Tag Archives: metamorphosis

Spare Change

There is no thing that doesn’t change:
some change, but no one sees;
some change a little, but no more;
some change to great degrees.

Some change and become something else;
some change but look the same;
some change because of point of view;
some change in all but name.

There is no thing that doesn’t change:
some change and never know;
some change without a reason why;
some change but never grow.

Some change to suit a place and time;
some change despite themselves;
some change outside but not within;
some change just for a spell.

There is no thing that doesn’t change;
some change without a clue;
some change for better or for worse;
some change but are not new.

Some change to find a better way;
some change, yet stay behind;
some change but never seem to grow;
some only change their minds.

1 APR 2014

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Nesorna’s Monologue

I can not say I feel as if reborn —
and yet, there is a newness about me,
a cleanliness of spirit, that springs forth
from a new source, unknown and without name.

What words I choose can only dent the veil
of this deliverer that spawns such hope;
mere words cannot define this flash of light
that now illuminates my sorrowed pain.

Yes, pain: that wracking, scream of agony
which celebrates itself in birth and life.
I feel it not, but in its place I find
an agony of quite a deeper sort.

The pangs of transformation I now bear
bring me aware to planes of solid thought;
and in that heightened state they bid me stay
to question of my place and of my fate.

‘Tis true, that once I sought an early death,
as a small child might, innocent, seek change
in this too often monstrous, hateful world:
my simple wish to end all pain for good.

I offered prayer and hearkened to the Gods,
beseeching them to show themselves to me —
and wished that to their presence I could fly,
or that they soon would take me from this place.

But whimpering days of longing are no more,
and with its cloak of cold and glorious bliss,
this night has brought with it a wind of change
and I am more resolved to live than die.

This wind, more like a gale, has brought me life,
and set me on a pinnacle of hope —
here, tempest-swept, I stand, my spirit strong
and am renewed and ready for this day.

But where to start in this great future land,
this new discovered world of strength and truth?
The starting is the easy part, I know –
as for the finish, therein lies the test.

The glow of reason may not light this quest,
this enterprise that, virgin, waits untried;
and treachery is sure to find me, too,
yet I must follow out into this wind.

For be it so, or perhaps not to be,
it is not mine to yea, or nay, command;
It matters not if heaven is the goal,
nor if to hell’s doorway the breezes blow.

If strength or folly, whether good or ill,
this changeling spirit offers more to me,
more promise to my dark-encumbered soul
than any specter from my past has done.

Therefore, I must now gird myself anew,
and into time’s wide chasm throw my lot –
not backward, where my spirit found its root,
but into the un-named and unknown now.

I am resolved to hesitate no more,
but follow that which beckons from beyond;
and move into what learned men have called
the history and quest of all mankind.

But quiet now, the dawn approaches soon,
and it will prove me wise man, or buffoon.

1989

From The Trial of Nesorna, Nesorna’s Monologue, Act I, Scene 4

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Sparks

There it is again:
that ever so small motion
of a random thought.
It flits through my mind
like a fragile butterfly.
Melting in the hand,
it leaves only dust
that stains my clumsy fingers,
and then, poof, is gone.
Two small sparks collide,
and from their union, a flame;
What is left to burn?

17 JUN 2003

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The Parable of the Butterfly

We start so miniscule —
no more than a speck of dust,
smaller than the edge of a fingernail
hidden in the shadow of a leaf,
one nameless egg among thousands,
soft, vulnerable and almost translucent;
and as soon as we are able to move
we begin to consume, to devour the world around us,
barely sleeping, living to eat.
Not knowing the reason, but seeking to satisfy
an endless hunger.
Once we defoliate our entire world,
become fat and sleek and full
yet still longing for another meal,
one that will satisfy and not leave us wanting,
in that moment the whole world
stops,
our feet stuck fast,
and we build solid walls around,
constructed from our own bodies.
Suddenly we must become absolutely still
and wait,
isolated from the rest of life.
Only the energy within still pulses, unseen
Until we are transformed,
shaking off the wrappings of our past,
letting the energy fill our wings.
Finally we can flit through the skies,
focusing at last on the flowers,
sipping from their sweet nectar,
understanding our interdependence,
losing ourselves
in the epiphany of flight.
Oh, for such a brief span of time
we are immersed in this samadhi,
so little of our lifespan!
Then we must seek out the leaves again
and sow the next generation,
that this incarnation
will never see.
What we leave behind
is the future;
what we take with us
is the beauty of right now.
The caterpillar does not strive to become a butterfly;
it cannot do otherwise.

22 APR 2003

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Metamorphosis

What happens to the forming butterfly
stuck fast inside its cage of flesh and bone
when the long months and years go slowly by,
and unlike its siblings, who have all grown

wings and completely left those old cocoons
behind, instead is forced to fit beneath
a cracked, damaged shell that was cast too soon?
Does the crippled one live with disbelief,

or instead create a magical world
where other small creatures may find some joy?
Do its fellow flower-birds know this one,

if it becomes an adult, will surely
die? It must always stay a freakish boy,
or its suffocating mask will have won.

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Finding the Inner Core

It is never quite what you expected
(after all, there are no maps or guidebooks)
in that place inside where resurrected
illusions are hiding in each dark nook;

What they taught you regarding self-knowledge
(the meaning of a man, our true nature),
those endless books and long years of college,
convincing you that you were so mature

is often just a load of worthless crap.
When you really do start finding yourself,
what you first see is not easy to take –

it’s not Nirvana that falls in your lap,
but the shattered fragments of something else –
the spent cocoon each caterpillar makes.

06 FEB 2003

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