
all things are indeed, forever!

OTHER PEOPLE'S CHILDREN
      ...A Tribute To Unsung Heroes
 

So you've loved your own families?
--that's nice--
sadly,
there are no awards for being nice.
You've loved your own children,
--but that too, is expected,
and there are still no medals
for doing the expected.
Besides,
lovin' one's own is Spring morning easy
and "easy " is never saluted.

But you've loved other people's children,
unwanted ones,
unloved little ones--
and little ones in big bodies
a sick era's throwaways,
hurting confused little souls you chose to want
while the world chose to ignore,
or worse,
dared to hate.

It's been a wonder to behold,
all along you kept lovin' other people's babies
--"society's problems" critics said,
but all you said was welcome,
good morning,
please and thank you,
and you meant it--
every grace filled syllable!

Maybe you can't soothe the hurt of every cruel blow
and slammed door,
but you've loved other people's children,
and you've risked opening your heart to them--
and there are rewards for that.

I know so little
but I know this so surely,
I can close my eyes and see
how He who knows everything must feel.
Close your eyes too,
and feel His smile.

(For My Special Friends
Celebrating the joys of propinquity
Love and peace, December, 1997)

REPEAT OFFENSES
(THE SECRET STATUS OF SYMBOLS)

There are most likely
(by conservative estimates)
well over one hundred billion stars
and now I’m told
this world is defined and figured
by braying fools in dark suits
--spiritual discerners these,
seers,
well grounded in earthly pleasures,
spokesmen for Moses’ wondrous simplicity--
guardians of delusions locked in threadbare images--
these are the keepers of marketplaces
set in faux palaces of grandeur.

I am told to stare in awe,
to kneel when appropriate to the situation,
this is the genuflecting sought in perfect worlds,
this is the assemblage of sliding pilgrims
trapped in ignominious slots
and perfected schemes.

There then,
is Shakespeare’s sweet rub,
for cries of sleep of necessity,
are cries of death.

It’s a wonder
that robs the breath from the wayfarer,
how Alpha and Omega
makes no difference,
indeed , sows no seed of discernible deference
--there is the point obscured by perfect light;
why the saints prattle on
‘bout why and how
winds blow south or north...
while ignoring the gales that rip forests
and villages
east and west?

ONE OF MANY MANSIONS

Scars amid the stars
dreams they were
they brought us high
and brought us low
free form still with rhymes
free form with crafted words
and edges
---pleas of puzzles to be solved
hideaway twisted hopes.

Sometimes I get so far away
--so very high and soaring--
I can pray for those who sent me.

Sometimes I can forgive those whose gods were of
secular stations
leering gods who beckoned with summer come hither leers.

Sometimes I can smile
about those who sent me here,
armed with blind faith--
they said this and that,
and they cursed
but somehow they never knew,
or cared,
that blind faith was really no better
than no faith.

CLIMATE CONSIDERATIONS

Cool,
when I realized I was dealin’
on the world’s stage

This was a thing for keeps
and none of my trainin’--
my chops or my feignts--
could make a believable dent in this reality.

This one was for what they said,
mattered.

This one was for what warnings failed

This one was for keeps-- ahh,
yeah,
-yeah, the spirits
of thine own selves be true.

Of these mystiques and matches
of which none could be true--
how could any have been ready?
But then,
that’s part of the dealin’
and I can only remember what I can imagine
and only I can remember paper and limits,

Maybe this is why they sent me
--why I escaped them--
and their grasp.

Oh how nice the flowers bloomin’

This is why they can’t control rain
and sun
and one hundred years
beyond my smile.

CLASS OF ‘63

Among the lesser animals,
and about things founded on lies--
the difference being we’re right
and the other cultures are not.
Declaring a tragedy as one child,
ghetto of the mind born and bound,
goes slippin’ outside the fatherland’s reach.

Grew up to the Cleavers--
Wally and the Beav,
and Eldridge made three.
It was lilly white,
a world overt
yet somehow insidious.

Still all we’re doing is recording
the passing show,
lamenting and regretting,
but changing nothing.
Ya can mix your chemical concoctions
and think of baseball and nature,
and peace.

And I saw Shane leavin’
in a big yellow taxi,
the why and the wherefore art thou
was never answered,
the ways and means never shown
and our Ken and Barbie world
came crashin’ down.

Revolutionary acts become habits
in strange and forgotten places,
all the while
it is for the stroke of the current season’s grip
we yearn and maneuver.

And pimp-in-a-pulpip popped up an said:
“It takes sunlight to make shadows.”
--but the crushin’ reality
filled even the dark rooms,
artificial light also casts shadows
and the fire storm of all ages
-the eminent imminent flash
will be a shadow maker of which
even God will take notice.

Some idyllic journey it was promised
and each remembers where he was
when he heard the news,
yeah, hippie to be
and clown hiding in a disguise he didn’t understand,
all dodgin’ bullets or somethin’ worse.

And the headlines appeared
stuck to a tree by bayonets--
it’s not the 80 proof glow
but the adrenalin flow
that rules a land that defies metaphor
as it lives out caricatures of its soul’s purpose.

Nothing ever changes
when you’re schooled in self destruction
--loyal to a wasted group--
a group yearning to get wasted,
though wasting makes little difference.

And depression became sin,
for nothing says it all like nothingness,
and nothingness says more than nothing else...
“M...I...C,
see ya real soon”
--an’ you wanted to be Moose Skowron,
blissful days of a mouse and a moose,
an’ now a bottle of gin
won’t even get you across town.
“K...E...Y,
why?
Why? Because that’s just the way it always was,
and always will be. Amen.

ELI ELI LAMA SABACHTHANI

The spires reach into and beyond reality
and forever.
The mystics among us,
stoned, crucified, and spat upon,
humbled,
‘cause they didn’t know the words
and rituals.
Secretly ya gotta love the mystics,
openly,
you’ve gotta stare through them
an’ keep walkin’.
And should you now wonder
why the mirror cries for anesthesia
in advance
and absolution in absentia,
study the spires--
they reach toward infinity,
all the while
we’ve admired limestone and granite
somehow ignoring and neglecting
the mortar.