Bottles in the Sea

Hundreds

at the bottom in a finite reading
of forever, never rising,
washed onto an island shore,
caught in mangrove roots somewhere,
or floating still upon the wavelets.

Those well-sealed imprint
a consciousness alive
that breathes its shred of wisdom
on the window of the years,

and wait.
~

Epilogue

There are too many miracles invading the earth--
too many old ones, given short shrift,
gratuitous, and faded yellow.
I'd like to make a moratorium on time,
then stoop to look at them,
allow my fingers simpler luxuries
before they race away.
I see a page of jerks and starts,
forgotten hiccups, little coffins closed
and never locked. awaiting my return.
Something knew.

Now when the end arrives, I too
will think again of my own plodding
sentences that covered up the gaps.
While hoping it was not, I knew the pretense.
There was too much to do.

It seems to be a good thing
that lamentations can be second-hand.
To make a literary bent a slave
to such convenience it could trick a cardinal.
Or me.

Might it then be
for such nefarious purpose
that good prophet Jeremy lives on?
~

Iconoclast

We do not die; we live.
To call it "after life" is a mistake.
Consciousness is life, life is love,
and love is reaching.
It cannot stop, only be forgotten
after a new birth when the mother planet
conspires with ego.
Then it is that a man
becomes born again...
or wallows in the womb.
~

Caesura

I thought the night came in like fog,
like quanta, in degree,
the cosmic umbra of a consciousness.
But falling was the better choice,
a trembling twilight curtain,
then the blanket of the day
that threw itself at that last peace
and set the scene where all the particles
of dust were past remembering;
the skydome opened,
the latent breath a mystery.

Here was a portrait sketched in blackness
from beyond the now...
the unknown second uncreated,
time in its arrest.
And yet to come?
~

Meditation on solitude

The light along the bay burned through the night
as if to emphasize the dark, not tame
it, throw the hours upon slow fire and show
that one keeps watch, and may not sleep, as if
there hovered over him a stillness he
could not profane.

From each high moment's passing ecstasy
a stubborn and exasperating love
lurked underneath, fed by a god, perhaps.
There was a wrenching, nagging urge to change,
to weep for those who can no longer weep
and offer them the tears. He knew

that every soul who finds himself alone
upon the stage when pomp and circumstance
is over, then might contemplate the bag
of lenses that he took from all the years
before, and testing one.......his very own,
would look for some far palace on the hill.

Alas

The child of every age is prisoner
between soft barricades of stubborn self.
No wonder death is the escape of choice,
for everyone makes change of circumstance
but when the night arrives the walls still hold,
the shackles are secure and freedom is
a strange and distant song.

He would not sing to dawn, unthinkable.
For set apart, his journey was within,
the walls his covering, and their soft flesh
his eminent domain. And all we need
to see is just the light reflecting there
upon the water, through the endless night.
~

Pet Peeves

OK, everybody, it's time to air our frustrations. Perhaps all of us can gain some insight by hearing about how others view certain things.

My own concerns include frustration with careless language usage. Nearly every mature person these days has at least been through high school. Why is it, then, that we have difficulty exressing ourselves beyond the fourth grade level? There should really be no confusion about the difference between "lie" and "lay"--among "their," "there," and "they're," between "jibe" and "jive," between "its" and "it's," between "to" and "too", and believe it or not, between "knew" and "new!" There are a number of other careless expressions as well. Generations ago we let the "setting sun" slip by to replace "sitting" and that is not recoverable, but most common errors are today. One has only to read essays written by academia to be aware that good usage is still respected by those who care. Of course there have been serious proposals to make english a phonetic language, and they make sense with respect to an example or two, but carrying such a trend to its logical conclusion would produce an almost unreadable result for most of us.

So that is just one of my own "pet peeves." Your reactions would be interesting, as would the sharing of your own concerns, and of course they do not have to be limited to language usage. Mores, custom, too-casual attitudes about work, corporate and governmental power, distortions to influence thinking, and much more, are all fair game. What do you think?

A bit of arrogance

Today I am assuming leadership (realizing that my chances are next to nil) in a cause that I have long endorsed. In these times of "political correctness" one of the accommodations that is definitely catching on, is inclusive language. English needs a neutral pronoun, desperately..."he" is no longer an acceptable substitute for "s/he", "he or she", "it" or "their" when a trans-gendered reference in pronoun form is needed. And, it borders on the ridiculous, when referring to a deity.Accordingly, whenever a gender-free pronoun is needed, I am suggesting "ke" (pronounced KAY) for the pronoun in nominative case, and "kira" (pronounced KEE-ruh) for the objective and possessive cases "him, her, his and hers" and pledge myself to use them henceforth whenever indicated, until someone suggests a better alternative. Of course, the traditional forms would be retained in the majority of cases where they suffice--males would still be "he" and females still "she." Remembering the "rule" is simple: When a non-gendered pronoun is desired, use "ke" instead of "he" and "kira" in place of "him" or "his." Thus for inclusive non-sexism, and theological use , as an example, I present my latest poem:
Divine Paradox

The greatest glory is the silent God
in kira wisdom meeting prayers without
a single answer, yet in kira grace
imparting breath to every soul in quest
of mystery.

Ke who would disagree might well recall,
ke cannot teach the one who knows it all.
There is no spark, no fire in what is done
to speed a victory already won.
A cosmic invitation to the dance
is life, a cosmic "yes" a fatal trance
imposed for every lethargy to come.
~

posted by Dean at 4:59 PM

Comments:
LolaMaria said...
First question: ~ what is the root of your new non-gender pronoun... is it Latin?second, ~ Did you know that there are genderless pronouns now being used?Quote:Depending on how one counts, there are between three and five groups using GNP's (gender neutral pronouns) actively on the Net. The two most popular seem to be "sie, hir, hir, hirs, hirself", (especially "hir"), and "zie, zir, zir, zirs, zirself". The latter apparently came into being after a German-speaking netizen objected to "sie" and "Sie", which in many contexts means "she" in German. Third and fourth, differing only in the first and maybe last word, are "e or ey, em, eir, eirs, eirself or emself". Fifth, some people use "per", from "person", which i assume has the set "per, per, pers, pers, persself", although i've never seen it developed that far. I've not actually seen this in use on the net, but i've seen people on the net who claimed to use it all the time in their own lives.For an excellent discussion of gender-neutral pronouns, see John Williams's site at GNP. Here's the link:http://www.aetherlumina.com/gnp/John's page is #1 of about 2,400 in its class, on Google searches. "Words and Women" by Casey Miller and Kate Smith is a great book about the genderless pronoun.
12:52 PM
Dean said...
To answer, the "root" is the process of elimination, not a particular other language. Contrary to most of the suggestions you refer me to, mine are simple, include the deity (whoever ke may be), use only two substitutes, and should be easy to remember. With respect to the discussion linked here, I'll put my own suggestions up as a better solution.
4:52 PM

My Heresy

I like my God much better than the one
who made his home up in the stratosphere
and favored us with visits now and then,
harrumphing down below about the way
that we behave, and tantalizing us
with sticks and carrots grown especially
for those who said the secret word or not,
by having properly proclaimed one man
a king: all this, of course. was indirect.
The voice of supernature wasn't heard;
the being had a handicap as beings will,
and yet the silence was as heaven-sent.
For I, the fallen one, would live because
the son would die. That was the sense of it.

But making sense is for the sensible,
and arms and legs and progeny fall short
of that pure consciousness which stubbornly
insists on such intangibles as wind
and breath and spirit time to mark
its age, its truth, and its enlightenment.

It is in such an ocean that I swim;
It is in such transcendant holiness
that I perceive a new enlightenment
to scale the mountaintops, to part the mist,
and finally to show the face of God.
~

Home

It was more than sentiment, more than familiar,
more than that persistent love
impossibly respiring in the corners
when the other occupants left me alone
one weekend.
It was the empty chair, left out of place,
uncaring whether its last user might return,
identity secure in its distinctive history--
sensed more than known.

Now I marvel at the ease
of turning back the years,
and in the picture of a memory
to see not words or faces,
merely furniture, a still in time,
a mental photograph,
poised to take again its function
hours or centuries ahead, no matter;
I, caught standing there
inside the silent room,
gave welcome to the flooded chest
that comes from that outrageous mix
of absolute contentment
and the pain of loneliness.

The mind is fond of this obsessive gazing,
tracing the indelible perspective
of a moment that would never count
as even an event,
never take its place in stories
one would share--
and yet make wonderment a part
of those few dust-encrusted seconds
long ago
when only pathos was perfection...

It was then I knew
for once I did not dare
to take a single step away.
I've not been home again.
~

The Courage to Be

This little two-stanza ditty may not be the best poem I have ever written, but I consider it the most important. Until a few days ago, I never realized how much of ourselves we bring to all experience, and how essential to growth is the inward journey.

The Courage to Be

"Will I be free?" he asked,
and Wisdom answered,
"No, for when you look within
you are both prisoner and prison.
See? Your sentence is eternal.

"There, inside of you
is all of humankind
and all of God
and all that you will ever know.
Without is never that domain
which you may rule or enter.
You do well to rest in awe, for
in your incompleteness
you are whole."
~

nice tribute to FDR here

http://www.truthout.org/docs_2005/printer
_041805X.shtml

(paste both lines together)

Thoughts from reading

I have been intrigued of late, probably stimulated by a recent book, about this business of how we see things...that each of us is prisoner of the unique lens within us, and how much that explains different religions, different social views, and even different preoccupations. We send out probes to examine questions that we think are important, and these probes do influence us, but they never create us. No one will ever see things in the exact same light. Evolutionarily speaking, we may be headed to that goal, but I think even in the spirit world, there remains a diversity of lenses. Each of us, no matter how much we may have in common with another, has his or her own "worldview." It is why we have an opportunity to learn from anyone--why no one is beneath us, or deserving of our contempt. It is also why we truly are unable to judge another person, particularly for that person's opinions....She or he simply is at that point in life, and if one ultimately changes because of something you or I have said, we may be sure that other factors were involved. Prisoners we are, and also locked gatekeepers to those outside. We may choose to let in their probes, but they will not gain entrance, and cannot. Therein lies the paradox. We are all one--we are made of the same stuff. Our quarks flash on and off with those of everyone else. Yet we are armored islands.

I want to place a sign on my beach: "Everyone welcome." Alas, they cannot come.

There is, however, hope...hope that some nice amphibious boats will keep trying, while I stand on shore encouraging them. There is hope that the prison walls may be breached someday, if they are attacked from both inside and out. How is that possible? One way alone may sweep them down. One way alone may someday establish a beachhead.
And, that is love.

What do you think?

All in a mortal's work

God factories abound upon the mountains
and the plans are written in the holy books
but lack consistency from page to page...
reason enough to keep the cubicles apart,
unwired; the laborers are always free
to improvise.

So there are gods for sale.
Choose yours.
Some are free of charge
but then the prototypes are never up to date.
Others willingly accept a sacrifice or two
but do expire if not renewed.

There, I just made mine again,
my lump of clay as yet unfired.
Do you like Her?... Yes?
It is a pity that I cannot say the same
for yours.
~

Full circle

The day came bumbling along
when he found time
just to look across at Dad
and wonder if he noticed--
if he'd be there down the line,
when it was time
that he become a dad to wonder
at such sure magnificence,
that there would be another soul
t o pause...and look at him.

Twice in one generation,
thunder rumbling to be heard...
one kind of love
to be extinguished by the sun.
Unspoken.
Wondrous.
~

Meanderings and ruminations

I began to think of a state of mind, and wonder if it is a small chunk of universal mind, or is it all my own. Does it choose my dreams, or leave that to the unconscious? I'm thinking this is what time travel is all about, and before one returns to his home reality, has he indeed left his body? Has he crossed dimensions? What is the stimulus for separating realities? Is there a parallel between this, and what he can do when he leaves his physical lifetime, and becomes spirit alone? Here are my thoughts breeding questions...breeding a lesson in patience. The answers will come, and along with them, more questions. It makes one contemplate his death with the stirrings of appetite.

Another tongue

I want to share with you, the fact that the following poem is in response to a contest...to write on the subject of poetry! Here was my entry:

Another tongue

If passion speaks beyond self-centered will,
if stones may cry aloud because a man
keeps silence, or if whispers wash the mind
as storms in springtime will refresh the earth,
then it is poetry that feeds our hearts.

At birth it is a soft caress that would
protect and nourish thought in gentleness,
to draw from deep within, a song that prose
could not express, a sigh devoid of art
that art alone may sing, the singer but
an instrument, and that of conscious awe.

All this, and still demanding to be heard,
for if it were not so, we would not know
or speak of poets; wars might then be just
regretted or dismissed as lost for lack
of strategy; arms would be taken up
for power alone and men would then survive
in shallow grief, insouciant within,
a tired state of lethargy, where no one
ever cares.

The powers of heavenly places may be thanked,
for muses dwell upon Olympus, not
within the hell of circumstance or haste
or juvenile romance--for there
is power indeed when insight travels where
the lofty giants led and left upon
their pages majesty, and bled, and wept,
and gave us beauty that device alone
could try to emulate, but merely fade
and vanish from the mind.

Gossamer breastplate

There are the walls of flesh that hold us fast
upon this devil's island of an earth,
deceptive paradise of blue and green
that calls on birth to bond us, death to let
us go.

We are the restless spirits , ponderous
in bone and sinew, all but frozen in
a time continuum where only dreams
and stillness open windows to the light.
It is the soul's dark night that keeps us bound
when all the whirling universe holds court
outside, and we who touch the blinking quarks
but may not pass between them, are but half
angelic, waiting, wondering...

Perhaps there is a vesture that the mind
and not the eyes, may see and might there be
a trumpet to awake us after all,
a wonderhorn indeed, to sing of a
reality that may escape the dreams,
the torturous parade of lifetimes we
require to probe the mind of God?
~

Incarnate Dreams

There was a dome spread overhead
in that first lifetime, holding back
the waters and the gods;
perhaps there was a place beneath it
for the lesser thoughts that never grew,
but drifted easily away.

There was a summer when the mariners,
adrift upon the still Sargasso sea,
thought of the nearly-dead,
and though enlightened,
waited for the moment when
another dome, less tangible,
might, crashing down,
be shattered into evanescent pieces,
to their requisitioned end.

There was a pleasure dome,
defined by men at play,
in ancient time, and then anew
where thoughts were cast away.

There was a dome upon a hill
where men had once looked up,
spoken their noblest dreams aloud
...and everything was still.
~

A Song to the Unsung

These are the ones who dare,
these gloved old men with plastic bags
who roam the lanes on foot
while I drive by,
for they are more aware
of the adorning, aleatoric splendor
of the flashing crinkled cans,
the cups and wrappings
scorning those who prized them
for the moment, flying
to their rest, behind.

But now the countryside stripped bare
in naked challenge to the passers by
invites its heroes, still unsure
who they may be,the revellers who flee
before their minds take rest
upon their artifice, or those
who prize the green and see the art
of the pristine.
~

My Doppelganger

I've seen him only once
and then but feet away
outside the streetcar window;
whether he saw me,
or fled my sight deliberately
I cannot say, however

I still sense him near,
and might it be
that I shall meet him only
on the day I die--
some kind of irony in store?
Yet how I wish
there might be more,

that I might probe his psyche
as he brushes mine.
And does he pine
for yet another glimpse of me
confirming that October day
some fifty years ago
when I was borne away?
~