this one is dedicated to George W. Bush
Between midnight and twilight,
Somewhere here
Strange sounds emanate.
Voices of cultures we don’t acknowledge.
Somewhere here
In the darkness of prejudices
There is music we’ve yet learn to hear.
Frayed ends start with whipped lines,
Conscience in the guise of compliance.
Past is not past, it just is,
When faces remain in the shadow hungry
We learn to let the voices remain silent.
Denying infants milk is a learned behavior,
Giving a stump as aid is a learned behavior.
After all we are a learned culture
We know how to twist our backs,
Eyes looking at the television,
Fingers changing channels.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Hummingbirds
Heartbreaks never come as a convenience.
They roll through like hummingbirds
that decide the night is too long.
Too much energy, not enough nourishment.
They strain to stay awake as long as they can,
holding for dawn and risking the fall
frail fluttering wings that would blemish angels.
Heartbreak’s mortal beauty stirring.
The beauty of broken organs,
mortality make angels nothing less than God’s
personal, unwilling janitors of His perfect world.
They roll through like hummingbirds
that decide the night is too long.
Too much energy, not enough nourishment.
They strain to stay awake as long as they can,
holding for dawn and risking the fall
frail fluttering wings that would blemish angels.
Heartbreak’s mortal beauty stirring.
The beauty of broken organs,
mortality make angels nothing less than God’s
personal, unwilling janitors of His perfect world.
the full sun
don't walk into the full sun
wait until there is cloud cover
wait until the air is moist
with the tears of a watchful god
be patient and watch for compassion
gently rising in the mist
wait until there is cloud cover
wait until the air is moist
with the tears of a watchful god
be patient and watch for compassion
gently rising in the mist
cursive
sometimes it takes a real feather quill, sharpened with a blade in your own hands for true sentiments, true emotions unphased by reflection, the first thoughts of an unclouded, ignorant mind to come out...
Friday, May 26, 2006
vapors
oh father,
the water is wide and the fog lays low.
for so long now it seems,
i’ve been trying to find a way home
across desert plains and windy steppes,
over sharp peaks and through tree thick valleys.
now i’ve come to this last crossing
but there is no ferryman to give safe passage
and i’ve no coins to pay for my way.
oh father,
the water is wide and the fog seeps into my flesh
like a slow poison but it is so calming.
is this the end of a journey or the beginning of a new one?
i can’t tell where i end and life starts.
the guiding angels left a long time ago.
i’ve only an occasional abandoned feather to mark the path.
the feathers become quills which are the points
with which i scribble this story
this story will have more life than i.
the feathers pen letters constituting words,
bringing to life tales that i won’t be able
to take with me in this crossing.
on the other side, words don’t exist and
they tell me there is no pain.
the fog is so cold but so calming.
something this tranquil can’t be damning;
something this beautiful can’t be an end;
for a while perhaps, i’ll lie in life’s vapors.
the water is wide and the fog lays low.
for so long now it seems,
i’ve been trying to find a way home
across desert plains and windy steppes,
over sharp peaks and through tree thick valleys.
now i’ve come to this last crossing
but there is no ferryman to give safe passage
and i’ve no coins to pay for my way.
oh father,
the water is wide and the fog seeps into my flesh
like a slow poison but it is so calming.
is this the end of a journey or the beginning of a new one?
i can’t tell where i end and life starts.
the guiding angels left a long time ago.
i’ve only an occasional abandoned feather to mark the path.
the feathers become quills which are the points
with which i scribble this story
this story will have more life than i.
the feathers pen letters constituting words,
bringing to life tales that i won’t be able
to take with me in this crossing.
on the other side, words don’t exist and
they tell me there is no pain.
the fog is so cold but so calming.
something this tranquil can’t be damning;
something this beautiful can’t be an end;
for a while perhaps, i’ll lie in life’s vapors.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
doubt
sometimes you can't the expression for what you feel in yourself. sometimes the expression of that fleeting emotion exists in a face that is not real, scratches of a steel quill with other worldly ink, cross hatching that is reminiscent of terrible contradictions that live inside but are ever present and real enough, real enough for you to want to express. on the page and in that other world, the wind blows. you can't see the needles of snow in horizontal cascade but the inside of your skin feels it. so in that way, it is real.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
The Moon and the Yew Tree
Sometimes the words of another, the words of an artist best speak the countenance that sits quietly within one's own heart. This is by Sylvia Plath:
The Moon and the Yew Tree
"This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy spiritious mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence."
– Sylvia Plath
The Moon and the Yew Tree
"This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy spiritious mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence."
– Sylvia Plath
muse, flora, fauna
all these things live in mind at the moment, in the light of tides of those around me, those in confusion, those in fear. in that chaos, archetypes appear in my mind to help ease the spikiness and sharpness in the realities of others that encroach into my space...
of course
of course i hurt. how can one not hurt after being slapped in the face by those who were thought to be pillars of support for you? how can one not hurt when one is misjudged because of fear and misinformation? but that is the reality. reality is now, in this moment. in this moment this body still has breath and this heart and mind still feels, pain is just a reminder that you are still alive. sometimes it is a good thing.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Moving forward
"I can't go back into the past and change it, but I have noticed that the future changes the past. What I call the past is my memory of it and my memory of it is conditioned by who I am now. Who I will be. The only way for me to handle what is happening is to move myself forward into someone who has handled it." – from Gut Symmetries by Jeanette Winterson
Friday, May 05, 2006
Georgia
Four A.M., no sleep
Candles die in predawn light
No dreams, daylight soon
--
Unknown birds call out
Dogwood blooms in violet dawn
Waxing into light
--
Early summer stroll
Doused in crepe myrtle petals
Snow flurry in June
Candles die in predawn light
No dreams, daylight soon
--
Unknown birds call out
Dogwood blooms in violet dawn
Waxing into light
--
Early summer stroll
Doused in crepe myrtle petals
Snow flurry in June
Grandpa
My life lost its breath
He slipped from me
Even after all those years
The man who showed me
Camelia from azalea
Magenta from cyan
He holds his feet firm
At the base of mountains
With head onward to the blue
Taste of fuschia
And smell of cut grass
Life has its smells
Love has its scents
He slipped from me
Even after all those years
The man who showed me
Camelia from azalea
Magenta from cyan
He holds his feet firm
At the base of mountains
With head onward to the blue
Taste of fuschia
And smell of cut grass
Life has its smells
Love has its scents
Gloom
“gloom,” she said
not gloom as in bloom
nor spacious as in a room
not the space we keep private
not the face we avoid to show
grey and maybe dark
lacking the face of the moon
that is the kind of gloom she meant
i think
but in darkness of such a place
there is no sense in a big room
no buds in haste for spring
“in dark spaces we keep things
close and safe, protected.”
that’s what she said
i’m sure
after Sarah Arvio
not gloom as in bloom
nor spacious as in a room
not the space we keep private
not the face we avoid to show
grey and maybe dark
lacking the face of the moon
that is the kind of gloom she meant
i think
but in darkness of such a place
there is no sense in a big room
no buds in haste for spring
“in dark spaces we keep things
close and safe, protected.”
that’s what she said
i’m sure
after Sarah Arvio
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Canyonlands II
A journey to fix us
After the deaths,
The breakdown and alcohol
The suspicion of a fairy tale’s end
In desperation
We became pilgrims
Not knowing emptiness
Has no material destination
In search of feelings misplaced
Hoping to find them intact
In fear of damage and mutilation
White knuckles on emotions
Looking for porcelain hearts,
Shapes that held affection
Among the trails,
Among deep red sandstone canyons
Once reliable organs became strangers
Sky, sand and thousand year old
Chips in ancient stone walls cast more beauty
Than our identities and how we came
To see one another
Love once held still held but hands
Once held each other lost their clasps
As romantic idealists, we held
That no obstacle could divide the bond
I held confusion, I held fear
I held for the last time
Faith that vows were real
And the rings would always
Remain in each other’s company
One person’s understanding
Can’t ever be another’s faith
It is a self reflective possession
Affecting and benefiting the beholder
Its power and paradox,
Non-transferrable even when floating
On an endless ocean of love
After the deaths,
The breakdown and alcohol
The suspicion of a fairy tale’s end
In desperation
We became pilgrims
Not knowing emptiness
Has no material destination
In search of feelings misplaced
Hoping to find them intact
In fear of damage and mutilation
White knuckles on emotions
Looking for porcelain hearts,
Shapes that held affection
Among the trails,
Among deep red sandstone canyons
Once reliable organs became strangers
Sky, sand and thousand year old
Chips in ancient stone walls cast more beauty
Than our identities and how we came
To see one another
Love once held still held but hands
Once held each other lost their clasps
As romantic idealists, we held
That no obstacle could divide the bond
I held confusion, I held fear
I held for the last time
Faith that vows were real
And the rings would always
Remain in each other’s company
One person’s understanding
Can’t ever be another’s faith
It is a self reflective possession
Affecting and benefiting the beholder
Its power and paradox,
Non-transferrable even when floating
On an endless ocean of love
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Blind
Because I do not turn
Cold winter day.
Grey skies wishing for desert winds.
These come from the seas, warm,
and arrive on cold shores.
Outside is the
The universe manifesting.
In here are hungry,
Slack shells of souls looking,
wanting, praying for the promises
of a negligent god.
Desperate,
Empty of awareness,
They seek salvation.
Blind to the usefulness
Of empty space, inside,
they carry on in faith.
Like their Maker,
Blind to their own jewel.
Cold winter day.
Grey skies wishing for desert winds.
These come from the seas, warm,
and arrive on cold shores.
Outside is the
The universe manifesting.
In here are hungry,
Slack shells of souls looking,
wanting, praying for the promises
of a negligent god.
Desperate,
Empty of awareness,
They seek salvation.
Blind to the usefulness
Of empty space, inside,
they carry on in faith.
Like their Maker,
Blind to their own jewel.
Bangkok
Recling Buddha
Gilded in gold, lies watching
Truth immutable
--
Chao Praya dawn
Your smile effervescent
Lychee on your lips
--
Sea of coal black heads
My stupa in blond locks here
Far, I will follow
Gilded in gold, lies watching
Truth immutable
--
Chao Praya dawn
Your smile effervescent
Lychee on your lips
--
Sea of coal black heads
My stupa in blond locks here
Far, I will follow
Monday, May 01, 2006
Bamboo
I refuse to be out of faith
I don't care what they old wise men say.
If I were their wives,
I would whip them out of their double skin.
I am a product of something without balance
And so now I am out of balance
But that is all going to change.
I am going to learn the lessons
Passed from the little women
In our history
I'm going lose that shell.
I am going to lose that fragile thick shell.
I am going to lose that manly man stance.
I am going to stand like the way the bamboo would.
I am going to stand the way my mother
Stands
The way she stands in a cyclone
And kisses the wind of heaven.
I don't care what they old wise men say.
If I were their wives,
I would whip them out of their double skin.
I am a product of something without balance
And so now I am out of balance
But that is all going to change.
I am going to learn the lessons
Passed from the little women
In our history
I'm going lose that shell.
I am going to lose that fragile thick shell.
I am going to lose that manly man stance.
I am going to stand like the way the bamboo would.
I am going to stand the way my mother
Stands
The way she stands in a cyclone
And kisses the wind of heaven.
Birthday
28 October 2001...
Kirala was one of our favorite sushi places
The hostess remembered us even after the long absence
As we ducked into the lobby, out of the chill
On the drive there, I wondered what would make
The evening a nice experience—it was my birthday
It had been the longest span since that
February in New York that we had been apart
You looked wonderfully glowing but hesitant
Like a moth choosing between light and flame
The steaming miso warmed me inside
But we never got past agedashi tofu
In the rhythm of our conversation
The space between our sentences was
As fresh and cold as that night’s otoro;
Precious and tasteful but seeming misplaced
The aesthetic presence of the meal; a metaphor
Four our odd situation but as yet unaware
The attraction and nourishment for heart and soul
Was in the paradox of sushi’s delicate beauty—
The sensual contact on the palate of uncooked, raw fish
Kirala was one of our favorite sushi places
The hostess remembered us even after the long absence
As we ducked into the lobby, out of the chill
On the drive there, I wondered what would make
The evening a nice experience—it was my birthday
It had been the longest span since that
February in New York that we had been apart
You looked wonderfully glowing but hesitant
Like a moth choosing between light and flame
The steaming miso warmed me inside
But we never got past agedashi tofu
In the rhythm of our conversation
The space between our sentences was
As fresh and cold as that night’s otoro;
Precious and tasteful but seeming misplaced
The aesthetic presence of the meal; a metaphor
Four our odd situation but as yet unaware
The attraction and nourishment for heart and soul
Was in the paradox of sushi’s delicate beauty—
The sensual contact on the palate of uncooked, raw fish
Monday, April 24, 2006
song
it is another song
that brings gone people back.
i can barely listen
to the melody and rhythm.
they are traces,
beats of something
i've tried to banish
without success.
memory is a thing
that brings something
which does not exist
right now into reality.
it changes your countenance
into things you have
never imagined possible.
even darkness and
closed eyes do not help.
even in the night
the sights are there
behind reluctant eyelids.
even in the darkness
the voices still stir
something inside of you.
that brings gone people back.
i can barely listen
to the melody and rhythm.
they are traces,
beats of something
i've tried to banish
without success.
memory is a thing
that brings something
which does not exist
right now into reality.
it changes your countenance
into things you have
never imagined possible.
even darkness and
closed eyes do not help.
even in the night
the sights are there
behind reluctant eyelids.
even in the darkness
the voices still stir
something inside of you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)