“For Goethe”
The dancing radiance of wind-filled forms
lifted aloft into that rare revolving repose
felt vividly, clearly, when the elements
meet in the mean
—when earthly rhythms match, for the moment,
the continuity tauntingly beckoned by the stars—
may reveal the play of light and shadow,
as not mere reflection or obfuscation of some bland solar source,
but the ever-going engine of everything under the sun, though also within it,
within all light as everywhere a meeting place of modulation,
a golden mean flowing even in the extreme,
where light and night mingle
to tint each visible moment with the shades of all others,
any possible other, like a starry night whispering of the history of time, and a future perfection where ever-new colors fill the sky.
“cutting truths”
cutting truths are broken truths, jagged shards of partial justice,
falling from the edges of our pointed problems and half-hearted solutions,
an inevitable redress to, but still problematic product of,
our misshapen moments and memories
Same with the blunt, brutal, or burning light of righteous passion,
rising up from a whole-hearted longing to unearth those pieces,
So many times buried or missed.
These too reach rightly to sever the strings binding us to an ill-fitted compromise,
Or to break open a space wherein new truths may be fitted.
And yet, while all truths are slanted, even if many-sided,
If they can cut across, more than just cut apart,
Make hearts move, instead of merely break them,
Illuminate the threads, not just burn away the webs,
All edges may fall away; every passive point becomes an active power,
A continuous collage of corresponding virtue.
Point of Passion:
Stratified sails of un-impelled Delight
March boldly across the surface screen
Between this frictionless scene
And the unabashed antinomy of our faces
Tracing contours of the knots
Whose strands start to slide
And shift the meaning winds
That so long carried us
In parallactic fugue.
Precipitous longing caves in
So heavy and contained
It breaks the symbol hull.
That long encrusted defense
Against the relentless waves
Finds it’s always been carving
Its shape from their troughs.
The cavity of a gathering force
Finds its space within
The spin and slide
Of an amorphous pounding tide
Where sense now rides with soul
And the sea confounds the sky.
What was and is a dense and dark reflection
Now tweaked and churned
A working wheel of light
To irrigate our life.
All transdermal solicitation
All porous incongruity
Becomes deferring unity.
Endless endings lapping
Against the shores of
Our eternal Identity.
Musing on Origins:
Shimmer on,
Oh fire of life,
Oh waves of condensing, spiraling time,
Burning arriving, like dreams spilt from Giants’ cups,
Second hand revelations from indifferent libations.
A fire-water heat wave.
Ripple sparks from an ancient-future revelry.
Like a joke long forgotten to its sounders,
Whose laugh reverberates with the echoes of its dissemination.
A gathering pun, whose meaning is consumed, dispersed
Into the effulgent rhapsody of One ex-temporizing gene.
Nest of the Now:
The textures of time,
decipher the dream,
in rhythms that ricochet spiraling seams.
What we call Light
is a limit of sight,
Heaven’s wave breaking
on shores of the night.
The fractures then found,
from oceans of sound,
will pulse those
proportions and temper distortions,
incarnating gods,
in our nest of the Now.
Share into The Void:
The buzz of what was,
Lingers long alongside,
All that never was and ever could be.
Mutating the obvious
To hybrid circumstance.
An alien fruit,
Ripe for the picking.
Waiting in the cracks that shine,
Out from a midday’s wounded rhythm,
Or from a bright night’s lunar schism.
Between the beats of a wind-waving leaf,
Inside the pregnant power
Of an early morning’s
Poise of Promise.
Searing souls share into the void.
In a relay rediscovery
Of the portending Omnipresent.
Reaching through the hum
Of what’s ever due to come.
What Soul Speaks?
What soul speaks,
Sounding deep through the dream,
Of a tenebrous, light-weaving, star-pleated seam?
Do its words fill the hours, defining our days?
Or does it tell of a time that may seem but a maze?
Worlds linked in ways, we wonder, waking, why?
Summoning strange gods from aethers far and nigh.
Which eye sees?
When the world’s but a gem…
Refracting all time through oceans of our ken.
We parlay our heart on distant moments’ thought,
Through folded inner space as orphan dreamers sought.
Lurid overtones whose senses wait in wing,
A severance to the sources that made our pattern cling.
(Layer upon layer, that hide in the air,
Forgetting the stair that lifted them there.
All rendered clean from dimensions unseen,
Forgetting the words from which they weaned.
A sundry expense, while we’re further entrenched,
But the game changing sign reminds us of time.
Returning rotations catch every sensation,
From under the sun, all reaping the fun,
We rise to the nexus, as unified sexes,
And sink to the heart of what kept us apart.
All moments suspended, forever contented).
Which time wakes?
Which level loves and sings?
Which heart is free, yet resonates all things?
How far back ‘s the meaning want to go?
How long’d it take to make it to this show?
Somehow we take a leap of faith and hew
A world all of our own, a life forever true.