ALL THE WRONG GRACES
Like some kind of sad-eyed pilgrim
hauled before a strange god,
I prowl the banks of a mist rising river.
The fog’s illuminating,
it’s bein’ right I find so confusin’,
being right, yet no one seems to know
or wants to recognize,
yea,
the stuff of insanity dawning--
or maybe just a perceptual dilemma--
but be forewarned of the dangers inherent
in finger pointing
and locating the specks in other’s eyes--
dangerous things these,
that come home to roost
and rest.
Besides,
all that glitters...
and all that’s tarnished is not the silver cup
of your fashioning
or imagining.
As the man said,
or tried to say,
bein’ right ain’t always easy
or even the evidential fruit of the glories and dreams
of this or any clime or feeling
save the long night terror
known only to souls on the run--
souls lookin’ for homes they never knew,
souls dyin’ before their time
but right on cosmic schedule.
Bein’ right means sufferin’ the slings and arrows...
--your hole’s been dug around you
and the ethos says you can only climb out
by pullin’ others in--
forget justice,
this is the big leagues where reason languishes
and the first liar has no better chance
than he had when he tried honesty--
how could the pilgrim thus not fail?
The crime’s that of tryin’ to love
__no wait, that’s not nearly fair--
the crime was expectin’ mirrored feelings in return.
We’ll all know better in the new day dawnin’,
morning is the time when lovin’ hollow folks
are memories,
scrap heap people of another era,
Quixotic folk who said: “Make it count”
in an age where the logos said:
“Count it.”
DARK STAR
Working flooded fields of despair
valleys of and for the shadow
Misting rain soaking the spirit
late winter rain...a mist
wood smoke in the air
jasmine and sandalwood could soothe no better
Cold and damp
a triumph of what survives when all seems lost
One’s very cells draw together
a turned up collar
hands in pockets kind of night
Survival of the fittest says the clown prince
“I'm trying’” says the survivor
And wind blowing through tall trees
is echoed in faraway sounds
The survivor does what he does best
“To thine own self” routines--
only with heart and feeling born of pain
routines evoking a finality that says forever
so clearly
with each and every step and breath
FOREST SOUNDS
One act dreams and sounds unknown
--the far reaching myths by which we breathe--
and wish to live
this power of things yet to be
against the lure
of that we wish had been,
fateful forces of fierce strange demand,
images of a world berserk,
dawn arriving at an early hour
only to be welcomed by the fortunate unwary.
In an ageless script modern day Druids,
staffs held high--
people between worlds --
are caught and accused of dreaming and scheming,
of failing to fear thinking,
of running but not hiding,
ever.
Fearless frightened fliers having no places to land--
searchers failing to find
the experience of rising revelations
and crashing in ultimate trips of despair,
seekers,
of sunrises of any age
of any time,
souls ever cognizant of anything Solar --
the rebel and the man illusions joined in division,
experiencing defeat while alive in a vacuum
--defectors from other’s truths,
these are the convicted in silent trials.
A homecoming awaits for a refugee of sorts
an ultimate experience,
a survivor’s triumph of materialization,
in the mind and dream,
forest sounds in the night,
and in reality.
ACOUSTICS
AN OLD SWEET SONG
It’s been a lifetime,
it has
strugglin’ to know a lord
thinkin’ it was required to have some force,
a being supreme to direct the course--
fool’s journey it was,
battered badly now,
now so surely I know:
the magic of the mystic is in the music,
and when you can’t hear it,
you can’t dance except to the tunes
mined deep within your soul.
The singer is supposed to call the tune
yet I’m tired of bein’ on the stage--
tap dancing a tortured minstrel show
set to other’s tunes.
Too long it took to know it,
longer it’ll be ‘fore I neglect it--
Christ, Buddha, Mahatma, and Mohammed--
masters,
my apologies for the ages and forevermores
you were used and misused,
it was a world of believers you sought,
a cult of sly deceivers is all you got.
Maybe gods and prophets should know better
or at least know differently,
but then their are trends and shackled flaws,
and greed
--besides,
the magic really may well be
in the music.
OF THE AGES EVERMORE
It was superstition,
passing this way,
icons and idols we met half way
making sense
out of making wars disguised as peace.
Of course it was superstition come crawling,
a savior in rags and royal raiment,
pausing on bended knee--
pausing to take in the scene--
pausing to corral sinners and saints.
Night falls as it always does,
doused in the dreams and desires of blind followers
--a condition defended as the pursuit of true science--
hope disguised as faith and faith just disguised.
Of course it was always alluded to as nature’s law,
farces laboring as forces
with all the power to rock the firmament
and roll
through the thrashing crashing revolutions
of dearest charity.
Night now engulfs a world of geologic faults
and climates converging in comforts confusing,
lights mixed with shadows
--darkness pervading where light once reigned
and spread.
Hope and faith and charity
and the greatest of these
is light and breath,
it’s simple virtue
dissected by walking paths disguised as thoughts
and deeds and worlds
not the least of which are thought to be,
and ought to be,
anyways much with us.
IMPASSE IMAGES
Misled by illusory declinations
guides fit for fools
the master’s later period at fruition--
the hound growling at the wrong tree
misread cards
and ten thousand years before the sun,
before that,
a millennium--
and after each episode has passed
all that is,
is.
Real folks in feigned composure cry hidden tears
and hidden men know that what there is,
isn’t
--why they didn’t inquire of the women
about such stances,
is unclear--
from this point of departure,
all is unclear
and all is forevermore.
The pilgrim seeks purification
and of course,
failure--
for whatever it is
it falls so very short.
Now smug fools welcome the equinox
even as lambs organize the slaughter.
The fate of being is self-evident
and self-evidence is of the essences,
a fact as sad as it is true.
CLOWNS
THEIR SECRET SMILES
The burdens of life and these times,
the headlines tryin’ to be the death of me.
adrift in a sea that’s lost its soul,
an all knowing proof of sad eternal truths--
the fates will conspire against you
if you hold still,
and the evidence mounts,
moving targets fare little better.
Worlds beyond our control
struggle to impose impossible weights to carry
while we stumble
under the baggage we pile on each other’s backs
and our own shoulders.
Wind brings the news--
the war goes poorly against relentless forces and ages,
the logical solution arises in perfect illogical scents
--from the battlefield smoke arises--
a practicality of finality,
the option of taking control,
snatching victory (or at least control)
with one clean shot.
A clearer mind sees through the fog of absurdity,
and welcomes the inherent humor
--the soul felt comedy of the human condition--
heart feelin’ joy in the face of ridiculous predicament,
victory disguised as appreciation of an inner nobility.
A man would be a fool to miss this,
the greatest of shows,
to not linger,
to not stick around and see
how this and all the rest is gonna turn out.
THE SETTLEMENT AT TERRAPIN STATION
It’s a strange path not frequently traveled,
meandering through tall grass with wildflowers nurturing bees,
still;
if the world’s gods proclaim truth,
know then by definition,
there must be lies.
Better it be that their gods recognize questions
and slyly say only the false among us deny doubt,
for when gods are created, limits are sure to follow--
such is the world’s way.
Traveled lightly,
it’s none the less a worshipful road...
if one but doubts.
Such confusing interludes--
where strengths masquerade as truths
and truths roar in tumbling whispered fog.
Where does it all lead
and how can one measure lies against truth?
Can something be fractionally true and marginally false?
In such battles who wins?
Are not hours devoured by such minutes and seconds?
Such are Terrapin's choices
and Terrapin’s glances,
Such are Terrapin’s glories
and Terrapin’s chances.
And of the world for you to reside?
Pick the haven in which to want to hide.
In the battle of choices glories are merely glances,
captured chances at brass rings,
pawns and peasants mocking kings.
It’s been like this in Terrapin
since wild geese and tumbleweeds graced this way,
it’ll be this way in Terrapin by nature and default,
it’ll roll and rock like this
when the choice is made to live one’s choice.
First thoughts are ever truth’s sublime vintage--
and in much vintage is much truth.
Ah Terrapin,
to rise, to fall,
to always know we were always there.
Thunder drives and lightning slashes,
the sky opens as winds rip and drive,
Terrapin...
through it all and still further through it all,
Terrapin...
choose the world in which to live
choose the ends and beginnings,
Terrapin.
Terrapin.
OLD NORTHWEST TERRITORY #2
The Biggest Of Losses...The Greatest Of Gains
The pilgrim cried so often and so deeply
when he captured pawns,
he couldn’t continue the campaign
rank had a privilege that was sad and sanguine still.
Slashing through bishops and knights seemed agreeable
but then end games,
do they justify any games?
If it’s never truly over...
what then is the goal?
But then if it can truly be over,
what’s the point...what’s the gain?
Write the pastoral epilogue,
sing the sweet refrain,
for when it’s over,
what in true reality is the gain?
When is the cost a function of the pain?
What now is there in the sky that inspires me
or frightens me?
Sun and sky and stars delight...
moons and tunes and hopes so bright,
the heroes are dyin’ or dead
placed as they are for tryin’
or condemned
for languishing in dread.
I’ve stolen all I could steal
--the masters left me some--
and I’ve made up the rest,
now storm clouds of soft striations--
billow about as they bellow and shout
of pauses and warnings of troubles brewing
light dims in such creations,
visions fade,
it’s more than plans and rules
--more than this justifying that--
babies cry and children sob
and the best convention can only advise of the simplicity
of going silently into the night.
I AM WHO AM
I am Siddhartha,
Siddhartha--the one who struggles to be Buddha,
and falls so very short...
Siddhartha who has his heart, if not his spirit,
in all the right places and questionable graces.
I am Jesus
---the one who turns water
into...water.
I am the one who gathers his children under his wing
and cries in despair at Gethsemane.
I am named for Muhhamed,
but I am the one who can't summon hills
let alone mountains to be moved.
I am Pope this
and Cardinal that,
I'll grant you these for eternity
if you'll sell me those forever.
I loved Joseph and followed Brigham
until I viewed Mountain Meadows.
You thought the rhyme was the thing,
Nature taught you to wait on spring,
the preachers said distance was a key--
stellar watchers--
you'd have to have known
the heartbeat of closer contact.
I am who am.
I view sunsets paired with dawns,
names inspire even as I conspire,
I can lead only as far as I follow,
dreams carry only to the point of schemes.
Rhyme is said to be the reason,
yet reason pales in measured beats.
I am who am,
as seasons plot and plan.
My life is time magnified and limited.
My spirit is enlightenment
and salvation,
I am justification and despair,
I am who am.
ASH WEDNESDAY
They loved to lay their burdens on me,
they loved
to say this pain and that lament
were things I caused or could cure.
I owed no debts so I had no pains and pallors,
I had no way of knowing
how the mighty abided no slack--
nor pleading
from huddled masses.
There were souls here to be saved,
by suffering
and ragged late night stomach tightening tears.
There was a dynamic here,
to be dredged and scraped together,
and molded deftly into statues.
The causes and the pauses that melted together,
these were the burdens of my benefactors--
they drove me as they prayed they loved me,
there was the mighty chorus from on high,
there was life and hope and faith--
yeah, the greatest they said (and reserved)
was faith,
they trained me as they pained my spirit,
this above any and all
would be the burden they said--
that of the loving lament that procured souls
and hearts
for further adventures
and solemn rituals.
--Fate had thus bought me a piece of the action
victory by association, would be the epithet carved on the medal--
if not the epitaph set in stone.
This was a pain of the long haul,
this was of permanence.
Walking straight, following the steps,
pray the burden be unrecognized
pray the world goes away without memory,
deftly defiled,
the elders would have no way
of knowing of burdens and claims.
Honorable gods,
--gods without the need of vengeance--
have no claim or calling on how the caring
slide like helpless pilgrims
into the hopeless night of all abyss.
Choral shout of praise (with tears and misgivings): Amen.
TIME TRAVELER
I've been around here before,
the signs and sensibilities drip of deja vue,
the climate is comfortable and sublime
yet nothing and nobody seems the same
or even reminiscent of the summer breezes I recall.
I think I was raised in these parts and parcels,
the signs of those times weep of nostalgia,
the steps are easy and comfortable,
--summer morn easy--
like the scent and vision of iris and forsythia
--all appears the same,
yet all seems so foreign and discomforting.
Recollections linger of a life evolving in this place,
there is an easy comfort mixed with a longing pain
images intrude like strange sweet odors--
memories come tumbling like comfortable mysteries,
I think I've walked and loved here before
yet nothing is the same and the faces gaze in confusion.
Flood waters are roiling and tumbling,
there is this shortcut around high water I recall
but I've never seen it reach this far
or be this muddy and turbulent,
I was raised around here--I knew about such things,
these were simple matters to deduce and reconcile
yet something is wrong and out of place,
the pace and dimensions are wrong and the signs are not right.
AUTUMNAL GETHSEMANE
A chill wind warns of worlds too much with us,
of seasons and ages forevermore in crisis.
Hard winter's coming
so the wise have reckoned.
Aren't they all, the wise say further,
once seasons face the assault of time.
Hard winter's coming
and with its arrival time comes leering,
baiting and teasing of faraway places
and paths not taken,
of conflicting truths locked in battle,
resting,
only to taunt with the agonies of ages past
and the soulful long night terror of calendars speeding
what clocks once slowed.
Hard winter comes slipping into camp
from foggy shadows of fading memories--
old times forgotten, with quiet feet padding
through fallen leaves of labors lost.
And always the chilling taunts;
no mercy shown--
relentless taunts of higher ground and mired dreams.
Hardest winter comes with newer threats;
terrors worse than empty nests and lonely crowds--
trump card threats of ages ending,
of seasons captured and seasons bound.
RENAISSANCE SONG
Would that I'd been raised by wolves,
simpler it'd been that I'd been born immaculate,
or left heart beating on some desolate doorstep of eternity.
Child of this time in that ethos,
swaddled vestige lost in sunsets of those times,
and those promises,
and those hopes.
North wind it was that promised fancy bound in flight,
North wind it was that first whispered of freedom winds
and tightly bound unfettered dreams.
These are the things that fogged teenage windows
and broke the secret heart of all hearts.
Time heals what time creates and belittles,
time lies,
and time mocks,
and time is born immaculate.
West wind it was that promised hope bathed in light,
West wind it was that grinned of long sought paths
and loosely spread unreachable schemes.
Such are the thoughts that burden the flights
and set sails seeking forgotten plots.
Time heals what time creates and mocks,
time lies,
and time belittles,
and only time dies immaculate.
REALITY'S FORM AND CRYPTIC DENIAL OF SUBSTANCE
The pilgrim was drunk on sophistication
when he raced home to tell the residents
of how nothing mattered as much as matter's definition--
even if matter was now but a fool of such declaring.
Raised as a control freak,
the pilgrim knew the glory inherent
in staking out territory and fields of wonder.
The pilgrim was blinded by ambition
when he hurried home to share with the denizens,
how everything to the slight of faith and faith's current god,
was but of wind and discarded stem
--even if older wisdom was but the tool of volition.
Raised as a penitent to superstition,
the pilgrim knew the story undenied
in plotting paths through side show fairs and follies.
The pilgrim was stunned by the affirmation of faith
when he flew home to tell the tribe
how the evidence of things unseen--
even things unseen in the contrast of possibility--
could cast shadows across fruited plain and lofty perch.
Blindsided by ugliness dressed as truth,
the pilgrim sensed the folly
of preaching hope or plying faith.
MY LITTLE BIT OF WISDOM
So many years before time was forgotten
awash in a sea that's lost its soul and position
this way and that--teetering on the throes of perdition
and the whims of damnation's peripatetic gods
So many ways after forgotten things were ignored
survivors thrashing in survival swirls
waves crashing as holy winds direct
any way bargained for life's vagaries defined
in defiled sacramental rite
Of course sacred promises are bargaining chits
in hands dealt in cosmic comic sequence
He would have gathered his young like a hen with her chicks
herding them to safety in the storm
He would have twisted curses into blessings
Night would have made a pleasant day
So many forgotten years in tapping rhythmic time
drifting afar in waters of forlorn consequence
so many stances bargained for gambler's bleak chances
sweetness defined in longing admonitions
Time and its nature ignored
time and its qualities ridiculed
Of course deep wounds are merely life's glories
remembered in contrived stories
It would all be a joke if no one believed it
or depended on its existence.
BLUES FOR BROWN EYES
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.
THE HARVEST AT TEMPERATE LONGING
I know that you harvest what you sow...
plant icy stares and you'll reap whirlwinds so cold,
so bitterly cold,
that even those who come later will be chilled.
I know that Alpha proceeds Omega,
but that Alpha does not lead,
and Omega most times does not follow,
and nothing in this or any dispensation
does anything willingly
or without cost.
I know rhymes entertain but don't matter.
I know sight is thought superior to sound,
though neither is to be trusted.
I know so much I know nothing,
and suspect even less...
I'm privy to clues and the humor of gods...
I couldn't predict the weather,
in a rainstorm...
yet I know when it's folly to sail.
Because I know nothing,
I know it all...
everything...
this wisdom would be a curse if it wasn't a joke.
This wisdom would hurt if I wasn't laughing...
see...
I know what you harvest by what you plant,
I also don't know a plant from a seed...
it's the harvest ball dance you do,
that tells me your right from your wrong.
It would be a joke if I were the only one who sees,
and hears,
if I was the only one knowing who thought they were leading
and who was following.
THE JOY OF MY YOUTH
'Twas a noble enterprise
she was glory personified
Mary Queen of creation
and our martyred savior
a final mystery revealed
dead in a field...left for our pickings
and left with us having nothing to boast
or belittle
This was the rock upon which we built so much
the rock of ages we relied upon
and hid behind
It was a noble effort
a world sowing the seeds of its own demise
still it was a wondrous run...
a noble enterprise
left in an arid clime
its body for the picking of vultures
and other bitter creatures with issues overcoming
Introibo ad altare Dei
Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam
A JOKE AMONG THE FAITHFUL
To get to this point some of us have no cause
or perception,
as to how it got done...
we learned to tap dance and counter punch,
we could bullshit faster than the world could deal,
hell man, we could slide and slip
and dance a jig across your bow
we learned to slip a punch
with dignity,
or at least nonchalance...
Forget you (or worse)
if you couldn't take a joke.
We could.
YA GOTTA KNOW
Ya gotta know
transcendent voices have always been my master
they've spoken in codes and currents
they've been there to support with pillars... and explain
all those times i've fallen
and danced.
Ya gotta know about the spirits
and yes,
the sane voices...
winds of yesterday, tomorrow,
and all God's good Karma rolled into roadways.
Ya gotta know how much the voices rule...
but it is reality grounded in sanity...
it's an inner voice
it's tomorrow bright and clear...
it's daylight, dawn and the dark of tonight...
fair skies,
and navigating skies...
Ya gotta know...
that's how truth appears,
ya gotta know...
it''s all about today, yesterday,
and tomorrow.
THE ROAD
If you've ever had even a little of the road
you'd know what I know...
some of it's a sham
some of it is reality wrapped in ribbons
an' promises.
If you've ever even had a little of pain
and heartache
and things that cause discomfort looking at night skies...
See,
none of it rhymed when it meant anything,
it was soul and slight
visions worthy and unworthy of sight
see,
it can rhyme but it means no more.
ON THE NATURE OF THINGS
Things always seemed to break my way...well,
maybe not my way exactly.
There was always pain and tears and on long dark and cold nights
there was always this despair reconciled just this side of
insanity.
So things always broke my way when I twisted
and distorted
and somehow saw the embrace of faith and hope and charity
in cold winds and breathtaking storms.
There was always magic in the music
and always just enough music upon which to plan flight,
music and magic and just enough hope to create faith.
Scripts piling at my feet,
laments and hurts and still just enough wish
born of hope and fear.
Paths emerged through North Woods
oxygen deep breaths swirling from West Winds...
somewhere in the West...
someplace in the Northern green expanse...
but this was easy street,
we had it all...chickens and pots and autos,
the king's graces traced across atomic skies.
So why didn't the societal things ever mean anything to me,
why didn't any stake or obligation represent more than wind
or water rushing past my world?
Long dusty roads meandering on into sunsets,
winds that are now scary still bring an uneasy comfort,
it never changed...
nothing and no time and no king's explanation
have meant even a hope of anything...let alone,
everything promised of a god's reward.
It never changed,
it never got better or worse...
things tumbled by driven by winds of every stripe
or consequence...or ambition.
Nothin' changed...
the answers never piled before open or closed doors,
nothin' was multiplied by nothin' squared...
two became zero...
and zero has become larger than the wide sky it once was.
Things...yea, things accumulating like so much wisdom based on
folly,
yea, things...and seriousness,
things that go fearful in the night,
Three A.M. stuff,
things without even foggy morning comforts,
things,
things of the thoughts of frosty morning breaths...
things,
summer morn easy and summer afternoon hot and humid...
So why didn't any of it mean anything...why didn't hope count,
or even compare, to delusion and despair?
The search isn't among steeples and cathedrals,
whited sepulcher bones are only a stage of dust...
neither is the search in board rooms or other places
dedicated to perverted power...
the search is shifted among the clouds
it is of dusty footprints on sparsley trod trails...
things only get in the way,
only hide and confuse.
The search is hidden and puzzle-like,
It meanders among weeds and day lillies,
it is friend and mentor to wild flowers
and winds of remorse...
and winds of hope.
Prologue: AN IDIOT AND HIS GOD
This old and he's still writing poetry that few read.
This old and he's still worrying about right and wrong...
so old, and he's still trying to compose photos that say
something...
or anything.
An idiot and his god are so slowly parted.
THE WARS MY GOD ORDERED
...Tales Of Nothingness And The Honor Of Thieves
Days and nights,
days, days, and days masquerading as night,
and the nights of no recompense, reward or comfort
shadow lands and summer sea schemes,
light failing dark--even framing despair,
is it for this the prophets spoke?
Solstice springs now for cover,
pages torn from the calendar float free.
And this is that for which the martyrs died,
And this is such that the seasons flee?
|