Tag Archives: poet

Peace

There in the swirling torrent,

at the eye of the rage and chaos,

in the core there is a stillness,

an unremembrance of the gnats and knives

carried in the wind.

Round and round and round,

flashing lights illuminate white-capped crests

as the very surface bends to that calm,

to that void wherein there is no whirl,

no time,

no thing.

Implosion of sound as forward becomes down becomes around again,

the distance from peace ages and lengthens

as the sea is wrapped and twisted further around the eye.

Above, the clouds lurch,

drunken spirals they vomit the cold, biting rain,

spew hail,

belch thunder.

There is no sun beyond the cloud,

no night sky reigned with star,

there is nothing but the maelstrom,

crashing and gnawing at that silent core,

drawing everything down to the silent end.

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angry tie

I thread my body in hot dissonance –

the angry pinks leap out from an ecru field,

lashing out to assault the eye,

to offend the inferred harmonies

swelling in a sea of pretense

around my open scowl.

 

It is my mood,

fey and callous

that accents the palate –

a dark stain on the white fabric,

a sore-thumb crack in an over-sized button.

I lick my lips to whet the daggers of my eyes,

lit with smoldering rage,

the tiny figure hurling insults as monolithic giants,

futility in a storm,

eroded in a blink.

 

all that I see is frustration,

consumption,

and waste.

 

all that I know is disgust.

 

11/6/14


an in between place

I wait in this in between place,

this place that is nowhere.

I wait alone with myself,

with our many selves,

hesitant to commit.

.

Through this mist,

this pervasive sadness that coats my bones,

a lilt of an accent,

bright memories of yesterday –

of dragonflies and of stairways,

we wonder which of us is real,

which of us is to be real.

.

Do I decide?

Is the decision mine

to collapse these infinite possibilities

into a single,

crystalline

reality?

Is the true self decided by fate

by God,

or a foolish boy’s choice?

.

I watch the alternatives crumple

into the hungering fog of impossibility.

.

I stand and wait,

postponing,

in this place of infinite loss.

I cannot reach out,

will not reach out,

for I have lost the desire for direction,

for life or for death.

.

So I stand within this self,

in the midst of this host of possible selves –

the dwindling remains of who we could have been,

would have been,

if not for…

.

There is no collapse,

no singular focus.

We are all illusion,

misperception,

visions to blind children.

.

I am truly thankful for these thoughts,

these inwardly directed thoughts from outside,

these shining lines of hope,

memories,

love.

.

But yet I wait here,

unsure,

and anything but alone.

 

4.24.14


Not now

It is my wish to hurt you,
To hold the corners of your being
That you have tried to hide,
And pull until you are thin,
Aching.

I loathe you,
Your weaknesses,
Shortcomings.
You are not one lesson shy of inadequate,
You are without value,
A stain on the air that I breathe,
A mire in which my shoes are soiled.


Inverse

The inverse side, the inside song.

Your words, the words run like smoke.

Cough!

I held on and once again, burned, I cry to no one.

She held out her hand,

not knowing why,

and I took it,

not knowing why.

A cold wind,

gray and sad,

blows me down and those hands are there,

smiling,

laughing that I fell.

She looks into their eyes and I see a mockery

of all that I have.

I have no more room for sadness.

So, look at these eyes

and understand my goodbye

as eternal.

.

Oct 1998


Lament

I can see it.

Can you  not?

This brightness and white-hot light?

Can you not smell

the fire-scent of rebirth?

.

Darkness follows,

cool, soothing darkness,

a balm to all of my wounds.

.

You can just barely sense the arrival of the new self,

the air tingling with discovery.

.

My back rests on cold, polished stone

as I reach my hands to part the velvet,

but nothing,

thick and musty nothingness

meets my arms and face.

.

In the distance I hear music;

soft, slow music.

Words of twisted lament

speak of ultimate sadnesses.

But I am new and have not yet been filled,

so I drink the emotion and revel in feeling anew,

.

All that I know is of sadness.

It is filling and complete.

My eyes see dancing,

the music leaps in the darkness.

.

I awake to vague impressions,

a desire for sadness.

Apr 5, 1996


Little bridges

Neither from the sanctuary of the shore,
Nor from the midst of the crushing rapids
Is the full force of the current apparent.
Only when the poet straddles the border,
Immersed in both solidity and pain
Do the feelings coalesce to word,
Bridging pain and reconciliation,
Darkness and wisdom.
Be wary of cries from the torrent,
And rest assured that those upon the shore have no heart,
Look to the bridges of the poet,
And rescue with love
Those who have fallen.

In response to:
The Untitled Poems: A Collection Of Thoughts (Pt. 3) | Diary Of A Fed Up Lad
https://diaryofafeduplad.wordpress.com/2013/12/08/the-untitled-poems-a-collection-of-thoughts-pt-3/


A walk in the Light

I stare at that light,

that light at the end of the tunnel,

and I wonder,

“Why are there no colors?”

Briefly.

Then I devour the light.

I watch it twist and dance –

it is not only at the end of the tunnel,

but it runs along the sides,

liquid diamonds.

I long to drink it.

.

Then,

I spit.

The uselessness of these words!

ow many times

do I say the exact thing,

over

and over?

Every time these same,

comfortless words.

What are they?

An expression of my desire?

I write them,

think them to the light,

hoping it will hear,

(for written language is nothing

to the light).

I beg again for that light,

and I touch it with my finger,

snapping the dream.

I fall again into the useless reality.

The light will not let me in,

not alone.

But no one else can see it,

and I quake with frustrated rage.

So close,

yet close

is meaningless.

But in that light,

reality and that narrow tunnel between

are less than a dream.

Oh!

There I know myself,

as I melt into my guide

and the light penetrates

my soul,

purging it of shadow,

fusing it to another soul,

equals.

But where is my guide,

and for how long must I search?

I grow weary of games,

of testing through words,

these same words.

No!

Step into the light with me,

hold my hand and we will explore that world.

We can explore the light.

I say ‘we’,

but who is that other?

Where can I find that soul

with courage?

One that wants to taste that light

with me?

Oh,

if only you could see that light

as I do!

If you had put your hand into it

and felt that jolt

of life

that stops the heart.

There I have seen the world melt

as time stood still.

There you can go beyond tasting the world,

drinking her colors.

Oh,

come with me –

it is so much easier than you think.

Let go

and come with me.

I cannot understand your fear,

and I hope that you do not see the light

through my words only,

for they are nothing.

I hope that you have been touched by the light.

But your fear speaks otherwise.

Let me take you to the light.

.

11.25.98


1er Soir Apres La Rentree

So it looks like all I’ve got now is what’s in this pocket.

Memories don’t fit,

so I slip them to the wind.

Run away again,

do you think this is something I need?

Do you think I like to be bitten?

I see these walls surrounding your faces,

strange faces,

stories of lifetimes I no longer care to know.

I have been lost,

and you all have lost me too,

I see.

I look inside,

then in this little pocket to see what I’ve got –

a wad of cash and a few pieces of paper,

some soviet smokes and the keys to my cell.

This is not my world.

as I had once hoped,

but now I see this is a foreign place to me,

I am alien.

I look in this pocket,

what I’ve been given to finish

whatever it is I must do here.

I look and see my work,

my words,

words of welcome,

expressions of friendship,

but none of you knows what I keep in my pocket,

and you never will.

I am a liar,

and a mocker,

and I suffer from emptiness.

Well,

what did you expect?

Why did you call me friend?

Have we given each other something,

exchanged something?

Do you know me?

Is you life different without me?

That is why I look to this pocket –

to see what’s left

and to know what is mine.

But,

do not call me friend,

for such we are not.

I am an island here,

in this world,

in your world.

I am alien,

nakedly clutching the meager contents of my pocket.

A wad of cash,

some paper,

and some soviet smokes.

That is all I have to fight the emptiness?

.

But what do you know of emptiness?

Or for that matter,

of completeness?

Who are you to judge what you cannot fully see?

Can you speak of my love,

of what I have tasted and helped to shape?

Who are you to believe I am as simple as what the surface belies?

Fly, Blindness!

I have no room in my heart

for your sadness,

and your biting words are nothing –

only words.

Yes,

it’s sad with only this pocket,

and this handful of life.

But I have loved like none can imagine.

I have loved purely and deeply and solemnly.

Fly away blindness!

And send your biting words to the wind.

They will not fit in this pocket.

.

10.11.98


The Lay of Arbin – Pt 1, The Shores of Birra

And by the shores of the Birra,

on the very banks,

dwelt Arbin.

.

Birra,

The river blonde,

for in spring’s thaw,

the water flows white,

the color of the hair of Birra’s mother,

who into the falls dove

to rescue her child

and now searches eternally,

ever-raging,

raging in the spring

for the loss of her daughter.

.

And on this river lived Arbin,

and by this river

oft on here very banks

Arbin studied,

and Arbin grew crafty,

for the love of knowledge flowed in Arbin’s heart,

and indeed,

through his solitude,

was the only love

his heart knew.

And long he studied,

and long he grew old

even as he learned of death

and of dying

Arbin drank of the cup of mortality

and studied

as only Arbin could study,

and learned of shadow-lore

and darkness magic

and of the very changing of natures.

And Arbin first learned of the name Arrueil,

the false giver.

.


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