Tuesday, March 17, 2015

last night's dal

last night's dal
predawn breakfast
ciabatta cooling

so hard to send
smells in words
across the sea

17 march 2015

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Melting

I am falling to you
as unique as anything in
this universe could ever be.

Not as one who loves you
for who and what could
with senses; know you,
and not love you?

Who and what who has
stolen a view of the gentle
tremor of your lips; smiling,
could possibly turn away?

Except in bashfulness like
a child caught staring
at his first encounter of beauty
from across the recess yard.

I am unique.
I am unique because as
a snowflake happens only once;
as it crystallizes into complexity,
for only one; once,

to be gazed upon by your eyes;
your deep green eyes.

I shall have the one journey cast from
an ice cloud and fall, and fall, and fall
as I fall into you.

And after we briefly see each other,
after anticipation;
excitement,
and landing on your delicate nose,
knowing I shall disappear.

Giving you only one sensation;
the only one that I am capable of, then
melt into less than a droplet of water
into your snowy skin.

But I will not disappear from this world;
I will be absorbed into your being;
become part of you. And
so fleeting as the moment was;
I am become part of you which

is where I have waited my entire
existence for;
it is, where I belong.

(10 March, 2015)

Tuesday, March 03, 2015

the horse and the rider

This was written with no edits as part of an archetypes and visual imagery exercise in which I selected some Tarot cards and one Archetype card (by Sandra Myss) then used the images as cues with as little left-brain thinking as possible. This was written in about 15 minutes. It is interesting what still came out. Or maybe it isn't surprising.

--

the horse and the rider
trusting fate will come to them
as one or one as two
or two becoming one

with the innocence and trust of a child
of a newborn not yet with knowledge
not yet holding the power of choice
the power of choosing

one path leaves wreckage in its trail
another leaves seeds of life to grow
is it like the trust of the mother and her child
does she know that the child

could be the knight
could be the soldier
or the poet
or warrior monk

could she know that the child
could have the power to create
the power to destroy
the power to make others laugh

the power to make multitudes cry in sorrow
is the sorrow a thing of invention
is it a thing of creation
just as she created the child

or is it a mirror of herself
is the child to be the knight to fight all her dragons
and shed the blood of enemies
or is the child just a mirror of a self

  she would rather not see
  but knows in her heart she is a part of


(February 18, 2015)

Monday, February 09, 2015

Saturday, February 07, 2015

Maestoso

Brahm's "Maestoso" in the hands of Grimaud
Drift down in sheets against a Hebridean sky.

Sudden warm breath above a cold swaying sea
Impinges a moment's annoyance; violation,

Daring to slip a feather onto stony anvil;
Her fingers graze across a sandpapery mane

Seeping her softness into the saline crust
Of the sepulchre of the equine malcontent.

7 February, 2015

*"Maestoso" is the first movement of Brahm's 1st Piano Concerto. In this case, performed by Helène Grimaud with the Southwest German Radio Symphony Orchestra, Michael Gielen conducting.

Wednesday, February 04, 2015

Flow

In silence dark masses move;
emotions flow like cooling magma;
like tunneling magma trying to find light;

trying to reach the sky
beneath surging, crashing waves,
violently cooled, subdued by cold;

by metallic brine and cleansing foam
but finding form as steam;
angrily escaping mother's clutch;

ejected into air, seeking darkness again
beyond the blue dome, a frontier to
a still vacuum, one without sound;

the brittle cold of space,
the expanses between celestial bodies,
between stars, galaxies and nebulas;

the closest distance from this state of mind
and an enlightened existence
foregoing circles of cause and effect.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Napoleon's Horses

Like Napoleon's horses in the Russian winter;
He slips and slides across the frozen river
Sensing the waterbed that lies beneath.

The chilly grave that preserves until Spring thaw
When the carcass of his cares will be freed.
Those who drown always keep their last expression;

Those who find the lost lose morsels of their faith
To a desire that only human hearts can dream of;
And only a god's neurosis would consider granting.

He remembers as sounds of brittle crystals cracking
That using one's last moments in prayer is foolhardy.

January 29, 2015

Galloping Fuck

Today's vernacular for Buddhist detachment: I don't give a galloping fuck.