A WILD SANITY (FILE 1)

 

     (An extension of the Wonder poetry manuscript)

      Writings from 1994 through 1996

 

    

     INDEX:

 

     A...

     A COMMENT ON

PHILIPPIANS 2:15; REV. 3:15;

GAL. 5:1; ROM. 8:21; IS. 61:7

REV. 21:5: 22:4,5

     AFTER STEPHEN SPENDER

     AND GOD MADE INNOCENCE

     ANOTHER COMMUNION

     ANSWERING THE UNANSWERABLE

     AT THE FOUNTAIN HEAD

 

     B...

     BEGINNING A LETTER TO THE MIRACLE OF A HUMAN BEING

       BLOWN AWAY AND THROUGH

 

     C...

     COMMENTS ON A VERY OLD TRADITION

OF RELIGIOUS STARCHINESS

     COMPASSION UNLOCKS AT LAST

 

     D...

     DABAR

 

     E...

     EAT UP THE SHADOW TO REVEAL THE LIGHT

 

     F...

     FIGHTING TO STAVE OFF DEATH

THROUGH WORDS

     FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I WILL OUTGROW GOD

     FRONT PAGE

 

     G...

     GOD OF THE WASHERWOMAN

     GUIDELINES

 

     H...

     HOW THIS WORLD MIGHT BECOME THE PERFECT PLACE

TO GROW A CREATIVE AND COMPASSIONATE SOUL

 

     I...

     I AM IN THE CLASHES OF TWO SELVES

     I AM THE CROSS OF CHRIST

     IN LOVE'S OBSCURITY

     INNOCENCE RISES

     I WANT TO BE A LADDER

 

     L...

     LET'S GIVE GOD SOME CREDIT FOR HIS BRILLIANCE

     LIVING IN AMERICA - 1995

 

     O...

     ON A UNIVERSAL ENTROPY

     ON THE MUSE

 

     P...

     PART WAY THROUGH THE GRIEF

     POETRY FLOWS OUT OF THE GROWING FORCE

 

     R...

     RIVER JOURNEY

     ROLLING IN A HOLY CIRCLE

 

     S...

     SAINT ARMOND

     SHARDS OF HIS UNBROKEN BLESSEDNESS

 

 

     T...

     TALKEN THE POETRY

     THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SAINT ARMOND

     THE LIGHT OF GOD

     THE LIPS OF GOD

     THE SPIRIT OF THE LORD IS FREEDOM

     THE TROUBLEMAKER

     THE UNBREAKABLE STRENGTH

     TO EVERY WOMAN

     TO HEROES AND HEROINES

     TO THE LITTLE BARRON

     TRUE PRAYER

 

     U...

     UNCONQUERABLE

 

     W...

     WHAT A NOBLE PIECE OF WORK

     WHEN OUT OF STONE WATERS FLOW

     WE MUST SET THE GOD-MAN FREE

     WE MUST SING SPIRIT WORDS

 

     46 poems

     Last Poem: ANSWERING THE UNANSWERABLE

 

 

 

     THE POEMS:

 

     I AM IN THE CLASHES OF TWO SELVES

 

     I am in the clashes of two selves

     mid stream...

     There is an aching

     for young beauty

     in my toes,

     in my loins,

     in the free center of my brain.

     I long for both God

     and an impermissible woman.

                     *

     --A broken boy

     confuses things.

                     *

     There is a rose-fragrant wind in me.

     Streams of it flow from my fingers.

     The deer and birds come to me,

     delighting in its currents.

                   *

     Yet, tumbleweeds spin

     in my belly

     as a thousand wires

     are tangling into tightening knots.

                   *

     I am in the clashes of two selves...

     mid stream.

 

 

 

 

     I AM THE CROSS OF CHRIST

 

     I am the cross of Christ;

     I am the stone and the tomb--

     and I, the opening door

     of His resurrection.

 

 

 

 

COMMENTS ON A VERY OLD TRADITION

OF RELIGIOUS STARCHINESS

 

Are the stiff, cold-eyed,

ascetic intellectuals

who spy out heresies,

who proclaim judgments

of condemnation

against those who err from true doctrine

really the standard of discipleship?

Are these men

God's image restored,

Eden regained, trees of life,

bridal souls, mad lovers

of God and all God has made?

Are these the spirit-drunk apostles

of reality? Are they the burning flames;

luminous pillars; crown bearers;

hidden manna eaters; white stoned and

secret named — do these ones hide

the morning star in their luminous breasts?

Are they the ones to be

God's royal wild men in the new world?

Has Eshoo Meshikhah of the burning eyes

and gleaming feet with his own finger

inscribed within these astute minds

the wild creative nature of the Artist of the Universe

and the wonders of the radiant city of God

and the mysterious new name of Christ

which no one knows but Him?

If so...I guess I better listen

to these

holy men...

even if they look

a bit blanched and pinched nosed

to me.

 

 

 

 

ANOTHER COMMUNION

 

Out there, miraculous things

are held to be common

by the dull hearts of men,

but here, in this house,

a young fly is a wonder

too great to conceive.

And so, the fly, thus honored,

shows flashes of its intelligence

and beauty,

and sitting for a while in a pool of light

gathered in the palm of my hand,

loves God with me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOW THIS WORLD MIGHT BECOME THE PERFECT

PLACE TO GROW A CREATIVE AND COMPASSIONATE

SOUL

 

If people's primary passion

was to develop

simple openness to God

that the light of consciousness

might flow liquid

through their whole being

then we would work together

to see that each of us

had ample provision

to keep us healthy and free

while we labor

to grow beautiful souls

and to do loving deeds amongst us

until we journey

from earth to paradise

when our days

of holy, ecstatic

pilgrimage are through.

 

 

 

 

 

 

         ON A UNIVERSAL ENTROPY

 

         There is a sinister black cat

         stalking the little birds

         of love and freedom in me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

RIVER JOURNEY

 

How shall we find the fountainhead

or the destination

unless we follow the river?

But the banks are too thick

with roots and whorls,

reeds and brush.

We must walk knee deep,

thigh deep, belly deep,

breast deep, throat deep,

nose deep, eye deep,

head deep in the river!

and feel its currents

ripple around us,

flushing through us--

swirling up our bottoms,

splaying our toes!

Then we shall have arrived:

some swimming up current,

some floaten down,

some just splashing

and playen around,

in the river.

 

 

 

 

 

TALKEN THE POETRY

  

Let's talk the poetry,

Talk the Life,

Dance the word,

Make God sing!

God's in the flux and flow

Of Spirit and Word.

Let's find Him!

Be found

In Words of Spirit,

Worlds of Life!

Let's do it!

Let's do.

Let's

Talk the poetry,

Talk the Life,

Dance the Word,

Make God sing!

 

 

 

 

WHEN OUT OF STONE WATERS FLOW

 

When the Word is rigid,

when it is stone,

it induces fear—

or becomes a jungle gym

for intellects to play on.

Only when Word cracks open

and flows out crystalline,

fluid,

do trees of life

spontaneously burst into bloom

by the force of

liquid surge up their hearts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A COMMENT ON

PHILIPPIANS 2:15; REV. 3:15;

GAL. 5:1; ROM. 8:21; IS. 61:7

REV. 21:5: 22:4,5

 

What are the blameless

and innocent children of God like?:

They are passionate!

They are free!

The lions and fish,

trees and silent plants,

all insects, and stones,

instinctually await to be infused

with their joy of Being.

It is written,

God will transform

the whole universe

through these children's

open, luminous hearts.

 

 

 

 

 

THE SPIRIT OF THE LORD IS FREEDOM

 

We must be rebirthed by Spirit:

not an intellectualized doctrine

about the Spirit,

but by the living, breathing,

blowing, flying, burning,

fragrant, speaking,

watching, wild and wondrous Spirit.

We must crack open and encounter

Spirit!

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIGHT OF GOD

 

The flowing light of God

is like fresh washed linen;

white sea foam;

a lamb.

 

 

 

 

 

 

WE MUST SING SPIRIT WORDS

 

Are you tearing open your garments

looking for your luminous bones?

Are you letting the halt and lame,

the terrible shadowed ones within you,

come to bathe in your own fiery sea?

We must sing spirit words

in the flowing breath of Shaddai,

Alaha, Ruah, Miriah.

We must find the crystal river again

and naked of soul, dive in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

TO HEROES AND HEROINES

 

Let us pour out living waters

from the deep passions of holy river

in our bellies

into the leaves of trees,

and roots of grasses.

Let us soak stonewalls with

clouds of spirit incense.

Let us bless our homes.

Nursing homes can be our art galleries,

our children's play grounds.

Let us flow fragrant waters

into young minds to make them

ancient with memories

and into old minds to make them young

with deathless dreams.

We can wash each other's souls

with beautiful water-words

and compassionate deeds.

 

 

 

TO EVERY WOMAN

 

Women bear the fragrances

of barnyards, of wheat fields,

of tide pools, of roses.

They are more naturally poets

than most men,

for men no longer grow up

fishing the sea,

driving oxen, pruning peach trees

soaking in God’s book of Life.

In the ovaries of a woman

is the seed of light;

in her breasts hides God’s face;

from her deeper belly

flows the candied river.

O woman! Let down your hair

over the face of every poet...

and incubate him!

Be for us life's poetry.

 

 

 

 

DABAR

 

Who lives under the hill,

beyond the seven seas?

The one who smells of humus;

the one with wet leaves in his beard and hair.

Who runs with His coyote brothers

celebrating freedom?

Who watches eaglets sucking up blood?

Who speaks like thunder, like walls of water

beating on stone?

They once called Him El Shaddai,

the thousand-breasted one...

Who rides a careening chariot upon the winds?

Who dives into clouds for a laugh?

Who peers upon us from beyond the skies?

The one with fire and ice in His eyes;

the one with the great Northern Star

shimmering in His breast.

This one became Eshoo.*

Eshoo became this One.

 

*Jesus in Aramaic

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIPS OF GOD

 

Wherever the breath of El

blows through,

there is the mouth of the Lord,

the opening of God:

and we become His lips,

His word!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GOD OF THE WASHERWOMAN

 

God is silky soap

and icy waters

from the fountainheads

of Himalayan streams.

God is flowing

Pleiades starlight

to nakedly bathe in,

purer than tear-dropped candle-flames

in ancient prayer chapels.

Blessed are those who are washing

their souls,

making them white.

Blessed are the washerwomen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   I.

AND GOD MADE INNOCENCE

 

And God made human innocence:

the fawn-like, shy look, the snow-eyed,

the water drop face, the thin lines

like reeds, like swan necks,

the down, the rabbit fur,

the warm milk of it.

And God loved innocence.

So He made a garden

of gardenias, of hyacinth, of sweet myrrh,

of figs and pomegranates,

and He placed innocence there

and told her to play.

God swirled around her like a soft breeze

and kissed her young breasts

and trickled his water over her shoulders...

and His wind combed out her hair.

And God said,

"It is good."

And God brought her to His innocent man

who smelled like bears,

wild rosemary, wet sagebrush and deer:

and God put a shiver

in their loins for each other.

And roses slowly bloomed

in the woman's breasts,

and in the man's belly...roses.

So they moved upon each other

like water over stones, like bees nuzzling

into the throat of flowers.

And an angel poured silver waters

over their heads and into their eyes

until water spilled down their bones

to wet their flesh from the inside.

Then innocence laughed

until she heaved and cried for sweetness

and buried her soft moistness

into the man's warm fur.

And God savored the beauty He had made

until a muscular green

shadow convulsed in a tree

and something hissed,

"good and bad..."

as Earth

wept.

 

 

 

 

  II.

INNOCENCE RISES

 

 

The tomb was opened by slim white hands.

A beaten body shimmered.

Outside, guards were cursing for fear

while the Roman centurion

in his dark tent

suckled on the breast of a Hebrew whore.

Wise Innocence walked out

with daylight in His face,

with the full moon in His eyes

--and dying night became luminous

around Him.

Before their cold, war-hardened eyes

He disappeared like dew

into the heat of God...

until Mary came:

the seven-deviled Mary

whom the Lord had loved.

And a gardener whispered,

"Mary..."

No one else could speak her name

with such a quiet passion of love...

It was a serious war,

so the Child couldn't laugh yet,

but he showed her His torn wrists

saying, "See here

what the darkness did."

And His eyes held the joke of it

and all the tragedies

of ten thousand years.

So she wept at the beauty

and ran to tell His disciples

to wake up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

AT THE FOUNTAIN HEAD

 

Let's drink

from the fountain

of wise innocence

and become

the passionate

innocence of God.

 

 

 

 

 

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I WILL OUTGROW GOD

 

I would sing in these fresh streams and breezes

of the feminine Shekinah.

I would outgrow God: the old man of the skies.

I shall take Him off like a snake wriggles out of its skin.

Then God shall bound down from deep blue

with lightning in Her eyes,

my lover, my young beauty.

I shall be the bridegroom welcoming God my Bride:

Christ the lithe, the sprightly one who laughs--

the young willow tree, a green leaf in the wind.

I would be the warrior surrounding

with candlelight and song

the cruel lord of me I have confined

in my own dark dungeons.

I shall bid my chefs to feed him

with a continual feast of the finest foods

until he lies down satisfied, my brother,

the beloved counselor at my side.

Thus I shall recover my blessed land of Soul

for God, the fair lady, my shy Bride.

And She shall kiss me for my compassions

with wild passion as I die,

and take my heart in a locket

unto the Old Man of the skies.

 

 

 

 

     SHARDS OF HIS UNBROKEN BLESSEDNESS

 

     I have pressed my body into the elements

     and found God:

     God, the lover of His own creations;

     God, the artist of this festive beauty.

     The senses, baptized by the Spirit's fire,

     are ablaze.

     Light streams forth from all conscious things.

     And all things are alive!

     The consciousness of a tree

     is in its patient, relentless growth;

     the consciousness of a stone

     in its obdurate being;

     the consciousness of Earth

     in its lush, sensuous bearing

     and reclamation.

     Now I know that the light of all consciousness

     is God's, His supreme gift —

     shards of his unbroken blessedness.

    

 

 

 

LET'S GIVE GOD SOME CREDIT FOR HIS BRILLIANCE

 

Some serve God because

of divine authority —

I love God

because of His humility

and cachet prestige.

 

 

 

 

 

 

BEGINNING A LETTER TO THE MIRACLE

OF A HUMAN BEING

 

Greetings, noble, marvelous, unique creature,

with wiggly toes at the end of your feet;

with amazing curling, delicate, fingers, spreading and reaching

like roots; and eyes, light catchers and transformers

for the mind's eye; and ears hearing with drums beating:

little uncreaking bones pumping, dark waters trembling,

minute hairs quivering, electric currents flashing

to the listener of your miraculous mind;

and that nose of yours sniffing, huffing, sucking

great billows of air, sensing fragrances;

and that sublime tongue licking, tasting, acrobatically,

twisting, flipping and flapping in talk;

and those lungs quaffing and drafting gallon-full draughts

from the ocean of sky, whiffing out words formed masterfully

in your crackerjack throat; and your fathomless, spacious,

luminous center, watching, hearing, sensing it all:

soliciting wisdom, quietly dwelling in manifold mirrors of glass:

adroit in wonder, brimming with prayer... spilling light out eyes

when they open to shower delight as love hums...

Greetings to you, Word of love! beauty becoming,

bewildered and wounded, wayfaring child of miraculous God:

howl-dog and pearl, bridal and bent... desert of doldrums

desperate and coddled, foaming fountain, rare and upraising,

slippery and succinct...

 

Greetings, greetings, greetings!...

Oh! Forgive me. I forgot why I was writing you

or what I wanted to say.

 

Sincerely yours,

 

A poet

 

 

 

 

 

WE MUST SET THE GOD-MAN FREE

 

Wild woman of the soul, descend into the deep moods of His holy love and find wild words to make Jesus free and beautiful again.

When did we put Him in a safe little cage, a quilted zoo:

white cloth, quiet candles, cold pews...? This one made hawk's wings,

gave the wild ass its freedom, molded the thick neck of the ox,

sculpted the sweaty flanks of stallions. When did we make Him

into such an innocuous man: sweet like a mango too long on the tree? When did we first domesticate Eshoo, that wild man of Nazareth, issue from the loins of the thousand breasted Shaddai?: He who threw over a money changer's table, a culture, a world; He with fire in His eyes, a voice like the raging sea speaking molten words--His whip of passion flailing the dark. If we who love Jesus refuse to find the words and deeds to set the risen man, the wild man, the High God-man free, then the world will pass by his sad ineffectualities.

 

 

 

 

FIGHTING TO STAVE OFF DEATH

THROUGH WORDS

(A Poem for All Those I Love)

 

There are moments when the pain of this separation seems too great to bear.

Is everyone afraid to sing out, "Do you remember me? I'm a child of God,

holding this mask of forgetfulness up to my clear, shining eyes, protecting myself from the pain of this separation just like you are..."

 

My soul longs to speak to another soul in safety; to realize just for an instant

that it is heard and known. Oh you foolish mystery, I would say — can you hear me at all? You do your dance of deceit like I do when my courage is not up to the task of being real, of bearing the ecstasy of my being with wisdom.

 

There are moments when acute wakefulness is an agony that crushes the heart, a grief too great for the body to bear. Then, to stay alive, one must speak one's truth concerning this holy tragedy and the love-born wisdom of this separation whether anyone else hears it at all...

 

 

 

BLOWN AWAY AND THROUGH

 

It is because I cannot accept

this blindness

this alienation

from the divine beauty

of God

that I suffer

unto the failing of my heart.

I rail against

all that we fail to say and do,

all the goodness we miss!

And so

I travail

just to keep on

breathing.

Somebody blew

a hole in my heart

with an emotional bullet

and my breath

is leaking out.

 

 

 

 

SAINT ARMOND

 

Saint Armond

sat upon a stone

and chanted,

"Because You love me,

I love You.

Because You love me,

I love You.

Because You love me,

I love You!"

until he floated off the stone

and a wind blew him away.

He landed

in a valley of lepers.

 

 

   

UNCONQUERABLE

 

After they had tortured Saint Armond

with hot coals

he smiled at them and said

"Thank you, that was useful."

That so infuriated their twisted souls

that they cut off his tongue.

"Now I will be silent, and write,"

he thought to himself.

 

 

 

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SAINT ARMOND

 

As Saint Armond sat praying in his prison cell

his torturers stood around a fire

dreaming up new ways to break the holy man's spirit.

The oldest and craftiest amongst them

suddenly got a dark smolder in his eye.

"We've tried tongs and coals, we've tried stretching

and pounding, pouring and pricking...

now, let us torture him with softness.

Send for Lola."

All the torturers smirked at the inspiration.

They brought Lola in. Her eyes were birds flying

in dark circles;

her hips great golden sheaves of hay;

her breasts white lambs

leaping out of the fold.

She moved like a breeze across the floor

and wrapped her hair around Armond's head.

He right away kissed her and loved her

and wrote a poem to her upon a wall

about the white energy of God

and all the green blood streaming down

upon them like light.

         *

Lola got a prison cell right next to Armond's.

 

 

 

 

 

THE UNBREAKABLE STRENGTH

 

The strength of a man's spirit

must be sustained:

It is the spirit

of his brokenness.

Break the goblet:

a liqueur flows out,

puddling to image

the sun's

flashing light

from its dark fluidity.

All things are fulfilled

in time

on the way

beyond time.

Now, we need integrity

to our open nothingness

in the unbreakable strength of being.

 

 

 

 

POETRY FLOWS OUT OF THE GROWING FORCE

 

Poetry is that which flows

out of the life force

born of wrestling to break

the old holds

of grief and grievances

until the heart

opens its sacred valve

and nothing pours out

in words.

 

 

 

 

 

THE TROUBLEMAKER

 

There is a troublemaker,

a round faced troubadour

who was born in Moses' tent,

who listened to the old man groaning in the night

and sometimes peeked around the edge of his blanket

to catch a glimpse of bright angels.

There is a many-colored coat

on a young man's flesh and bones;

there is a wild dreamer in prison;

there is a ladder that rests on a stone

and leans into paradise;

there is a naked prophet

who lies on his side,

breathing dust,

mouthing poems from his belly.

This is the troublemaker

grown up... this is the salvation

of a culture.

 

 

 

 

I WANT TO BE A LADDER

 

I want to be a ladder

resting on a stone,

leaning into paradise.

"Come, leap into my heart,

climb my thoughts

to far beyond my mind

with your mind"

I would cry

to every weeping soul

laughing by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

GUIDELINES

 

If poetry were the bottom line

one could celebrate all perversities

and be eaten by them gladly:

down into death

singing praises.

But the sun is the sun

and night, night,

the earth keeps turning

from shade to light,

and as the mad dog bites

the wild horse runs

while the poet writes:

“Undo the undone.”

 

 

 

 

 

TRUE PRAYER

 

The acclaimed actress

turns from the audience

to gaze into the spotlight.

Such is true prayer.

 

The Indian beats upon his belly

until a river flows out.

Such is true prayer.

 

Sunshine glimmers in a bird's eyes,

and turns to song.

Such is true prayer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ROLLING IN A HOLY CIRCLE

 

I have not come here alone,

for the sky was packed with wings

and bright faces

as I journeyed into the dark

of forgetfulness.

And the dream began

as a weeping upon soft breasts...

I pass through this dream alone

and yet am never alone,

whether drunk or sober

whether wicked or joyously holy:

the day is full of voices,

the night full of faces

I can neither hear nor see.

Such are the words

wakefulness brings to me,

such is the vision of a blind heart.

     

 

 

 

 

WHAT A NOBLE PIECE OF WORK

 

What a noble piece of work a person is,

a story unfolding:

some of the reading done,

most untold and thus unknown —

the wide, variant circle

at last completed

from home to home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

COMPASSION UNLOCKS AT LAST

 

It is compassion

which unlocks at last

the secret chambers

of the heart’s wounds

that we might lovingly press

our wounds into another's wounds

in a certain luminescent bond

of ultimate meeting and meaning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER STEPHEN SPENDER

 

When shall we break, O break open, break the whole town open,

fling brickbat out of back closets, take out the fiddle,

to transport children to the slow munching of cows

as if that were the miracle...

then let color run out our brains: paint the streets green,

paint the ocean sands white as flame,

put our tongues to the test, let them lick books,

tell the tastes, speak the spaces, sing it

like starlight, sing it like a rage of sun.

 

 

 

 

 

PART WAY THROUGH THE GRIEF

 

How many passions

have I buried

beneath the snows

of sorrow?

I stopped shouting

at the sky

and the sky stopped opening.

I stopped admiring

countless colors in the clouds

and the days turned gray,

or if otherwise, I did not notice.

The trees were just objects on the streets.

I thought about money

and other sensible things.

I'm taking my clothes off now.

Look at me! I'm more than a walking silhouette!

I'm going to practice some wildness now,

sing a sea chantey,

tell beauty she's beautiful,

risk being alive again!

 

 

 

 

 

IN LOVE'S OBSCURITY

 

To die for love is to die alone,

unknown, no one singing your praises:

maybe a few silent ones

at the foot of the cross,

maybe a couple confused souls

mumbling on a road--

That is all...

It's a very select company.

 

 

 

 

 

 

LIVING IN AMERICA - 1995

 

It hurts to be a poet

to live behind mind veils

in a world that has failed

its own inherent poetry.

It hurts to open the old book of poems

written when I was passionate for love:

Yet I must drink grief fully to soften my soul,

to toughen my mind for sacrifice.

It hurts

to spin slowly alone in a dance of flames,

tasting through the body that beauty

which hovers about us in the air,

in wind, wanting words from us,

wanting deeds from us

while we are asleep,

and all our struggles

are to awaken to the wrong dream.

 

 

 

 

TO THE LITTLE BARRON

 

We are not strong enough to hold

the passions of the divine,

the flaming dreams

of other people's beauty

explored, expanded,

becoming the dominant theme.

Self weakens us

with its growing strength.

We build castles

against the siege works

of the wind,

against the catapults of river stones,

against the arrows of angels.

The little Barron sits in his stone cell,

admiring flamboyant tapestries

of religious figures,

acquired with the residue of his securities.

Outside, moonlight seeks out naked lovers,

seeps into jade eyes,

caresses the jowls of wolves.

The little Barron is expanding his empire,

trading up, moving from the green land

to large numbers on a magical screen.

He's been buying and selling souls for sometime now.

Once he figures God out

he'll sell Him.

 

 

 

 

ON THE MUSE

 

It is the sound of a whale's primeval song,

of a wolf's plaintive howl,

of wind in a lufted sail,

of a child's spontaneous laughter,

or a woman's soft heartbeat in my mind

that opens dark gates in a white wall

and lets rose petals

spill through.

 

 

 

 

 

EAT UP THE SHADOW TO REVEAL THE LIGHT

(Reading the News)

 

Eat up the shadow

to reveal the light.

It is a bitter dark

full of mother's howls

for lost sons,

full of the weak whimpering

of young girls

too weary

to resist the soldiers who rape them.

Two men drink fire from one glass

and discuss how to best

cut the intestines

out of a small boy,

cursed to be born

of their mortal foes.

Shadows of the bitter dark.

Politicians ignore it.

Shadows of the bitter dark.

Newscasters don't howl.

Shadows of the bitter dark.

We don't care.

Shadows of the bitter dark.

Some body has to eat up the shadow

to reveal the light.

If you haven't eaten

until the bitter turns sweet,

then you may still need to learn how to

read the news.

 

 

 

 

 

FRONT PAGE

 

A peasant woman,

a Muslim,

perhaps not fully real,

(not being American)

though her howls

for her dead son,

for her raped daughter

seem real enough.

 

 

 

 

 

ANSWERING THE UNANSWERABLE

 

Some say the old gods that played with souls

shattered down into death

on Christ's cross

and hung around to cry

out of a mourner's mouth.

 

Then why these inexplicable tragedies?

 

Yet, blessed are we who weep,

with no questions asked,

for a lost love

that lasts.

 

 
Poetry Archive Index

Home