Come out, come out! It’s only rain;
the world has not dissolved as yet.
The clouds will loose the sun again.
It sometimes seems hard to forget
that darkness does not rule all things;
the world has not dissolved as yet.
And after all, rain showers bring
new growth, and wash away the grime
so darkness does not rule all things.
To waste away seems such a crime;
use these slow hours to energize.
New growth will wash away the grime.
Do not despair the stormy skies!
Come out! come out! it’s only rain.
Use these slow hours to energize;
the clouds will loose the sun again.
06 JUN 2017
Now whose voice is singing out words of warning,
as the low light, glittering, slowly fading,
starts to flicker tenuously, letting darkness
other points now wavering on the shoreline?
When those bridges crumble for their reasons,
will they turn the oceanside’s brightness inward,
all their burning energy from their borders,
glowing in the after hurt, slowly dying,
letting outside travelers lose their bearings,
on the rocks that litter the lightless beaches?
Are new voices learning the ancient lyrics?
What will guide the innocent ships to harbor
without that howling?
18 MAY 2017
And so around again:
the how, the where, the when;
could be and might have been;
the raven or the wren.
The sword versus the pen:
in battles now and then
it’s hard to tell who wins;
the line is blurred, and blends.
What’s up around the bend?
Who knows? To see us then
is merely to pretend,
to forecast of the end.
The currency we spend
for lies and hope depends
on credit from our friends
and how we limit them.
We dare not to offend
what might hide in the glen
awaiting living men
who march to war again.
How fast the truth descends!
Around our necks it wends
and gyres, while we extend
our courtesies. Amen.
Off round and round again;
we start, we end, we spin.
3 FEB 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, chanso, cycles, daily poems, energy, French verse forms, futility, infinity, patterns, poetic forms, recycling, reincarnation
Now when I say I don’t do slam
it doesn’t mean
that I don’t dig
the meth-euphoric drenal high
that comes when words escape at Mach
and you roll like the Candy Man with those
sweet treats to clear the sleeping ears
of all those deadbeat debutantes
who crowd like mike like it was manna
say they’re gonna, makes you wanna
holler damn the poet man
street preacher speaking tongues in rhyme
but that ain’t slam, sam.
When I say I don’t do slam
it doesn’t mean that I can’t jellyroll
mainline strings of silken soothings
talk loud without saying nothing
run below the feedback radar
at the edge
of sound distortion
keep it real compared to something
shut down shambles mumble rumbling.
When I say I don’t do slam
it ain’t because I’m old and gray
and rhymes don’t flow don’t grow
testosterone and angst OD
some chosen chump to channel
all the crap you couldn’t stand to shout
I’m not the one to rock your pulpit
spin your world yourself
doesn’t equate power with volume
strokes its own ego quite nicely
whispers sermons to a choir
that knows just why
I don’t do slam.
16 MAY 2005
I chose to walk a path of wildness;
though these modern city streets are paved
and seem to revel in a blindness
that believes the urban sprawl has saved
us from what nature could remind us:
somewhere beneath all this black and gray,
behind the masks that progress may wear
as it fumbles through lines of a play
it has not written, and does not care
to find meaning in what those words say,
there is an rough edge to our control.
Beyond that border the feral earth,
that patient presses diamonds from coal,
in each single instant gives birth
to the strange chaos that feeds our souls.
Where the sidewalk ends and turns to vine
is never clearly marked on a chart;
and your map is not the same as mine,
even if we would pretend to start
from the same place at an exact time.
What’s more, both paths may appear the same
(if anyone still took time to look)
and like gods often bearing false names
to confuse those who insist on books,
will merge at times; they are not to blame.
Instead, it is our pride that deceives;
we do not seek to balance, but rule,
and as a despot king we believe
our road divine, and others for fools
unfit to share the glory we perceive.
But it is there; the wildness can’t be tamed,
nor trimmed and manicured for too long
before it tires of such polite games
and flexes its muscles, lean and strong,
to escape the gilded picture frame.
I would go after, where it now stalks
amidst the dark, thickened underbrush;
sometimes just at dawn I hear it walk
right under my open window. Hush!
Can you hear it too? It likes my block.
18 FEB 2005
With each breath, opposites are reconciled:
like the unconscious seeping under the door
that the river makes as it rises during the night,
then at first light ebbs slowly away
as the sun’s heat pulls it into its glowing bosom.
To dub the inhalation Da, to sense its quiet strength,
then name it Ma as it comes forth from the lungs,
its motion merged with infinite atmosphere,
warm tendrils seeking out atom by atom
the molecules that shape the space,
flesh out the illusions of matter
and the world’s wide mask of being and nothing,
is to lower a string into a lake
and think you’ve split the water.
There is a moment, between sighs,
where there is only one expanse of air,
samadhi in a pregnant pause;
and in that instant what divides
a flame from its penchance to burn
becomes the only line between
the different forms of god.
22 DEC 2004
Where am I in all of this confusion?
If I pause and take a moment to breathe,
letting go of this veil of illusion
[that separates (like two different leaves
along two slim branches that stretch their way
in opposite directions, yet never
touch, except through the trunk from which they splay)
with a soft touch easily severing
one’s sense of unity with all living]
just listening to the low, quiet breath
of an opened flower or an old tree,
I recognize myself; my misgivings
about my life’s purpose that make me fear death
fade away. I am at peace, at last free.
Am I just motion in some great chaos?
If I release this cloud from deep inside,
letting the soft flow of air slip across
my tongue and pursed lips, it does not collide
with the not-me of the universe, but
instead melts back into a single stream
of boundless energy that we each cut
and divide into our separate dreams,
imagining that these walls we construct
are so solid, so real, unbreakable.
Yet in a single breath these veils shatter,
our isolation seems to self-destruct,
and those beliefs once so unshakeable
crumble in the still space beyond matter.
04 APR 2003