Waiting the Cliff

 

The December air is crisp

As the masses huddle clinging to another

 

Closing tight their wraps of wisp

While singing: “Oh, We Are Poor Brother”.

 

And, the midnight train waits the rascal’s tiff

Whether we all will go off the fiscal cliff.

 

Oh, brother eat and drink...  in wary

For ‘tis the season...  to be merry.

Gingko Tree

Gingko Tree

 

 

From the ages before awareness

A maidenhair sets her roots

To find a place of timelessness

Where sun and shade share leaves in suits

Of summer green and fall yellow.

We shall sit with her to joy of mellow....

 

Her name is Gingko Tree.

She understands mother's reasons

For everything there is a time in the seasons-

A time to live; to die; to woe; to sing poetry!

A Simple Visit to Eternity

I found an expression

left to live;

to grieve

 

Eternally upon a black stone

Noting he never wandered alone

 

Beyond his words of poetry

Nor did his strains

lack rhymes

 

For hanging under his tree

Always - music in the chimes.

Numina

 

A coldness consumes the gradient minds

Each waiting alone, at the far corners of a sitting room,

Disinclined guests, with airs of fain notions,

While the host  proffers courtesies to the familiar visitors,

Who swear their devotion to the ghost’s affairs.

 

Silken robes of redden cast

Provide visages of disembodied dancers

With black scarves that waive the light’s touch

So that all shadows of deception remain parallax

Views between basis of realty and the surreal perplexities.

 

Floating hour glass spins off its axis,

Time assuming the fluidity of plasma,

As all physical limits are freed from form

For numina persist along the extreme quantum  

And the minute macro in a convergence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

Left Right Back Straight

 

I go left; I go right; I go back

But mostly -  I go straight

 

All my turns seemed right

The road ahead just beyond light

Of mitigating counterpoints

While four axis rotate left

 

Following the turns around peril

Racing down the mountains

Wish I could stop to sleep

‘for the feral beast finds reason

 

I was left; I was right; I was back

But mostly -  I was in straits

 

The realms pulsating  with possibilities

The walls imploding with traditions

The floors barely there

The windows and doorways opening to fantasia

 

Puppets jump their strings of progressions

Running down the insane isles of implausible

Chasing the coveted projections of the eye

And silence dictates that secrets have no way out.

 

Left right back straight.

A Ballet of Horses

A Ballet of Horses

 

Merry around the carousel

Of realms around the circle

 

Whirling visions in whimsy recall

Of labyrinths lost in hell;

 

Spectre horses prancing in place

And floating out to infinite space

 

While consciousness rides the progressions

And sanguine demons jump into blind projections

 

Forming eternal ellipses

of reason

 

And yet, the conforms’ ellipsis...

Of treason.

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

Doors

Closed doors to keep away the light

Enclose the cold within;

Barrier any flow of energy

And visit with self against self

With closed eyes.

 

Opened doors to invite the light

That surrounds the infinite

With abundance

Allowing presence in the moment

Of enlightenment to open eyes .

Tolls of Lading

The specter’s toll

Upon ladings of old

Weighed ship’s hold

 

Forever adrift

Upon seas’ roll

 

As sails rip shift

Into a stillness gift

And a siren’s song told

 

How death is life’s lift.

Garden of Phantoms

Gray runs its taut fingers

 along the green ivied gardens

while silencing the feathered singers

and mother’s northern breath hardens

the ground’s soils...

 

Where once, the long pliable vines

held gentle the blooms of life to open lines

of varied hues, shades and forms

surrounding and evolving beyond the conforms

of conscious rings, folds and foils-

 

Now a pervasive quietness rules the nest-

while winter’s cold grip subdues warmth’s quest;  

the outer light dims and ebbs low

and the horizon is darkened by a storytelling of crow

abandoning the fallen - to the spoils.

 

Rising phantoms tend the empty fields.

Growing images of non sense and ill feels

ingesting the black fruits as remorse yields;

along with the aggrieved flowers of thorny shields-

all harvested from the bane peels of roils.

 

A fine inner light flickers - within the depths of each soul;

as the night and the day hold covenant for the sun’s hold

and its restitution of heat upon the consuming cold.

It is understood that some things will not survive...

As deep within the earth emerges the snow croci;  a new alive.

 

 

Simple

The early morning frost touched gently

upon the field of autumn’s late flowers

forming prisms of sparkle with dawn’s first light.

 

The November skies are low with heavy gray

As the warm earth tones surrender their hues

And life prepares for the simple wisdom of change.

 

The north winds howl at the prospect of sleep

For the days will grow shorter and the night will take hold

So that the stillness;  yields to the flow.

A Monolith and a Pebble

Taking pure source,

 cultures invent monolithic truths

And then societies chisel

at their standings

Until the destruction crumbles

Into dust of untruths.

 

Nature’s irrepressible forces

assimilate all untruths

And then nurture

new growths

Until evolution refreshes

life into purity.

 

Pebbles upon the calm water

Abound into circles and expound

That the rings are neither eternal truths

Nor are they terminally false-

 

They are poetry in motion

Until the stillness

Recovers the intention.

CREATION BY CONSENSUS

Send in the ideas.

Line up their genius against the hell bent

And begin the disembowelment of creative intent.

 

Pour unto the melting cauldrons of potion status quo

Squeeze silent the figurative minds who tow

 

At the ropes of confinement

While the literal consensus drink to their consignment.

 

Lines of Pray

Moonlight radiates upon the purity of white bark

Wrapping round the clearing; defying the dark

 

Brother wolf calls out across the night air

Beckoning the night to gather the land’s children:

 

“Come all lost of desire

Bring your secrets to the fire

 

Come all that are blind

Bring your closed eyes to find

 

Come all that are muted of poetry

Bring thoughts of the birch tree”

 

And,  they circled around the blaze

That burns away all false praise.

 

So remain the redemptive ashes of the long day;

To rise among the birch stands with lines of pray.  

All Hallows’ Evening

The ultimate day to be outside resistance - hence, neither the promised trickery of seduction nor the misbegotten treats of desire shall be dependent on being good or bad...

Simply that each one of these hallowed masks exists

And that either one is greeted with acceptance.