Tell

Tell

We speak the language of the dead.
That which we describe
is only echo in the empty hall of history,
a ghost of memory, imperfect,
whispering against the walls
to make its point, and lost, forgotten,
dry before the wind of change.

It is the change itself that lives,
that vibrates, sings the Gloria;
It is the power of creation,
bearing life undreamed and hopes
that never knew to be expressed,
an ecstasy quite reachable
inside the stillness of a time
just set apart.

Somewhere the sounding of a bell proclaims
an angelus the heart alone recites,
a hymn to the divinity of joy poured out
in that pure sacrament of love.
Soft and far away.
I heard its echo somewhere

...ringing.
~

Another Vantage Point

Another Vantage Point

I visited the shadow world,
preoccupied with shadowed thoughts
that smoke across the page,
and vanish in the light of reason.

That is to say, it is the proper way
to deal with thoughts like these,
the ones with worrisome exteriors,
fuzzing up the mind...to visit, sift them
through the lens of the unknown.

Is it not pure sacrifice of light
that sculpts an evanescent joy?
Send the night upon my heart
and let the shadows dance
their pure, seductive art
that streaming day would cloy.

Something else occurs beyond
the simple blockage of the sun.
Something past humanity
tears at romance, makes possibility
of pathos and of festival; it speaks
of rest and restiveness. and sends
its waning light on pilgrimage to truth.

Shout down the stealth
of gods who blaze across the sky
upon their firery chariots; their myth
is wearisome, their legacies of death
are past design. The time is ripe
for children's games at twilight
when the shadows play, and tease
and disappear into their history,
yet there in immortality
for still another day.
~

The Scent of God

This poem is dedicated to Beryl Singleton Bissell, whose book of this name
reveals her love affair and sometime contretemps with God. I thank her for
graciously consenting to a poetic adoption of her wonderful book title.
The poet makes no claim of representing her thoughts; these are his own.

The Scent of God

To speak of deity
is automatic blasphemy
inside the gallery of man.
Here pontificates
the power beyond the stars,
who listens in when his
creation cries and sighs
and tactfully reminds him
of the plight of poor benighted
creatures on that speck of dust
that floats upon the milky way...

the grand old man between
the galaxies who loves and hates
according to the chirps
on planet earth...the triune spirit
who with cosmic skill unleashes
lightning on his enemies,
salvation on his friends,
and tomblike mystery to shroud
his everlasting court.

He is thought to come some day,
but in the interim, a sometime friend
who dwells quite far away for most of us.

...until...

our eyes turn far off from the skies,
our cup is emptied of his blood,
and we consent to do the listening.

Thereupon, the tongue is bound,
the breath will bear Jerusalem
unbreathed, the senses yield but for
a single vapor on the air,
the everlasting mystery ineffable,
that is the scent of God.
~

November falls asleep

November falls asleep

Outside, a world of grey...
no one there to share the bravery
of weakness, only those few ragged leaves
that fight the wind before
they resurrect, low flying
in their feeble lust to seek
a winter niche within the wood.

It is a time to celebrate regret,
to think of tears that wet the cheek
in spring, and dried in summer's heat—
of grief postponed until the seasons sighed
and left their challenge incomplete.
It's time to set out thoughts
and make them work, not just drift
into another winter unredeemed.
The leaves do that.

Desire forsakes itself.
There is too much sterility
to cold, forboding ground
that may not whisper of the spring...
too much to leave behind,
abandoning the prize of breath,
of dream,
of warm creative light that bursts out
from compassion's womb.

It takes departure
from a foetal berm,
impetuous to join the sojourners
who dare approach the city
where the pilgrims stay. It is there
around the sacrament of peace
they break the bread of unity
and drink the wine of love.

Beyond the gate are monstrous things
I have not known before,
and from the core of me
is sung the antiphon,
Thanks be to God!
~

Mind, reaching into the void

Mind, reaching into the void

The forest path pretends a voice
of purpose through distraction,
birds sound their curious intent, and then
the voices all around will cease to be,
time slows down, the lake
too far away to break the spell.

There when the leaves were down,
I bought the measure of an ending
that would crush a saint, a wild cry
inside me, resonating in a memory
engraved in pain that only I could know.

Late autumn is the time for gathering
not only of the harvest, but the fruits
of loss, the tearing, grinding
resignation of the sundered heart,
ever too obtuse to understand

Then it is one may perceive
the place within, the soft retreat
that speaks a stranger tongue—
a flight from mindlessness
to that familiar silent hovering.
A restless peace it is, but on another plain,
with still another kind of joy
that glows behind the sunset clouds.

There is a promise there
that one may count upon—
to be sure, as yet unknown.
The flight is past.
The mind is home.
~

Surprise

Surprise

Equanimity is like that—
great for day by day.
Triceratops comes out to play
among the smilers, scoffing
at his claimed reality;
the screams are left there,
hanging for a time,
when creativity refuses
to be stuffed back in the box.

The poor old fellow, horns and all,
will not be taken seriously,
no matter how he mugs
before the camera; believers yawn
until the soldiers join the march
behind the flags and pretty girls,
their pretty legs--and then the band!

Our ugly, born again,
intrepid hero with his plated armor
never had a chance;
it is his destiny to be unloved
and munch his vegetables,
and sink into the pit
that feeds the armed machine

far past the Pleistocene
that hovers on his dream.
~

But, is it true...

But, is it true...

A mind may settle in a groove
of circumstance suspended,
unaware of all the deep beneath,
all the sweet bouquets tossed out
by early travelers taking pity
on the darkness that they saw ahead;
they gave the best of theirs to give,
the little spurs of light , the baubles
that would never lead them forward,
only penetrate and stay,
waiting for their call.

And there they wait, the sperm
of new philosophy amid the flowers,
patronal in release, and bearing
thunder in their genes, a tracing
that will probe the silent ages
for the helpless now, and flashing,
flashing an integrity that says, "Go back
still more to celebrate
the birth of consciousness."

"Go back, into the womb of God,
the true mother of your soul.
You bear in your own body
all the scars of sacrifice,
all the seeds of wisdom,
all the triumph of eternity."

There is the litmus of belief,
the greatest postulate of faith,
and it is you.
~

Mission Statement

Mission Statement

My empire is the wind of change,
that blowing field of gift and seizure
out away from sanctuary,
out in wilderness domain, where
signs of hope are spare, redemption
may not intercede to foul the air,
and there is purity within.

There is the wisdom of intent,
the love that is not summoned forth,
but overflows when gain is sacrificed...
when nothing but dry grass is seen
upon the meadowland.
There is where creation soars;
there my sons are born.

I dream of fields like this.
My craving is for conquest
where the self gives way,
for there is tempest far beneath
my consciousness, where I may yield
and feel the morning on my face,
the deep desire of all the race
for home.
~

Ghost Ship

Ghost Ship

It is quiet on the bay
and boisterous on the shore;
the ship awaits its destiny,
romance awaits its foil and soon
departure claims its troth
above the lovers' agony,
beyond adventure's lore.

The sails are turned again to open sea,
the mast is high, all hands on deck,
and through the mist is scanned
the pathos on their faces,
eyes upon the land, and hearts
upon the lea they'll never cross again.

The Hollander is resolute,
the capstan locked, the deep possessed
for yet another seven years
of still horizon, salt upon the lips
and tales once more down in the hold
of tragic irony,
of love forever left behind.

Now in the night off foreign shores
when that dark hull appears
within the fog, or just above the clouds,
the captain might be seen alone
behind the wheel, and silent
as he listens for a distant bell
to sound the dawning
of his wedding day.
~

Campaign

Campaign

Poor truth will bear the blame for lies
and live in costume, in disguise.
It is for use, not sought for its pure self
but rather in polemics, overlooked,
profaned and booked on flights
of rhetoric and inexactitude.
It whores its beauty, sells its soul
adorned in profaned innocence
to die unnoticed and unmourned.

It is victory we must lament;
beware the buyer, dangling
that dessicated prize
before a January crowd,
for in its final moments
it had not the strength to weep.
~

Zooming In

Zooming In

Shall I take a single word along,
upon my morning walk?
The scars it left upon my mind
some days ago do not heal easily;
my pace is slower
as three unassuming letters
rake across it, once again
demanding more than I can give.
My step is ponderous
beneath the weight of just
'how long is now?'

When is the point that it begins?
When does it end, and why?
Is every 'now' in truth a 'then?'
and every need already in the past?
I stumble then. Oh dear.
Precisely when is that?
~

Encounter

Encounter

There we were, my coffee cup and I
secluded in the corner booth
where flights of new realities,
my own created children, rose and soared
and readily transmogrified, touched down
and died according to my will.

I loved them all.
They were my fleet of consciousness
and altogether temporal,
yet in their frailty could darken houselights,
raise their stage to hide the universe
and for the nonce assume totality.

A single wisp of thought came through
and it was no surprise to be aware
that the professor with his pipe,
tweed coat and frowzy hair
now sat across and looking at me
quizically, but not disposed
to answer any questions

I was eager to propose, though I
had read his latest book, and knew
his vast research could lead me
down the path I wished to go.

For the moment I could merely know
he was my august puppet, not my key
to magic chests of insight... that he shared
the wisdom of the academes
that I once listened to,
and who would only point the way.

My cup was empty; I snapped back
and saw the room return, and it was time
to kill him off in tenderness. "You know"
he said, as he began to fade,
"I cannot help but go out wondering,
what kind of God are you?"
~

Crossing

Crossing

It is time.
My forehead brushed with kisses,
I am blessed with knowing
in a moment they will close my eyes
and cover me...send their prayers
across that soft grey wall I see now,
drifting in...I try
to form my lips into
the love words...
try...
~