Poem

When clouds sit low upon the land,
When earth and sky are wet with rain,
The titter tatter on the roof,
The pitter patter on the pane.

I like it cold and wet beyond
For all the reason more
That after whetted by days of sun
I’ve covered hours to look ‘fore.

When all is dark and bleak outside
And all is warm and bright within,
I thank the rain for time upon
Your breast to lay my weary chin.

By city, sea or mountain pass
I like to lay my head beside,
On floor of straw or fine mattress,
And fly with you – our dreams untied.

With you my dreams forever soar
And neither place I wish to leave,
For hard or soft, on bed or floor,
I find my bliss and wish to keep.

What easy joy the rain does bring
To those already swelled with love
To steam away the wet we keep
The fire burning in our heart.

No breath escapes, no sound is heard.
When gravity is lost, dreams
Come crashing into our reality
And cannot be told apart.
There are no smells, the light comes from within –
Its subtle glow masking the bareness of the walls.

Our hearts beat to warm us both.
I feel my fingers passing over her
As though my hand were guided
And detached.
She, the dream,
Is real in this vacuum,
Only the mind, that betraying miscreant,
Fights the god who has himself revealed.

And now the battle wages
Between the eternally anchored,
And the pump which dares to fly
In the weightlessness of dream.
You cannot reconcile – you mangy beast of logic –
This moment when time’s true emptiness is revealed
And the shackles you have forever worn.

Release me and let me float,
And let my one become a part of me.
Release me to that dream,
That I will labor to make real,
If even death is the succor to my failing.

Death becomes me
Lying still,
Devoid of thought,
With nothing left to feel.

A new release
Found on my brow,
Carefree in nothing —
No pain to handle now.

What sorrow brought in
day to day,
Is now exhaled
And fades away.

No lust to fan
The flames of loins,
There is no fear
In where I’m going.

To sacrifice the draw of breath,
To choose, and love, and be loved back,
Comes with rewards beyond the thrill,
No hurt to heal – when lying deathly still.

What dreams may come of self imprisoned fate,
Beyond the window with the sounds of life abounding,
Trapped in the glass and mesh of air conditioned comfort.
All those beyond in realization of themselves,
The birds, of flesh and steel, of horses free and bridled by the hundred.
Of humans in their will, their task before them, purpose imbedded in the deed.
All there, beyond the picture window, sullied by the whipping rain, by earth in dancing with the wind.
The light grows dimmer by the day, but neither towel nor hose is taken for the remedy,
Nor do I leave into that blissful state about which birds do sing,
Nor do I remove myself, the key around my very neck, from this dark corner of my mind.
I’m not its victim, only an accomplice of its weakness,
How readily do I depart from strain and set the winds through the channels of my ruling cavern.

Out there, beyond the good and easy, are lives alive with toil and struggle.
They’re full of sense and purpose, and hope.
They do not want what they cannot achieve for themselves,
But readily bend their spines so that their younger kin should someday not.
And here I sit with self prescribed anathema against the struggles of the world beyond,
And place about a veil of hurt far beyond the callus and the strain of flesh.
Like a decomposing log, with some residual purpose for the mites and moss,
I sit heavily upon the ground, in my own wet, inert, with only remnants of what I once was,
What I could always be,
If not for the termites of my own invention disassembling me from the very roots of my being.

What happened to the feed and water that gave me flowers and the rings of years?
Replaced by affirmation once removed, of acknowledgement on the electronic plane.
What good are wishes and support when they are no harder to give, and no more substantive, than…?
If there were no drive beyond the measure of existence, then so could I, perhaps, be happy thus,
But cursed I am with wanting more than can be had,
More than what we each are now willing to give.
Cursed with expectation up to which even I cannot live as I am not called upon.

From where will my fulfillment come, from where to find the strength to digest the moss and termites,
And sprout again.
And give shade and breath and utility, and be fulfilled.
Stillness, calm, serenity,
I am overcome by you when there, beneath the open sky, and to the song of your earthly angels,
I feel myself a part.
When gentle breezes waft oak and sandalwood onto my yearning nose,
And brooks and streams give movement to my thoughts and dreams,
And passing clouds take shape according to my whim.
Come with me then, my hard fought balance, come with me,
Stay by my side as I go forth beyond your secret garden,
To the world of access which prevents, and links that subdue, and mastery which brings ignorance.
Stay with me, world, as I leave you for the one we made, so that one day we may, in our hearts, return

Where ancient warriors come to cleanse
Beneath the stars and trees and sands.
In burning caves to show the doors,
With vapor’s keys to unlock souls.

The songs are ever present here,
Of all the lives who’ve come and went.
To blow away the dirt and fear
They came to mountains by nature’s scent.

And then away by foolish roads –
Of trust and dreams of great white hoards,
They fluttered into shadows resting,
And live there now, forever nesting.

What light, of moon or sun does shine,
Upon the soil where heads are lain,
Is all the same as yours and mine,
But we seek shadows all in vain.

The truth of dust and ashes hidden,
By fertile canopies it’s smitten.
What justice let it disappear,
Is now the same which will not let us near.

In the shadow of the mountain
I now seek that ancient howl,
Of the warriors long forgotten,
I’m here to ask, and be rid of my own foul.

I was already there.
It seemed as though forever now.
The cool wind running up the Seine.
The harvest time has come.
Along the quai – stalls of bounty.

From London I had come afore.
There too along the Thames I walked.
Jesters and their like, top hats still.
The fog only lifted.
But time did drift on by.

In Paris it stood still, like in Madrid before.
The time would not move on, alone.
But there as here I knew that not forever more.
My wings would come to me.
And throw open to the street below, for all to see.

A hand, my own, upon a blade will rest.
Push toward the sky and let them hear.
Then whip me wet and let me grasp.
Oh, have I missed it, so long I’ve dreamt I fear.

From reverie to blinding day, and then
Reality took on a softer hue.
My hunger and my eyes awoke full when
I saw a gliding scepter and I knew you to be true.

On mountain peaks I sit unstirring,
My vision more and more is blurring.
I’m growing blind to what I’ve thought is true,
I’m growing lighter in the draining hue.

I only see what I’ve forgotten,
I only breathe of air un-rotten’d,
What seems like blurring mist is clearing,
The falsehood in my heart is searing.

And though I’m pained by the obscurity,
In which I thought I’d find my purity,
As it smokes and burns away,
I am renewed by true light’s day.

To sit in contemplation is my gift,
That time bestowed on my poor head.
My thoughts have all been set adrift,
And land on shores I thought long dead.

Through valleys they now fly and see,
From birch to oak and every tree,
From rock and moss and time’s own dwelling
I hear the voice of true heart’s swelling.

The column slowly returns to the earth from which it came.
Curves and plump lips, a deep copper hue,
Stand in relief of the life and roads traveled.
Strength of one side supporting the weakened other.
Well-worn and oiled wood helps keep the column from
Sinking to its eternal rest.

Lenses of knowledge, only shimmer, only reflect,
And yet spark to glow every so often.
What will! What undying flame!
Try the winds as they may to extinguish,
Try the rains to drown and the dust to bury,
But the column only grows stronger as it curves –
Like an arch to support the greatness and vastness of creation.
The fire only burns more fierce in its little flame.

They came and went, and will come and go,
But she sings with the time, and only sighs
At the hubris of the burning needle without an ember
To give it substance and perseverance.
There comes no heat from the quick brightness of the needle,
It catches fire easily and burns bright for it is hollow –
It took no time to grow and see and become,
And so every spark sets it ablaze.

But that column of the ages stands, though catch fire it might,
Though it may burn from the inside and be left hollow and charred,
It still stands and sees and will not fall.
Only with time will it return to feed again the countless who will come after,
Just as she did those who came from her.

She has earned her name and her place –
Abuela.
And though we may pass her by with barely a glance,
she remains.
But when we do pause and heat ourselves for a moment
On her ember, we do not forget,
And are forever transformed –
Forever loved if we receive her gift of
Deepened valleys around burning lenses,
And a gust from her oracle’s chamber

Cloudy Seas

Above the trees and clouds
The mist waves on beneath the blue,
Whatever struggle to such heights forgotten,
On high, vast peaks reveal what’s good and true.

No sounds but vapor crushing into towers,
The ebb and flow along the purple valley,
The loud call of a fruitful hunt –
The joyful song to make your spirit rally.

From cliffs and crumbling slopes we hung,
Our lives in flash, the outcome in great doubt,
Sweat frozen on our brow all but a dream,
Along with gaping falls and ice – the treacherous bout.

Whatever slips and slides marring our descent,
Whatever winds and pits and hardships yet to come,
Do not exist above the cloudy seas,
When all earthly grievance is long said and done.

Only here, where few do venture,
Where only the brave take dare and climb,
Only in the rare and pure well of breath
Are we alive and feel the absence of all time.