time enough

in our measure of time
there are curious circles filling our days,
numbered moments marked by the scars of transiting lights,
heavens moguls of tribulation 'n plight,
that give or take away --

the indifference of time that measures man,
in cycles round 'bout heavens span,
meted out in lines that grid the world
in constant sorrow, Saturn stuttered,
disappearing today in some further loss of tomorrow,
yet we also know that ticking clocks in circles go,
'til time enough for love is lost to reasons chains and at what cost;

the Gods of Time in cycles go, a-round, a-bout, a-turning slow,
fast re-turned, they come, they go,
there's time enough, for love you know.

though I spend my time,
circling the horizon with my mind's eye,
seeking the curve of her Venus belt,
a circumference of sunset reds,
surrounding the sky, she is on the face of it,
a timeless piece, a swinging pendulum of rhythms sway,
a clock that circumscribes my day,
and in every second of my nights,
a tick to my tock that ne'er quits
nor ever is passe'

the manic synesthesiac

"The center is everywhere. Bent is the path of eternity." -- Nietzsche

this dyslexia parts the colours that I see
resolved or separated by sense
as either a particle or a wave ~
up
'n
down,
rising to these feelings moving everywhere,
a vision reel-ing with the sound of a stare
a good life at the crest, a musical zest,
patterns without rest

she tasted like apples with yellows flowing into white,
the smell of her hair was lemongrass blowing in the breeze,
the flower of her heart in laughter 'n tears,
beating with the waves of a tidal red sea,
this melding of shapes, colours 'n sounds
is what she was to me

then it fell apart, closed down everything,
too much made me blind
falling to the lows, unkind, outta my mind,
I didn't have much to say
just those particles that bend, like they always do
to the gravity of a deeper darker end,
where it fell apart again, like it always does,
like I never saw anything

the moebius bird

swirling ascent,
streaming, feathered, winging --

'look at your tops, they are my bottoms,'

she tweets 'n twitters, murmurs me:me
surging urges in the air she soars
everywhere a falling feeling --

a free-spirit flows through her wings,
a sapient sixth sense
for rising up to close the gap --

caresses curious circuits, twirling,
swooning, reeling,
drifting through heightened meaning --

she speaks in many tongues,
larking on the edge of a hush with the rush
of a far-cry, a longing songing sigh --

in a fluttering, floating glide,
she rounds in passions now arrived, now along,
swooping, looping, going, going,
falling fast, now turned, re-turned, now gone

where-of about doubt in torrents come

There is nothing new that does not come of something already done -- there is nothing new with expositions of revelatory reflections. However the crux of the matter in this piece, which is a performance piece after all, is that 'its doubtless that silence was the beginning of revelation and its a revelation that silence is without doubt' which drips down with honey to 'silence echoes of eden where that first green is golden' which is a play on 'silence is golden' which is to say its cliche' but nonetheless a sweetness of Truth. Truth spills out of many mouths on their curious circuits toward Love: speaks in many tongues, licking the edge of a hush with the far-cry of a sigh -- 'you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss becomes you" -- deep calls to deep -- these allusions dripping from my pen, again 'n again -- from the cradle of lost dreams to the cold hope of stars -- where a head-ache is mystic and the mythic licks at my heals -- a range of modalities that are shadows on the wall tricking us into believing they are real in how lonely-lost the writer does feel when assailed by the cold steel of doubt -- this Poet is writing songs that will echo down the halls of time in the play of light with the shadows, skipping darkly, glimmering divine -- and thankfully this Poet is not alone singing in the multi-verse ~

about doubt in torrents come

deep calls to deep --

this calls to the stories with interesting beginnings foreshadowing that not all these stories end well --

where there are holes there are things to fill 'em --

desires, red angers, beliefs for the head bangers, science or religions forms 'n rituals, the seven deadly sins, the seraphim's, beelzebub tales, or faustian narcissisms, reasons construed 'n screwed into doubts, we tread the wheel, the edge of our holes, lurking in silence 'n seeking a cure, its the failure of why that really gets us by, we wander the realms in search of a soul, we wake in the morning or sit late into the night, aching to fill the holes with wholesome insight --

the doubt of religion is science and the religion of science is doubt

the slippery slide to where we trip 'n fall, the stars are dull when planets burn inside, gaseous balls bursting us wide when lightening strikes from our Hot Galvaniz'd pen to burn the words on paper again --

moanin' meaning as some come 'n hum in awe, the old saw learns a trick or two in how to wend the river of words that'll do --

nevertheless I confess, I'm new at the play, looking out from an inside, disturb'd by the crowds of other peoples dreams, the hell worlds where reasonable doubt is shouted out and all only seems --

I doubt that God has any religion and its doubtless that religion has any God

the vision you see in the river rushing words to the sea, that hydroscopy of pain where a 'lil drop of the ocean rises up to the grumbling 'n fiery clouds with 'lektrik blue-beards, dripping in sunset reds, like in Monet where pointillism points nowhere but in, and the drip gets whipped by the winds of change, rearranged 'n swallowed, falling faster to the dark earth 'n green leaf, where like a jewel reflecting all the world it swirls to the stream 'n babbling brook, then a torrent reflecting albino moon-light, rushing as a river of insight, toward the merged in the deep 'n dark of the sea, the beginning 'n end of you 'n me --

its true you see Poetry as an inner disease, not meant to please nor for the agenda of rhymes that corral the reader at times --

but a great disease that disturbs meaning, eating at the bones of 'self' imposed structures, beyond the reason of doubt, but simple in the song that can arise when the Poet is able to dematerialize themselves into the reader with a write-ousness bleeding 'n abetting 'n deeper

its true that science reveals our doubts but I doubt that there's a science of true revelation

writes of passage for some is the rubbing of the pen to paper, a mirror of the friction they've got as consciousness inside, a little spark at the end of the pen written as burning embers again --

others celebrate the seasons of the mind in old rituals like the Maypole dance, where they find, a time to express their passionate side, in fecund rhythm 'n fertile rhyme, to realize that we are all a vital part of the continually moving circle of the struggles 'n strife of life, from the small seed to the most colourful flower, ah, such is Natures power --

me, I'm a drop of water, reflecting all the world, longing for the sea, writing words as if they leaked from my eyes, aching for the waves that are waiting for me --

its doubtless that silence was the beginning of revelation and its a revelation that silence is without doubt


silence echoes of eden where that first green is golden

doubtless you'll remember

to the Poets past but yet to come, the lonely only ones

"The center is everywhere. Bent is the path of eternity." -- Nietzche

tombstones are the post cards of the dead except instead of the old cliche, 'I wish you were here' they're saying, I wish I was there! ... in the light of cosmic time, both great and small are extinguished in eternity ... then again, every particle, every drop of blood is recycled from this great cosmic love affair called creation, consuming and reviving us over and over again, forever 'n ever bent toward every eventuality ... perhaps then, you are the Good Poet you see in the future you're becoming or the one to become whom you ought to be in eternity -- from stars we come to stars we shall return, this ancient ache of longing urging us to burn, to shine on 'n on from inside out, where illumination is a fire without any doubt -- the Poets of the future will have a telescopic memory which bends around mass (Einsteins gravitational lens predicted in relativity theory used today) seeing the future we are yet to be --

so maybe its enough just to say,
in the halls of eternal time,
that the poems you hear echoing there
are not only yours, but mine ...

the good poet~

writes her insights with a lyrical pen that babbles like a brook of words that meander down the page while unfettered, glistening fish jump from line to line seeking the source of their urgent drive home -- nevertheless when Nature has need of some expression sHe urges in surges throughout mankind for a heart made ready from beating wings dipped in tears and laughter and when sHe finds a ready vessel malleable and made pure for this new expression, sHe urges by the creativity of wonder and realized raptures the longing song Poem -- the Poet is often reflected in that urge as the creator is always part creation and as all things go all things become the Poem and so too is the Poet an urge of Nature express'd in surges -- the authentic Poet, the good Poet writes with tears and laughter in such a way that you, the reader, are become the Poet and are, therefore, become an expressed urge of Nature surged in rhythms of Words 'n Music only the heart can hear --

the heart forever voyages, longing its compass, always going hOMe

the future is more or less, I confess, though its dependent on the past, alas. But thats not the point of parallax tunnel-vision with the paralysis of analysis 'n derision, but the sound of Poets in Swedenborgian space, let's face it, echoing down the halls of time, lets trace it, in words both theirs 'n mine -- the sound a poet makes when his heart 'n mind meet, the inner sonics 'n ironics burst into song where all our miseries 'n desires belong, but incomplete --

'Love flowers in isolation, in secrecy, in loneliness. Much poetry comes of loneliness. Let loneliness be my only companion for it draws me nearer to Love.'

the broken, wounded 'n lonely aren't the only ones
to be-longing for the shadows of the Sun
where lovers 'n poets lie
before the day is done

driven within from the damage of harsh light
glaring burningly at their in-near-sight
when the lover awakes
cradled in the dark 'n lonely night
its what it takes to be an only one
when the day is finally done

about you

about you

yeah, I used to recite rote mantras in Tibetan
like the Manjushri di di di di di di di, man he was juicy concerning
mental Mercury n' words that see, clearly - that 'n others reading the
scripts on long sheets of idiogrammatics written in 'lil tics --

nevertheless, light reaches the eye, bounces around inside 'til
chemically driven, you sigh a wonderin' why, all these reflections are
a cussin' conjectures 'n objections, becoming brainiacchtungs that are
rungs down the ladder of your holes, where all the dirty cloths, goes --

you get sick 'n tired of slogging soggy jeans, that means nothing
more than you're wired obscene, mired in the darkness of bad dreams,
dead-locked 'n it all seems to be about you, about you, oh it's bad --

but when all the words fall from synaptic trees, contraries 'n
clarities, oh won't you, won't you please, dive deep up there beyond
your event horizon, your suffrin' vision, the inner idiot disease,
something farther than you'd ever see with eyes blinded by the light
of your inner 'lecktricity, reflections bouncing off mediocrity back
to where you've already been --

oh, but you want to, you want to, get back so bad

after we'd recite in alacrity, we'd meditate to where words dare not
go 'n learn to relate about what we'd know in a language only
the heart can show and it's clear cause its not about you, no, it's not about you, anymore