Enter 2015

Morning reflections as we enter 2015:

Civilization has evolved over time – and as I reflect on the present, I’ve never found a conflict between these religions where there wasn’t first an abandonment of faith. Each closes their eyes in prayers, and becomes blind to their differences and appeals to the same God. Each partakes of water and fruit from the same tree of which none solely own. Each knows humility and hope, as they kneel and rise again from the same earth, toward the same sky. Each blessed with differences, unified in their preaching of peace.

The energy it takes to wade through the morass of facts behind law and justice, depletes us of our morality. This creates a drifting world, of victims and perpetrators. Until every perpetrator becomes a victim and every victim, a perpetrator. My we regain our reverence for stillness, and silence and mystery…and but God. Such a silly thing is a thing such as God, unless It is still and silent and a mystery in your heart. That’s how I shall be first, that’s how my children will be first. We will not raise our voices until the wind comes from that Pristine Abode in our hearts. Then shall we speak.

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Poems that will get me killed (2015, Issue 1)

I wrote to her sacrilege
Toasted haram
She, an idol among dregs
I, a totem in her palm
Love lifts on rose scent
leaving petals to quiver
all between us once, rent,
only kindling to give her
Hence, I turn to death
which best knows life
and set fire to my nest
For guiding torchlight
to illuminate the path
on my way home
to weep love ere I die,
For writing this poem.

 

NOTE:
Go down dark and deep beloveds
it’s good to go to those dark places within,
it’s there that we burn
and into that fire,
we dip our torches
to light our way out again.
go blind in your own light
and descend,
for many a stirred soul
will sway and rustle
in the same divine wind;
and all this
to fill the spirit’s silent wing
by which your voice ascends.

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Pulsing Inkwell

Love’s letters clatter in currents
Winds curl to stillness,
in a talus of potpourri,
Season totem, a cluster of hope,
waiting
For one match pulled and struck,
To scare the ghosts from the pyre.
In a choke of smoke
from sweet attar,
Loves heat fans
the embers within
the hearts own fire.

So many words
wrenched from mouth
and wrought from hand
Contortions,
twisted spoken grip,
we strip the evergreen needles
from the bough
and let them fall from the fist,
Sprinkling fir
To the earth as grist.

Had not a sentence stretched from
pulsing ink well
by plume to parchment, or
from warm breath of lip’s beseech
What then of our night would say,
And of our day to listen.

If we do not dare with deeds to fly
Then the falling never ends,
And poem, eternal, ne’er to begin
Loves expression, not its desire,
Is the cachet
to which both life and death aspire.

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We Knew Too Much

We knew too much to continue our lives
and into the darkness we fell
A poem was written, we reviewed it,
but realized we already knew of the downfall of men
so why continue the poem,
but it was beyond the end that the sweetness came.

There in the dark waters of the poem, a star fell in the distance.
It’s ending burst into a haunting arc of light that rolled light in the wake of it’s ripples.
I could see the …

I was in the hall of mirrors… and could see most clearly the unfathomable depth of what the poet meant.
The secret to the poems ending is not with the poet, but his reader.

Our failures are not defeat, they are oceans waves rushing the beach
I’ve sent you many messengers, each here to disrupt the status quo

The javelin of knowledge is thrown by fools
To land in the hearts of wisdom.

(What was written above came to me on the barely waking edge of a dream…and on this edge, I was compelled to write it automatically.  I was not in control and I cannot bring myself to “edit” it.)

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Humble in Our Sound

Humans should be humbled
by the miraculous gift of song.

We are guided by nature to compose,
but oft’ led by our egos to recite.

Let us be humble in our sound,
for that is truly when friendship, love, and beauty
are heard most.

(written for singer/song writer, Chris Trapper…  http://www.christrapper.com/)

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I Followed a Writer Up a Tree

http://www.keenquiz.com/13-incredible-scenery-photos-that-will-make-you-say-wow/
I followed a writer
up a prodigious tree
Every leaf I brushed,
his poem.

From the crown
I scanned the pastoral
a poetic landscape in repose,
A resplendent chorus of
Glistening verdant wisdom.

O’ vast vibrato of sibilance
slipping the breaths of
Thalia and Melpomene!
Alight by dusk, I lingered.

Comes the long wind of winter
to undress each tree!
So from my aerie,
through gaunt branches,
I could see…

The low-slung place
where each poem fell
I thought, “here so many,
clothed in so much comedy
and tragedy…
recite their odes
of heaven and hell.”

And down I climbed
and away I walked
Over quiescent leaves
while red and russet
ran from their dendritic veins
Moldering into the palette
of dormant memories.

O’ even now
The sweet scent of decay
Reminds me of Spring
when I will climb again.
From the rot of the roost
to the dust below boots,
by the pen of the winter writer
Spring will come again.

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Nuances Matter: Poetry is a Mistress

The subtlety of sultry
does not hide well among the obvious!
We catch each others meter
across the crowded parlor
and steal off to the wings
for sodden romantic whispers.

Her muted presence is a cloud born
particle of dust –
gathering the purest droplets,
to fall, and
falling waters accreting
into mighty earth churning rivers.

Shamefully, perhaps by nature of a poet,
my proclivity is to paint her up
like a dime-store tart,
parade her around in metaphors
under my propped writing arm.
Oh how these nuances matter.

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Sibilant Skin

When still,
the world turns around the axis of my heart.
From the dark within,
lemniscates of a lantern light
tie ribbons in my eyes;
will you know me then?

And when I die,
a steady sibilant wind
of myrrh and frankincense
will polish my bones,
so that when you see me again,
I’ll glow anew
through a translucent veil
of sweetly scented skin.

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Everything

Everything we see is
it’s pristine essence
casting the same light
from the womb of darkness.

Gripped by the dolor of a glaucous sky,
love’s longing reminds us
that nothing is ever truly lost
to anything less
than the visual acuity of a heart.

Unseen signs never give up
their quest for being seen.
With a slight tilt of the head,
the light of the heart changes…
and so does everything,
everything.

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A Fair Curve in a Slow Current

My death is a lengthening,
eastern shadow creeping.
As the sun sets on a westerly life
fountain coins, falling, deepening.

Throw away nothing
of a poets reaping recollection,
Glowing golden within the chaff,
darkened wheat in separation.

He plays to a spotlight,
an audience foreshortened
in the darkness, beyond the true sound
of his winter whitened curtain.

The azimuth of the eyes
reveals the sweetness
on his lips,
their twisting of the rind
twirls a scent within the mist.

All is a poem in search of a song
and a song in search of a voice.
A fair curve in a slow current
need only be,
without having to make a choice.

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