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a simple prayer

A friend was telling me about some of her personal challenges. This imagery came to mind as I pondered them and her faith. This is an acrostic of one of her pen-names.

a simple prayer

for Jenna Joslyn

boldly she walks into the mist—the cold gray mist
entrapped and overwhelmed she prays, “please save my soul…”
zephyrs with reverent care brush past her kneeling thoughts
only the grasses sense the weight, her heavy heart
above she sees a few faint stars burn through the haze
riven from heaven’s depthless shores, one parts and falls

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dichotomy

As a friend told me about some of her personal challenges, this imagery came to mind. This is an acrostic of one of her pen-names.

dichotomy

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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moonless night

The night sky will always inspire poems from me. Here is a tanka to that ribbon of stars called the Milky Way.

moonless night

a ribbon of stars
churns across the speckled night
revealing the way
failing to follow this path
will fold our dust in magma

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The Lotus Tree

I was inspired to write this poem after one of my full moon visits to a particular redwood tree that grows near a place called Usal Beach, north of Fort Bragg, California. It’s a remote beach, accessible only by six miles of dirt road, after driving at least 60 odd miles of remote highway. Most redwoods grow straight up, a single spire swaying up to the clouds. However something has inspired this tree to grow very differently. About fourteen feet from the ground it suddenly spreads out into about thirty individual spires, each of which have grown over the years into mature redwoods. When seen from a short distance, the effect is that of looking upon an enormous chandelier. I call her “The Lotus Tree” because of the whorl-like pattern of her individual spires.

This tree has a strong presence about her. And judging by the path that winds up to her knees through a grove of similarly twisted redwoods—though none so spectacular as herself—it would seem that she has connected with quite a few people over the years. Knowing her has been one of the great blessings of my life.

The Lotus Tree

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This poem was incorporated into my villanelle/terzanelle project, so “the grove” and “full moon visit” are my 15th and 16th villanelles, respectively, and “the sagess” and “astral visit” are my 14th and 15th terzanelles, respectively.

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desert song

The desert is an endless source of poetic inspiration. Here is a tanka to the deserts of Southern Nevada and California.

desert song

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Publication History:

Blackmail Press (web-based) — Spring 2006

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Los Angeles

I spent a significant portion of my childhood in Los Angeles, and as a ward of the Los Angeles Juvenile Courts. Perhaps it’s a good place to be from, but it is no place to live.

Los Angeles

concrete blight on barren land…

sometimes i dream of you…

i see the earth
crack a colossal smile
grinning beneath your grids
swallowing with giant gulps
gnashing roads and towers with granite teeth
then in the end
chasing her putrid meal
she drains a cleansing drink from the sea
and seals her rocky lips once more
leaving only desert

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Lost

This was inspired by some personal reflection on the effects of modern development on the Australian Aboriginal songlines. I imagine that they’ve been disrupted to an extreme. Some things are simply not meant to be disturbed.

Lost

the sacred markers are gone
rusted rocks moved aside
magnificent beech and myrtle cut down
even once immovable markers defiled
that cliff face on the east of the valley
cut for quarry
that granite outcrop once there on the hilltop
bulldozed for a mall
the songlines are lost
scarred by countless hands
yellow machines billowing black smoke
there is no way back to the dreaming

rivers shifted off course
plains cleared and plowed
canyons gutted for ore
fences barb borderless boundaries
even the clouds are dirty

i once walked the songlines
heart that i was
i knew the markers and respected them
soul that i was
there in the dreaming before all this
but i have lost my way
i cannot find the markers
how shall i return to the dreaming

everything has been sacrificed
the way is lost
all is forgotten
lessons of the ancients
guidance of our ancestors
spurned and rejected
they weep for us even now
they walk among us watching
even they cannot find the markers
ripped from the earth
songlines erased for the next ten thousand years
even they are lost from the dreaming
wandering among us
crowding the rooms of our angular homes and towers
flowing in limpid flood throughout our lanes
moaning and wailing soundlessly like drizzle
sharing our torment

the way is lost
the dreaming lost

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Ephemeral

Perhaps, in the end, questions concerning the origins of man and his universe will not be answered. We want answers, but chances are they are way beyond, or before, our reach. This is like asking about the origin of faith, or the origin of mind. Everything we know is manifest, but attempting to answer the question of “from” or “where” will only takes us in circles.

Reflecting on such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 14th villanelle.

Ephemeral

Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
A stone now manifest and in the air
Barely above the water, gliding on?

Was it the misty void, though folded soft
Within its mystic lair of dark allure,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?

A stone’s gray flight can never last for long,
Its hue in contrast with the liquid mire,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Do waters ponder, when it lands awash
And splashes up in flight again to soar,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?

Momentum slows for every skimming rock,
Too soon to sleep enfolded in the mere,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Once it is lost from view, its motion stopped,
Ripples expand and fade; and, no-one’s there
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

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Pulp

Psychology has its merits—That is when the psychologist is knowledgeable, experienced, and compassionate. But, to my mind, psychiatry has very few merits, no matter how well-intentioned its practitioners may be. I have watched the infusion of psychiatric drugs destroy the minds of those around me, and it has also destroyed most of what potential I was born with and began to develop as a child.

Very, very few losses inflict as much pain and despair as the loss of ones own potential. I know. So, thinking such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th terzanelle.

Pulp

they made his mind a molding mess
a slow and solemn nest of thought
a brooding storm of deep distress

confusion ruled his darkened heart
enraged at what his mind became
a slow and solemn nest of thought

as reason weakened and decayed
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh
enraged at what his mind became

his anguish flared a bitter flame
when it would surge with burning force
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh

he wished for death with yearnings fierce
a wish he never could perform
when it would surge with burning force

he longed to leave his broken form
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a wish he never could perform

the poisons flowed within his blood
they made his mind a molding mess
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a brooding storm of deep distress

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

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Helpless

My infatuated fascination with the opposite sex began very early. There are many possible reasons for this, but I can remember even as far back as age four or five absolutely craving for the attention of a beautiful woman. If I had a class with a pretty elementary teacher, it would be impossible for me to concentrate on anything beyond fantasizing about close contact. Not “sex”, that didn’t enter into my thought process until much later, but intimacy nonetheless.

So this set the stage for a life of desire for that which cannot be realized—Or at best realized for only a brief period. For people change. No-one stays young and retains a youthful countenance and physique forever. I even find the plastic “beauty” of older women who have changed their features artificially to be utterly creepy and unsavory.

So why? It is a curse I have not found a way to lift. I would give anything to be able to just appreciate a woman’s beauty as it changes through age, seeing only with my heart. But, sadly, this has never been possible for me, however much I may hope for it. I envy those who have this ability or natural inclination. So, as I reflected on all of this, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th villanelle.

Helpless

My heart is moved by that which wastes away;
My soul is rendered incomplete by beauty
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

An urgency eclipses simple joy,
And caught within its raging rush unruly,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away.

How often I have heaved the heavy sigh,
A heedless hope that heats within profusely
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

Today, as when a half unconscious boy,
Enslaved by aches that govern absolutely,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away.

My sense is charmed by figures slight and spry,
The fairest features doomed to rot unduly,
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

I’m plagued by wonton wants that just destroy,
That urge with fiendish force until, all gloomy,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

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A Modern Troubadour’s Lament

This, my 12th terzanelle, was written as I struggled to process and accept the inevitable marginalization every poet experiences who takes a keen interest in prosody and structured forms.

A Modern Troubadour’s Lament

A schism rent the quiet past and left behind confusion,
And egocentric demagogues stepped in to fill the void,
Which brought about the gushing flood of poets in profusion.

Imposters seized the Poet’s name with rough and savage noise,
Demoting prosody to verse with ignorant assumption,
And egocentric demagogues stepped in to fill the void.

A few sang random songs of self with hearts full of presumption,
While others clipped and nipped at prose, indignant and inept,
Demoting prosody to verse with ignorant assumption.

The ones who wrote evolving verse, now looked on with contempt,
Were robbed of all integrity and broadly disregarded,
While others clipped and nipped at prose, indignant and inept.

An art emergent and alive had simply been discarded,
For poets wont to learn that art and dream in measured strains
Were robbed of all integrity and broadly disregarded.

So it became unpopular to work in magic frames,
Thus stunting art’s development through future generations
For poets wont to learn that art and dream in measured strains.

The masses heard the demagogues and heeded their frustrations,
And poetry itself became subjected to reform,
Thus stunting art’s development through future generations.

The name of Poet once was rare, not for the average born—
A schism rent the quiet past and left behind confusion,
And poetry itself became subjected to reform,
Which brought about the gushing flood of poets in profusion.