Remembering

Remembering

See the images parading, passing,
falling back into retreat,
their rest still unassured
while restless mind may hover o'er the field,
to feed upon white faces,
pioneers who hunger for the light.

Old friends, old teachers
do not resurrect...their coffins
closed forever, neither does
identity within a mental photograph
corrupt, but dwell upon the ether
I inhale as if it were a live daguerreotype,
persisting in my consciousness.

And there they are, secure,
profound beyond corporeal,
a voice transcending earth,
a portrait brighter than the sky
that lives because it cannot die,
and of its musty sweetness
one could scarcely comprehend
the everlasting hologram,
a shrine though hardly seen,
where love and truth prevail.

If that does not confound a man,
then memory may rightly fade,
its heros wrapped in softness,
packed away beneath the earth,
and never visited again.
~

Innocents Abroad

Innocents Abroad

Scarce a year it was before my birth,
that Lindy set The Spirit down
at Le Bourget one night
and all the old voitures
as suddenly lit up the runway
with their headlights.
as he taxied to a stop.

Thirty years beyond, I landed there
from fair Bruxcelles and it was day;
the city of the light took rest
avant le gaiete of night—
there was no welcoming;
"Attencion Monsieur,
you are in zee way,"
and my attempt at French
brought only curious stare.

"Et je n'ai pas de plus argent
and little more to bear me home
to Orleans. Je suis un etranger
dans ma cite des grandes lumieres, "
I thought, and sent my fond farewell
to Brussels and its wondrous minature
Etats Unis and Circarama
still unknown in fifty years back here.

Sacre Bleu! C'est incroyable
that naked little boy in Belgium,
and the Champs above the catacombs
in Paris, now still flaunt their youth,
their vibrancy, as I advance
to that dim room somewhere
when irony prevails—that Lindy,
luckier than I, will share with me
the just equality of death.
~

On my birthday

On my Birthday

There are a thousand births like mine
in that cluster of the noosphere
the rolling earth had left behind—
where birth and death joined hands
to siphon off the heavens in a moment,
in a block of space
etched by an evanescent time.

A thousand births, a hundred years,
and altogether disappeared
as father of the father of my father
will not cause extrusion of a single tear
nor anything beyond a dusty line
of history—the earth will not look back
upon the airless cubicles, and I

may smile upon the moment
when my father smiled, and let it go.
Within that crystal box, and scarce observed
there is a breath drawn in,
another sent away...
a candle life ignited, snuffed,
to float out to the stars, unseen,
where memory is like the rising mist
that one time only
may refresh the morning air.
~

On Beauty

On Beauty

It is no ordinary stop that captivates,
no lush green paradise
as if to flush the ugliness of war.
There is instead, that rush of purity
that sweeps across the panorama of the mind
to speak of the uncommon,
of something changing everything
just by standing still.

It is said that pain is that which will evoke
the journey to the mountain peak, yet
quest is the fulfillment of desire
and not the burning fire of dreams
that dance before the one to seek
the pinnacle of art.

And when the best defining
may not approach the mark of truth
that in that sacerdotal lay
God dwells in you...
that on the shining rim of day
God dwells in you!—

it is to know
the fairest beauty of them all.
In supreme accolade
before the fair impossible
white angel of a far ineffable
white paradise, there comes
a son of man, a daughter of the earth
for whom all worlds, all time
attends.
~

Zero Point Field*

Zero Point Field*

A mind is something not content
with stimulus-response,
but must go flying off
into the never lands
to see if they are there...
and when reporting back,
at best is greeted with a stare
of incredulity.

But minds are stubborn things
that go on processing
both truth and doubt,
and greeting fantasy as friend enough
to squeeze it, probe it,
love it with a clinical devotion
plain romance would never understand.

Of such a love as this is born the light
that penetrates both time and space
and bounces back into the consciousness
of humankind and feisty lean bacteria
forever bound in brotherhood.

Pride is the casualty.
The idiot savant may lead
the Hawkings of the world
into the wondrous places,
those diaphanous and misty islands
that their instruments could not disclose,
that were in fact not even there
until he thought of them

and like a painter, sketched the trees,
perfumed the air,
and filled the surface crown
with many-colored animals
never seen before—
and then with idiot delight
might whisk it all away
before their eyes.

Not the stuff of fantasy, all this.
We would endorse the cry of unity,
accept the god of miracles,
the triumph of a science
leaping past his lordly heels,
but this? To heal the sick
by thinking back before their birth?
To marry the millenia ahead
with history?

It is a bigger field on which we play,
too much to entertain the day
with less than breathless wonderment—
to see beyond the window
where the scientist and God
rest finally from all the work
that they have done.
~
*In order to fully understand this relatively simple
poem, it is necessary to read "The Field" by Lynne
McTaggart. Both the evidence and the speculation
that she presents, is truly mind-boggling.

Jody Too

Jody Too

Jody was nine, her namesake calf
but newly-born, soon shorn
of his vitality, to be a steer
and hers alone, for just a year;
it was for both of them to grow,
and know of love. Thus
with her brush and comb
and her aplomb above the skin;
she rushed the hours on
until the day the Four-H show
crowned Jody Too in blue.

It was the day
that Jody learned to weep,
for champions are made
not just of love alone,
but masterly caress of shank and bone,
organic marbling, and charts
and sleeplessness;
there were dark forshadowings,
insistent silent taunts forced back
upon the trip home from the fair...
yet there were weeks beyond, to dare.

She knew she could not dwell
upon the end that she must not ignore.
There was no store of stoicism
in her heart, no lust for sacrifice,
no practiced separation might be there
to strengthen her, prepare her
for the market day when she could see
her father readying the truck for those
magnificent black steers,
(nine hundred pounds enhanced
each frame) and watch them
on the ramp.

From her bedroom window all of them
were seen on board, then Jody Too,
when eyes still dry, she turned her face away,
her own tear-drenched goodbye an hour before.
Her father had not known, came in,
and in bucolic wisdom, thus
invited her to watch them go.
She shook her head, there was
no consolation for her dread.
"Dad, Jody knew!"
~

That we cannot know

That we cannot know

The role is servanthood,
that which belongs as some sweet entity
but dangerous, a tendency to fulsome loyalty,
a liquid unction serving as supporting arch,
complete so long as it is rare, and yet
no matter how abstemious the doing,
hate brews underneath, the kind
that unarticulated, strengthens
with the rising heat of day.

The pommeled human clay
assumes its destiny, its birth and death
a twisted dwarf in halflife,
the pity flowing from above
as some mad spring,
its flowers just to touch
before the king might choose—
inhale their sweetness
or to crush them
underneath his royal feet.

It is done.
They stand before us,
waiting but for grace or martyrdom,
the father and the son,
the slave not yet complete,
the master, orb in hand
and shadowing the sun—
and who will speak,
and who will write
of justice at the last?
~

Grave's Eloquence

Grave's Eloquence

It was as if a friend I never knew
came in to speak of some old honor
left behind while in the rush to war...
as if there were a bond
between the tides of men
expressed upon an ancient scroll,
and pressed into the mind.

I do not know how it occurred
but found that words may have their birth
as heartsong from the other side
where seasoned consciousness
emerges not from men,
but from those fallen souls
incarnate in the spirit void.

These are the words of passion that we cling to,
that even in their error,
echo in the hollow corridors
where heroes strolled,
intoned by eyes alone,

and as I sit before my desk,
drop tears upon the book I read...
confronting old vitality,
then in a stone engraving
now refreshed by immortality,
there is a timeless, personal rapport
I may yet presume to understand...
a strange new epithet,
that life begins at death.
~

Chasing down the day

Chasing down the day

For a fallen man there came
a most engaging metaphor;
the light persists while consciousness endures,
streams out across the empty spaces
particle and wave, and unconfined,
immediate and still abstract,
dubious as wind whose origin
is steeped in mystery, whose end
forever lost in the unknown, as is
creation of a mind, reaching out
beyond the galaxies to seek where history began.

And then antonymous, a mindless rule
opposed, squeezing from its barren birth canal
to celebrate an instant death
(god from god
light from light
very god from very god)
while torches blazed in protest,
the light not of itself, illuminated
just itself alone!
And there was evening; there was morning
on that first stupendous day.

So the wars began.
So the gods processed in irony,
and so the little people far below
held festivals of light
in triumph over dark
until the sun burned out,
their cannons fired no more,
and they no longer could remember
how to pray.
~

Divine Arrogance

Divine Arrogance

The little man stepped just beyond
transcendence from his little world
and found divinity outside. The huge surprise
was that he found no throne, no kindly spirit
there, no lowering papa in the sky
but there was ecstasy in emptiness
he had not seen between the stars,
between the frenzied prayers of men
who sold their commentaries on belief.

What irony to note the hidden god
who sent him back without reward.
That humankind might lift the sword
and find it weak, inadequate, the symbol
of a stumbling gospel half believed,
half emasculated from the altars
censed in smoke.

And then to venture deep within at last,
emerges just the glimmer of a cosmic pride
that always turns away
until our tongues receive the simple sacrament
of love, and only then
our knees may serve as pedestals
for truth.
~

God thoughts

God thoughts

From on the bank above the bay,
I see the passing ships embrace
this newborn world of me,
unknowing of my captaincy
that maintains their course
along horizon's edge, connecting worlds,
combatting tempests of the mind.

Inside their little universe, they do not see
their god look on. They do not know
about his helpless love,
about his curious majesty
enabling electrons to perform
before his eyes among
the unseen planetary orbs.

Quite the bemused deity am I
to watch my little boats defy
the corner of my paradise
that blurs my sight,
and powered only by my love
will disappear into the night.

Impractical am I, and wise enough
to send them storm and peace
and sun to keep their faces dry.
And only I have destiny
to contemplate, for I
have given them the last, best watch
before their midnight,
and before the shadows die.
~

...and I must write

...and I must write

I hear crescendo in my body,
bursting at the fissures in my mind,
churning up the tears that flow from springs
inside the prototype of flesh that I became...
far back when dreamers went exploring.

I hear the song passed on
from those grey men who marched,
and laid their hopes aside,
their passion drained—I hear the word drums
beating cadence as I rest.

I do not know what is to come,
yet I may not hold fast
against its strange caress,
invincible duress that emptiness alone
invites in spirit intercourse.

It isn't quite enough
to joke of muses, deities,
or objects of desire.
It is the hollow place inside
that calls, that sets a turbulence

too urgent to deny. And I
must serve its singular intent,
accomplice to its mystery
and lover to its fervent power
so long as it prevails.

We are a race caught up
together in romance,
a melding of delight and sorrow
in the dance of arrows to the heart—
a dance of danger and necessity.

Now may such wonder be preserved,
and understanding such a rarity
as to be left behind. The cadence thrums
its unforgiving song,
and will you dance with me?
~

Resurrection

Resurrection

The dead still walk
within our memories,
and breathe
and smile
and talk
inside that strange preserve we keep,
a room still redolent with life
above the boxes where they sleep.

What irony prevails, that we
may call them forth upon a whim
as frozen servants microwaved,
enjoyed, and then returned at will
to their uncertain rest.

Might we indulge them,
favoring a spirit laugh
at our audacity?
Might they indeed, be guiding us
inside our stumbling bones,
inside this diorama
quite obsessed by touch?

We might do well to understand
they fly to us
with such astounding love
to fill our reminiscences
upon demand, and yet
with sad politeness fade away
at suppertime.
~

Divine Deafness

Divine Deafness

There were shadows
shaped like feathers in your words,
drifting in and out of focus—
a consciousness that could not speak.
though mightily it tried

without pretending anything,
without a shred of pride,
and made of sweet politeness
with its wild vibrations
pulling back upon sincerity

as if it cried—
as if it knew that there was more
unsaid, and holding back
caught time alone, and held it close.
There was a trust

before a distant God
who might emerge all wooly,
open to both lust and sacrifice
and sheltering the I and Thou
beneath a cosmic question mark—

beneath his baking sun...beneath his glory
you and I beheld with some amazement,
for the saga quite compressed
within a moment's irony
had only just begun.
~

Afar

Afar

Beyond the plain,
beyond the distant hills
the coast is calling,
even in its silent diffidence
proclaiming richness to horizon's crust,
that here is where the world begins—
here is where a man may throw
his soul into the wind, and gather
echoes for the journey home.

Here the ember glow of vigil
still betrays old fire of mariners
who lie beneath the sea, of broken men
who saw the land again,
and of the ones who dared
to carry England to the left of God.

Here is where one breathes
the scent of history,
here where romance was hovering
when rest alone was hungered for.
And it was here where blue-eyed visionaries
raced,
and flew,
and shot out for the stars.

And there is yet a timeless phalanx
built of heroes lined upon the shore,
the ones who face new hazards every day,
do not quail before the hot demands
of solvency. We're dealing
with a system made of irony,
of reticence, yet steel resolve
amid a fantasy annointed with desire.

No wonder death appeals,
for it is either summary completion,
or an open highway
to a plain where more aesthetic sophistry
proclaims its awe.
It is the choice afar
that rides upon the mist above the land,
that reaches with a man
beyond the twilight of the day,
beyond the churlish midnight toll
to celebrate the flourish
of the dawn.
~

To Know Regret

To Know Regret

It was a misplaced trust, a moment
that refused to slip away—
a burning for a lifetime
just because it could have been avoided;
there was a time to shroud temptation,
pathos selected just to try it on.

And there I was, my verbal sword
undrawn until the moment,
and at impulse came the thrust
to free another's blood,
and interpose in me,
a strange, quixotic love,
impossible to seek.

It is a curious thing,
this wallowing in paradox—
this gravitas so chosen of a whim
that streams may flow down
each remaining breath...and wondrous,
for it bleeds the heart as well
and makes of tears a fountainhead
to birth a new humanity

—a curiosity indeed, that arrogance
is conquered by its own default
while love defiled is lovely still
and in its frailest sovereignty,
its unequivocal reward.
~

All my trials, Lord

All my trials, Lord

The thrust of mind on every plane
relflects adversity...
and life idealized
is every life that cannot ever be.

Profound, the misanthrope that operates
behind the shadow of our consciousness.
Pervasive is the hate that flavors
that bright charity abounding
in a smile benign,
yet shallow in design. We would not trace it,
dare not face its counterpart
inside. It hurts too much.

There is one injury that cannot heal,
that echos down the corridor of all reality,
confining us within
the little world we own;
the hurt that never fades
is like that stubborn visitor
L'esprit de l'escalier,
a threshold of regret.

Perhaps such thorn as this
within a well-kept soul
is our condign salvation,
our protection from insanity
remembering too well
a frailty too easy to forget.
~

The Interstices of Time

The Interstices of Time

Time's world is porous.
One may slip between the fabric weaving,
journeying upon the back of art and music,
poetry and meditation,
and the offering of love.
It is transition in a paradox
of peace-filled paroxysm
faith would not accommodate.
Then just beyond, the spirits gather
for a welcome that exceeds imagining.
There the past and future laugh
at their deception, vanishing like smoke.

Come to the marrying
of fear and celebration,
the collision of realities
we never sorted out.
It's over there a bit,
where mornings never yield
to resting suns, and yesterdays
that know not how to say goodbye.

The pathways lie within your dreams
but far outside as well.
and all penultimate
to that grand boulevard that we forsake
with each device of breath
and one insensitive laconic label,
death.

~

The Course

The Course

Mine is the fountain of the winds,
that glorious whorl of happenings
pursuing one another, chasing of
the leaves so carefully laid down
as plans and dreams and victories
far gone or still to come, or faded
fast away in disillusionment.

I wear the garment of the visitor
upon the hill, the novice on the green,
not so much confused as
dazzled by the pace of cosmic rush
upon my little universe
where once tranquility was queen.

Mine are the rising waters
cast in peril rather than as grace.
Mine is the face of questioning
upon the headlong child
who found himself half reaching back
to grasp the pre-dawn shadows,
still compelled to march into the sun.

It is a time to celebrate the doubt,
not to lament. It is that prime ingredient
that may transform existence into life,
the first and final breath into
a festival of everlasting spring.

Mine are the verdant mountaintops,
their offering a panoply of view
to stretch the heart,
to heat and cool the veins
with love and fire and joyous lust
and at the last, contented rest.
~

Take neither cloak nor staff

Take neither cloak nor staff

It takes a manner of a sweetness
laboring each day to build a faith
forsaking complex structures,
knowing there's a paradise afoot
...a stubborn joy that clings like sand
to those retreating from the beach.

That serendipitous refreshment from fatigue
comes when forgotten love speaks out
behind the shining other world out there
that looms in some tendentious ecstasy.

It takes a bible, doesn't it?
A yellowed, well-thumbed document
to hold beneath the spotlight—
add a mellow-voiced evangelist
who holds beneath contempt
an anti-perspirant
or yet a scholar's honest sweat;
it takes a book upheld
from mesmery.

A bit of holy trickery is all it takes.
Saints turned out like sausages,
with sandals worn so thin
that they must shake the dust
from off itinerant feet,
ooze forth salvation as they can, yet
praise the Lord, the blessings
flow more sluggishly this year,
the price of widows' mites
more dear.

And was it Satan who lived on
to fall another day?