Auguries of Door County

A sense calls forth a callant truth

to seek old gallantry; 

searching through destiny’s windows.

All things must pass this way;

The racing timeframes are merely in-passing…

Rewinding the heart - playing out songs of the inner soul

that measure movements but measure not - the stillness; 

for destination does not know lines in any maps found.

Perceptions of barriers and walls must be cleansed  

as do the questions of the wedding of heaven and hell.

Poets and songs may sing of death and rebirth

but they need not have answers young men seek.

  

Does that stoic gothic church hold time?

Or is it the Clock-Tower of Armageddon warning of time

turning backwards; 

like a magical kaleidoscope of wonder

changing colors and forms;

so very pretty - however, going nowhere.

    

Widowed blue frame house where shamans,

with a third eye, seek perceptions 

while the hunters tilt at Cervantesque windmills!

That say to the world left standing:

What vision do you have? - you knights of the night;

And day dreamers searching the way from the portal’s view.

What have the allegiances brought you?

A constant star perhaps?

Stop to reflect upon the mirrors of thine eyes;

A profound reflection on a reflecting glass of a small window

upon a glass frame and yet, no one is really noted there,

on that insular road to where the door of perception waits

for the many travelers at the county’s last ferry run.

Unquenched thirst and unrequited desires belie the big fear

where waters lap at the stern and vision laps at the doors –

How deep must it be before one must drown?

Bring along your toys of travel

carry them away to the island of many essences.

Take us there together, Robert Noble, with your ship of fools and tackle hooks;  

There are always stranger things than strangers being - strange

or local birds waiting at water’s edge while driving gales rage –

that is strange indeed - that the Lake sends her squalls for calmness to begin!

Let us think; let us see; let us feel that all are a bit strange –

And, let it be.

The bathhouse is empty of all swimmers except for one who is estranged

and standing at the portal’s window – looking with hands wide open.

Trek the way to the woods where someone is always at play

where the children of old stay-

Climb up the stairs;

Climb past the stares;

Climb to the stars!

For they too, keep their own perception of the blue door and the blue house.

Keep the line boys;

keep in line men;

keep the line of gods -  aware;

ask the questions for those lost souls

who must dance upon such hallowed grounds:

Whom are they?

Who are we?

Where are we?

Why are we?

 

What is the point found at Weborg Point near a sister’s bay;

at the water’s edge; at the point one asks the lake for her secrets

and she answers in silence to open all doors

and invite all perceptions of earth; of water; and of sky.

Now we know-

Now we must move on –

We must travel to the woods where the ancients live

along the beach between and across the bridge to the red house of light

where a door opens to the beam’s eye

and an old-wooden door floats away to be captured in the sands of time.

Take careful note men - the water brims beyond and over the edge of all its containments. 

Burn a fire Boys!

Remember when; 

remember where;

remember why

the nocturnal creatures, the devils and the angels, dance at the fire’s tips –

a rite of passage.

The light of the fire and the light of the house saved us all - from us.

“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to a man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.”   William Blake.