Friday, July 17, 2009

Hireath (The Longing)

I am the mist,
Always seen,
Yet never known.
Lost to you, Lost in your separation.
A cacophony,
So loud and rapid.

And whether it be,
Highland or lowland,
Hill or vale,
You would not care,
When I shrouded you.
Only the deepest,
Who is there?
Before their own fog,
Takes them.

I am the mist,
Veiling sacredness;
Begging to be known.
Finding apathy,
In the irony,
That I am more like you,
Than you know.

And whether it be,
A touch or a glance,
And embrace or caress,
Eyes aching,
And so alone,
The fog to lift,
And hardened hearts,
To know you,
And the sacredness,
The world of love and pain,

I am the mist,
And I am you.

Berlin Pearl

No almanac could predict
Sadness with a brother
in four walls of thoughtfulness,
offering me no comfort,
only a cradle of mindfulness.
Sparks firing in darkness
and cerebral spinal fluid.
Neurons sending impulses,
sensations felt,
perceptions made,
moving along broken pathways
inside a broken man, relating to
A broken world. So long having
wondered, along with
every man, woman, and child.
Wandering along with
every exile and seeker.
Pilgrims on a sacred journey
through a land, in the dark.
A dark age that never ended
with the return of highborn
thoughts of a self
who does not know and
Does not care for agape,
deifying instead eros,
while rejecting knosko
of anything and everything,
seeking knowledge only
toward the end of self-satisfaction and
the delusion of self-righteousness.
The beginning of a thirst,
which is never quenched.
We are like a myth,
slashing at reality.
At the Walls of Troy,
with an arrow in our heels,
In a desert of a valley
like a drain of death.
Rain upon it all
the satisfaction, and all goals
of false goodness evaporates
leaving a valley of dry bones
who speak volumes when
they beg for a prophet to speak
words of life that move the dead,
but the word does not come.
The waiting
like the sun, illuminating
the dust before our eyes. Asking
for the world
and receiving nothing
that is not already ours.
We are blind
to the surrounding life,
the Logos
that courses through everything
and everyone.
Linking, like a river delta
that intertwines with thousands
of channels, streams,
and branches.
Pulsating with the same waters,
and pouring from the same source
seen in the minds of children.
Being that holy innocence that
must be seen in all things
to be loved.
Rushing like a wrecking ball
toward the Berlin Wall,
which stands everywhere
but in Berlin.
A city, a country,
a world
built upon, within,
and around
pearl walls, born of pain,
upon pain, upon pain.
The sounds of anguish
echo in ears sending sparks racing,
being converted into electric Mercury,
through the white hallways
of pearl mazes. Encased
within the mind, floating
in cerebral spinal fluid,
Into which, if all
had a glimpse, one
fractional glimpse, of ME,
of YOU,
of who WE
really ARE,
Then the beauty encased
within that aged pearl,
built day after day after
tomorrow might be brighter.
when pearl transforms
and diamonds replace.
Exalting what is born
out of anguish.
In an instant, our lost and
wandering souls transform,
feeling the cool touch of
the river that flows through
All who are born
in Logos, which is living,
Moving perpetually, over
and through all walls,
carrying our eyes,
our hearts, and minds.
we know deeper,
with knosko we
love one another
with agape, like the displaced
family we are.
With that glimpse we see
no beginning or end between us,
no walls and no borders,
we love as if
it is ourselves we love.
I as if it is me
as if within me lay
the beauty of all.
One stream
within the delta
of humanity.

[1] Greek: Unconditional Love
[2] Greek: Erotic Love
[3] Greek: True Knowledge
[4] Greek: Living Word
Eden RisingI had driven up Cadillac Mt. in Bar Harbor, ME
early to catch the sunrise. When I arrived at the
top the clouds obstructed the view. Disheartened,
I drove back down only to have my last turn before
entering the forest again reveal the sun burning away
the early morning cloud cover.
I pulled over, jumped from my vehicle with my camera
and snapped away.
This was the prize.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Dialogues of the Hearth (A Love Poem for Humanity)

My heart
Is an open door,
Calling to you
To come and sit.
Warm yourself
At the hearth.

And I will tell you
of the wind in Québec
of the rain in Paris
of the fires in Lunshaya
of the earth in Mexico
of the trees and
rocks and
waterfalls in Maine
In the spring.

This and all in-between,
All the paths we lead.
And a simple desire
For you to know
Who I am
And love me.

And though I
Do not know you
I wish to,
And to love you
For you deserve all
The world’s love

Je t’adore tu

Appassionata In D(ream) Min.

The conductor raises his báton and begins
Symphony #57, Opus 3, and a cello sighs mournfully.

Razor wire encased in ice like diamonds,
Dripping the tears of its hated existence,
Crashing to the ground and enlivening the silent morning.
Crisp and new, wrapped in the blanket scent of smoldering pine
Embers that warm souls, heating a pot
Of English Breakfast, fragrant and touched
With a golden blend of spice,
Golden like the sun that illumines the valley we share.
We are cut by the beauty of a spice sun on
An iced encased morning.
Under the spell of Fyodor Dostoevsky,
In the existential underground of St. Petersburg
Silenced by the ugly, clanging morning,
Less clanging than ugly, and more evening than morn.
When they said, “We will do as we desire.”
Like a blind man saying, “I see.”
They could have been nihilists, although
There is no need to go breaking chairs.
But like exasperated peasants of the
Province of earth, we all know there is more.
We mount horses like a merry-go-round
And wait to break out of the paddock and race
Toward the finish line, although
We know Ddriag Goch
[2] will rise again,
Leading the exodus to the silver valley
We have already dreamed,
In liquid dreams, drawn from ancient draughts,
However, we drank until drunk,
Needing to understand our thirst, and watching, as
Die Sonne tönt nach alter Weise/In Brunderspharen Wettgesang…
Even over ice covered razor wire that sings in the wind,
A disparaging song of its existence,
Highlighted by one note
In the key of dreams.

[1] From The Inspector General (1836) by Nikoli Gogol
[2] Gaelic: Red Dragon; The Symbol of the legendary king that would return and lead the Welsh to freedom; Symbol on the Welsh flag and crest
[3] From Prologue in Heaven, Faust by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe; (“The sun resounds as of old/ In rival-singing with his brother spheres…”)

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Rangeley Plantation

Broken pavement
And twin dreams,
Suffer the young lupines’
Summer dresses,
Shimmering and fragrant,
Catching the affection
Of the Julian Sun.

And if you don’t like the weather,
As they say,
Wait a minute
Or twenty,
When across the mountain valleys,
Franklin is warned
Of the clouds,
By pine trees
Tickling their bellies,
And less keen about young lupines,
In their summer dresses,
And wild daisies.

Still some peace is found
At the height of land,
In the clouds.
And Mooselookmeguntic,
The frozen lake,
Forever unchanging,
Never failing
To usurp my burden,
And set me free.

And the beauty of valleys,
Wreathed in lupines,
In summer dresses,
Viewed from mountaintops,
Storm clouds or no,
And despite broken roads,
Cast on them all the cares
Of a lifetime,
And those valleys
Never fill,
Never change.
Like loving arms,
Always there,
And always the same.