By the Fire
Sit with me by a fire beneath the stars
Babble wild thoughts to me
Without pretense or purpose
Without yesterday or tomorrow
Speak words through the eyes of an infant knowing neither when or what, before or after
Let me drink your thought like a parched drunkard gulps wine
Stumble about in naked divinity
Seek not north or south, east or west
This ship heeds no compass rose
Upward drifting on a wisp of smoke
Twisting towards a point of blackness between the stars
To the place infinity calls home
Laugh like fools in fits and gasps
Cheeks running, streams of joy
Flowing into the cupped hands of a child
Plunge into the sweet bath
Dance wildly til the dust of philosophy and dirt of theology turn to mud between our toes
The child smiles
Mother to infant
She draws infinity into a single breath
Heaven bursts from her lips as she giggles with delight
Her name is Innocence
Plough & Stars
And there was a tall waterfall in the sky facing eastward down Mass Ave.
Framed by blocky buildings.
Contrasted against concrete and asphalt at my feet.
Pink and tangerine torrents in pastel shades painted childlike on the horizon.
Tumbling, back lit, billowing, sweeping in wild windblown waves over slate gray slopes.
Wispy clouds set in motion, being nothing, being beauty.
Breezes blow chilled now, though the vista warms my watering eyes within.
On this dirty sidewalk I stand.
Scrap of yellow page in hand.
Painting pictures with pen.
What are they?
Poor ink scratched symbols in vain chasing heaven.
What are they to be?
Awash in garbled sounds.
Slapping footsteps hurried upon pavement.
Indifference amplified, beneath and by, below the face, of mother natures beauty and grace.
Me, My Journal, You
Cover torn open wide
Burst from darkness
Cold, blinding intensity
Naked, lying in beings cold bath
Touch, warmth, comfort follows
Tender graceful pen strokes
Calligraphy purring softly to paper
Sweet milk pouring into purity
Pages, sinless perfection
Time moves in turn
Fresh pen strokes fall
With weight now, heavy hands deliver
Down pressing hard
Thrusting into, onto pages within
Invisible as indelible
Dark becoming light
Cold comfort warmth
Enter now this ink walled maze
Etched by a thousand pens
Twisting this way, turning that
One atop another
Lost though found
Calligraphy, sweet calligraphy
Time draws taught a moment to ask
Another page or peace profound
Passion, purpose tomorrow
Times hand quivers
Page present, pages past, bellow and bawl
Calligraphy whispers a clarion call
Mine is yours
These pages deep
Those anew are those to keep
What if I did disappear into that leaf?
It's a very colorful leaf, you know?
Perhaps I did disappear into it while
walking from the library.
The leaf blended well those about it.
They in turn blended well with the
As my footstep fell toward it my mind
stepped into it.
Joined the scene, embracing warmth,
slanting sunshine sliding between high October clouds.
My mind became content, warm with one
As my footstep fell further so my mind
left the leaf.
Fluttering to rest upon the cool damp
Mother Earth quickly tilled, turned
returned it to me.
You, your voice
You, your voice
So familiar, though very distant
Speaking to, seldom from
Hear you, adrift in the fog
Rolling across the calm
Echoes of essence whisper
Me, may you embrace me
Do I know you shouts me
Who might you be
Are you me
From where are you from
Where do you go when me is without you
You, your simple tongue delights me so
Are you a child
Child of me
Am I a child
Me of you
If me listens, if me follows you
Will you leave me lost
Will you join me found
Mindfulness, mindlessness mired in self serving ignorance.
Itís within me, I donít like it.
Births sin of innocence, born of lesser conception.
Babes boiled in its stew from birth.
Dabbed dry with star spangled bunting.
Pressed like paper cutouts between pages of verse contrived by prophets and saints.
Itís not me, though it clings to me.
Mine is a generation born in a box stamped postage paid to heaven.
Hand delivered by corpses over streets stained with blood.
Rot, rotting at heavens gate,
The stench perfumed by pious pretenders, pretending for whom?
I drank wine last night, broke bread, and then pissed on a parched thistle because I could.
The following morning the thistle thanked me by growing green with gratitude for my drops of dew.
That evening it flowered, full of grace.
I pissed on it once again for daring to grow green in my garden.
The following morning the thistle set seeds sailing, each a soldier to settle upon the soil, each green with gratitude, full of grace.
Crumbs for the hungry adrift in the heavens.
Each tethered to time on eternities strand.
Constellations clear light, contemplationsí candle to follow.
Light for the darkness of a practical stage.
Dimensions within, from without, from inside us?
Philosophiesí food grown in firmaments fields.
Astronomers gaze as math runs with numbers, connecting the crumbs with tethers unseen.
Itís a search for the real within realityís closet with no compass or sexton before billowed sails.
Where contemplation dares dream, practicality follows, towed by times tether along temptationís trail.
Sea glass smooth upon the
Amethyst, amber, cobalt
Towed by tides along the
Tossed by storm swells,
Sparkle, sparkle sunshine
Neptunes' treasures, yours to seek
My dear friend the Junco
The junco is the first to rise.
Before the sun lights winter skies.
While Venus twinkles in the east.
They scratch and scuff with little feet.
Without a sound they scour the ground.
Slate grey feathered tiny clowns.
In search of seeds and berries sweet.
Their presence is my morning treat.
Weathered eyes upon the sea.
A hole in the sand where a house used to be.
Kissed by the sun on many a morn.
Lashed by storms, hurricane torn.
Weathered and true, shuttered in grey.
Generations pass, tides through the bay.
Children a buzz.
Songs from above.
Glacial trails, stone and sand.
Northward creeks through marshes weave.
Tidal flats and cedar trees.
Shifting sands on sunsets door.
October on Langwater
Places drawing me back through tears over smiles.
Memories bring faces.
Reflections on water.
Eyes lit by sunset.
Moments mirrored with a rising moon.
Vivid on October trees.
Each glowing leaf an outburst of memory.
Intense as alive.
Time once spent.
Coming to fruition.
Coming to naught.
Do you know?
Do you long for an answer?
Between sun rays and moonbeams.
Hiding in shadows.
Dancing in dreams.
As the crow flies
Clocks hands slipping silently forward.
Motion pulled taught on times invisible plain.
Moments twining together.
Essence of two woven as one.
Finger tips softly wander, seeking forever.
Lonely snowflakes look on through frost draped panes.
Flickers of her flame tread tenderly on my spine.
Glowing warmth teasing chilled senses, forgotten.
I do hope to see her again.
That is what I now think while alone gazing out a different pane at lonely snow draped trees.
Fifty miles from Cambridge as the crow flies.
Slowly counting nine on my fingers.
Nine days since that Saturday night.
Nine cold days removed from the luxury of her.
No more, No less.
The sum of which is contentment.
I like the sound and feel of that.
I miss her.
There, I just said it out loud.
I miss her.
Can you hear me?
Can I be done now?