found divinity

People seek the divine in many places. Sometimes it is right before our eyes. If you're lucky you'll meet up with it every once in a while. I did.

* * *

You are my goddess.

watching your form

at a far-flung clip

eyes tracing the dance of a curve

from your waist to your hip

as if they had tongues

pausing at every inch

hungry yet unsung

mutate my mood to robust

inspire soliloquies

words so fervent they combust

trace the incline of your smile

teeth bared, eyes alight

angel arranged to beguile

You are my goddess.

have seen you in a head-trip

a dream or meditation

now corporeal before me

set my vitality to detonation

prayer in solidity

a lucid realization of hope

assuredness transfigured to turbidity

perplexity knowing no scope

mixtures of elation and reverence

aversion and obsession

fascination with no severance

I'm enamored but with trepidation

rouse me forward

and find me trekking with relish

combine dynamism and rhyme

no need to embellish

You are my goddess.

the night i knew

It was a lightning flash coming towards me

from your mouth and hands and animated gestures,

penetrating my head and body. We were standing in

your former home, late at night, the current resident on a trip.

You were gesticulating, pointing to this, and to that;

those things that had their origins in your head

but now servicing someone else. And when the words were exclaimed,

the flash,

and the feelings that erupted inside me.

I wanted to say what you had done was a thing of beauty,

that I had been with you then, not him,

and that I had appreciated every single, tiny wife-y touch

you put on that house. The pride in your voice sustained that lightning bolt,

centering things, hovering it before my eyes;

causing me to envision, or believe I could envision,

futures where a meal might bake, steam rising from the dish

like lighting on pause

until inhaled to complete the hallucination.

So I grabbed you with both hands,

spinning you around, jabbering something, ultimately unable

to articulate the feelings and the hunger and the steam,

or the strength with which they came.

wayside pulpit

Mind astray reading the

words on a wayside pulpit-

so awkward a prophet-

bumbling knowledge-

the acidity of a stunted worldview.

Are you simple as this?

So explainable by twists of phrase 

and pithy wagging tongues

of a bored and boring populace?

Or do you exist in more than an

ever-changing, plastic-lettered,

scared domicile of homicidal 

banalities; meant to be smart?

Might you reside in the

memory of a deceased relative

who died in pain but lived in promise?

Do you dwell a lady’s kiss

at Summer’s first light, balefires lit,

anticipating your rise?

Have you been heard in silent want

upon cold gray steps, with brothers' 

saffron robes dragging the freezing floor?

Or can you be found in

a painted representation of a savior 

dangling, bleeding, rescinding all sin?

Do you feel anger when forced

in containers or bound in

dead leather as the pages of a book?

Can you smell the petals of

an opening rose; waft along the breeze;

yourself the perfume of floral fascination?

How does it feel to be an enigma-

an unknown quantity

straddling an absolute world?

Have I seen you in my daughter’s smile;

my son’s face in the morning

when I am home and it’s Saturday

and what's past is left in proper place?

I care not how you were conceived;

how to ratify your existence; define your mystery.

I seek only your presence, not to fall by the wayside-

no pulpits, nor altars, nor prayers, nor kneeling.

* * *

Since I took such a long break between posts, I thought I'd try to write something new. That didn't work out, so I went back to a past piece & edited the hell out of it (or maybe into it, depends on your worldview.) One of my pet peeves are those little blurbs that appear alongside the road on church marquees- wayside pulpits- that are supposed to be witty. To me they epitomize the general dumbing-down of religion in this country.

durable

Looking like

you’re skinny-sweet.

Twig-thin breakable

won’t bear the heat.

frail-boned glass-jaw

head to feet;

Must prove you’re

durable.

Grinding gears

you’re double time.

Thick skin big engine

never knew benign.

Elegant delinquent

bring spark to mind;

I think you’re

durable.

Pleasing pain

you’re satisfaction.

First-glance flirtation,

one-day distraction.

Don’t dare to miss us

so no retraction;

you say you’re

durable.

Berating bleats

a headstrong sheep.

Pent-up acrimony

sarcasm seeps.

Mutation matrimony,

more’s to weep;

forced to be

durable.

Treacly tune

contempt in form.

Sad-sack familiar

caused me scorn.

Sag-nag-jaw-wag

enshrined boredom;

forced to be

durable.

Fantastic flights

come to an end.

Tin-man melting heart

on whom all depends.

Wrestling frivolous

to comprehend

just what is

durable?

  

* * *

Almost everyone who reads this comes away with their own version of its message. Just a hint- throw away anything obvious- think metaphor, people! One of my more personal selections, written during a time of great transition.

beltane

The Source of all being, continuum timeless.

The ground of existence, rhyming and rhymeless.

Today we honor your limitless love,

Your limitless freedom and limitless trust,

O unity of sky’s spirit and earth’s dust.

* * *

O aspect of feminine,

Goddess, wisdom, delight.

Womb of our birth,

Nourishment of eternal life.

Maiden, Mother, Crone

Earth, Water, Moon.

From you came our birth, and all birthed who have lived.

We honor your part in creation,

Your partnership internal in our beings

O Mother in the Earth...

The Goddess on the hillside on a sunlit morn,

bathing Her body in the mists;

She trills out a tune to the infinite;

She sings of yearning and bliss.

Her voice calls the fervor of Her love

His presence She insists

She beckons him sweetly to rendezvous

to fulfill all that exists...

* * *

Bachelor, Father, Sage

Sky, Fire, Sun.

From you came the seed so needed for life which grew in the mother.

We honor your part in creation,

Your partnership internal in our beings

O Father in the Sky...

Dance to the song of the hillside Goddess

and she will lie with thee;

the dew and the flowers and the daylight’s gleam

welcome summer’s jubilee;

spring is complete and summer nearby,

dance with your passion, dance down from the sky

join with your lover by the hillside stream

child's play

For my son and daughters, back in the day...

I think children are the real masters of all things magical. Weaving the forces of nature to make new realities is something that comes natural and instinctive to a child, especially one very young. The more time I spend with my children, the more of that I see.

* * *

Children play with rhythm

write your musings for

all the world to see

every verse, all prose, all poetry

'til the drums of war

begin to schism.

'Til the sand grains in the hourglass

forget what they're falling for,

incited to rise

No more children shall you play with lies

but wrap your hands 

'round what's at your core

unstrap,

hear sounds in your heart

that are proud and pure

and ghost-dance freedom

knock-knocking on that door.

Sit laughing naked in wet earth

wearing air as your robe.

Children play with God

make Him yours and

just hit reload if He should smite,

there's no throne for a God of spite

in the clay you're baking to be your globe.

Craft new parents from the ground

let inclination coagulate;

No resting easy- children create!

Fashion cities and farms and compounds

skyscrapers of solid crystal

that can never be marauded down!

Or let there be no buildings

only enduring plains

whoop a paean to the patrons

of the open range

and quicken your mount

by releasing it's reins.

Children play with time

repair the errata we've printed afore

engrave your legends and myths and lore

fate is your minion,

the future your reason

Children play with wisdom,

respect every season.

on loop 288 & I-35, Denton

It is shocking how quickly life situations can change- in reality we are all just one or two unlucky events away from being one of the people we ignore standing on the street with a sign. A frightening prospect indeed.

* * *

 

The lady at the counter

tells me no more is left

so I move along past

shuffling my feet.

Does it matter to her

that my tongue is cleft-

deformed, so I stay in my seat?

I look in a mirror

and see what others view-

tattered clothes

wrinkled skin and scabs

face unshaved.

Fly-like eyes darting 'round

search for non-existent food-

beasts in my belly gnawing

like eviscerated slaves.

You chuckle at my sign

as I hold it to my breast

or stop and gape

with wonderment

at a man whom has no shame.

You rush past and forget

how God has made you blessed;

it seems that "good Samaritans"

no longer have a claim.

A man in a loud tie

talks about me on TV;

I see it at a store

and on the newspaper page.

You wonder if I'm aware

of the time spent just on me;

I want to scream I do not care

but can't bring forth the proper rage.

Not a one impatient

stranger in their Cadillacs

their empty words produced

for re-election

can understand why I

stand with sign and "slack"

they stare dumb

from windows gilded to perfection.

I fought their war

kept their precious

children rich and free-

grimy hands once held

their flag with swollen pride.

The same hands would have

gripped tight my college degree

but foreign lands and bullet holes

cast dreams aside.

So I stand in the median

with my sign clutched

to my breast

while empty suits spout

"robust times" and

"deserving" what I've seen.

I rage inside my brain

until I reach a lofty crest;

then sag down in disarray and

the smell of spent gasoline.

amber waves

I think all people who write poetry have their own 9/11 poem. That event may have inspired the most poetry not based on personal relationships since JFK's assassination.

Or perhaps a 9/11 poem is about personal relationships... who was unaffected by what happened and the aftermath we still face?

* * *

American field with amber waves like

slaves laboring into the wind.

Send pollen in air to clog trachea

breaking apart, strangle the divine.

A fine excuse for missing the days,

haze slithering ground up to nose

rose and to earth violently fell!

Hail in unscrupulous melody sings,

rings out a note of pure melancholy like

folly of the leaders taken deaf and blind,

signed away right to in agony hiss the

protagonists with serpent's tongues in their bliss.

Fists moving low caught American waves-

crave any old reason to look aside.

A snide and relentless fascination,

prostration on ground, her two proud generals like

minerals left in the firewall's wake,

faking they see what is to befall.

Keep all of their promises, all of their flaws!

Gnaws at the heart with amber fangs,

pangs in the night, wake with startled gasp-

rasp in breath from the pollen grains,

hear strains of a dirge now almost blithe.

Knife couldn't cut like the videotape-

gape at the carnage. Repeat! Repeat!

Replete with still frames of a heartsick plunge a

lunge from an edifice seeking the son.

Come feel the lady, all silk and perfume your

doom her caress, not fair to a man.

American waves in the wind, like the paper,

raped her and tossed the carcass aside.

Abided through pain as it rammed her

and rammed her like

amber waves blowing in September wind.

A blend so curious of smoke and frustration-

a nation, a people, frozen time and fear

leer at an enemy with phantom's guise

cry millions of throats,"vengeance our right!"

Fright masking pathways of reckless intent-

"Repent! Repent! For the wrath is upon us!"

All trust died the morning our lady's eyes closed.