Posted on by EAT

Way Station

Throughout my life, beginning very early, there is a place I have visited again and again in my dreams. It could be years between visits, or days. There is no predicting it. I’ve come to think of this place as a way station on the path to self-understanding, or perhaps even self-realization.

I have also looked for it over the years when I’ve driven cross-country. It seems like this place I dream of must actually exist somewhere in the real world. This poem, my 11th terzanelle, was written as I reflected upon this distant place of dream.

Way Station

I found myself among the northern pine,
A place that calls me from the waking world,
Amid the buildings of a nameless town.

There is some comfort here to which I’m pulled
That oftentimes has brought me to this place,
A place that calls me from the waking world.

And here I pass along the streets in peace,
Surrounded by a subtle solitude
That oftentimes has brought me to this place.

A forest climbs the hills on every side
Arising fold on fold above these homes,
Surrounded by a subtle solitude.

This land is somehow more than what it seems;
I sense it all will vanish like the clouds,
Arising fold on fold above these homes.

And still I roam with glee the narrow roads,
Yet always knowing I can never stay;
I sense it all will vanish like the clouds.

Each time I come, I cannot help my joy,
Feeling at home and full of silent hope,
Yet always knowing I can never stay.

Throughout my life, beyond the veil of sleep,
I found myself among the northern pine,
Feeling at home and full of silent hope
Amid the buildings of a nameless town.

Posted on by EAT

Aeolian Strains

There is a real live aeolian harp about smack in the middle of New Mexico. I saw a picture of it online some years ago, and in 2004 decided it was time to go visit this living art piece. It was conceptualized and built by a medical doctor turned astronomer, Bill Neely, and his friend Bob Griesing, during June and July of 2000. The owners of the Traditions Shopping Center in the Mimbres Valley commissioned its construction and installation, and not long after they let it fall into disrepair.

It may just be a thing of metal to most, but to me anything that harnesses the wind or manifests music is itself alive, and this does both. And not just alive, but conscious and life-affirming. It was a sad thing for me to find it there, like a wounded animal, still facing the sand-blown wind to play its injured song.

A week after I visited this neglected oracle in January of 2004, I found myself writing this poem, my 10th terzanelle, in Flagstaff, Arizona where I was waylaid on my way back home by a nasty cold.

Aeolian Strains

Neglected with a broken string, the harp turns toward the wind,
And plays the subtle song of distant desert moods;
A song that’s lost amid the sound of reckless worldly din.

This singing weather-vane, the song of which would soothe,
Stands in a field of novelties, an oracle ignored,
And plays the subtle song of distant desert moods.

An art piece with a living soul, from mystic magic born,
The voice of whispered dreams, harmonic and serene,
Stands in a field of novelties, an oracle ignored.

In random moments brief, the mad rush grants reprieve,
Enough to hear the vibrant strings exhale with gentle breath
The voice of whispered dreams, harmonic and serene.

Or, gusts are sprung upon the chords that bring a bold caress,
Where heavy song is raised in timbres manifold,
Enough to hear the vibrant strings exhale with gentle breath.

She’s like a fallen angel, lamenting all alone—
Neglected with a broken string, the harp turns toward the wind,
Where heavy song is raised in timbres manifold,
A song that’s lost amid the sound of reckless worldly din.

Publication History:

Illuminations — Spring 2005

Posted on by EAT

Frostbite

I have never “believed in god” in the conventional dogmatic manner. But I’ve certainly had a relationship with a power greater than myself since at least adolescence. Exposure to the 12-step programs from an early age has taught me well. I know to only pray for “gods” guidance and the strength to follow that guidance. This I have known for a long time.

This poem, my 10th villanelle, reflects on past inner torments that have brought me to prayer, that earnest supplication for peace of mind and stillness of heart that can only be inspired by a sort of psycho-spiritual frostbite.

Frostbite

I have collapsed in prayer to an unknown force,
The weight of woes upon me, in strain beneath the strife,
And pleaded to the stars in timbres hoarse.

It seemed in vain, the winds tore deep and fierce;
Succumbed to frigid sorrow, on bitter steppes and wide,
I have collapsed in prayer to an unknown force.

An insignificant voice pealed forth my case
Against the growing silence, into the blurring heights,
And pleaded to the stars in timbres hoarse.

Defeated and alone, I stayed my course
Until the will expired; unable to revive,
I have collapsed in prayer to an unknown force.

This long-lived soul fell under glacial curse,
That once had dared entreaty, with no room left for pride,
And pleaded to the stars in timbres hoarse.

There on the frozen wastes I learned of grace,
Where deep and hidden terrors lurk just beneath the ice—
I have collapsed in prayer to an unknown force,
And pleaded to the stars in timbres hoarse.

Posted on by EAT

Culture

I thought I would try building a metaphor for modern American culture. The decaying hull of a scrapped ship seemed appropriate. And so my 10th villanelle.

Culture

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:

The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005

Posted on by EAT

Baby Grand

Listening to her play her piano is always calming to me. I don’t understand it. The piano has always been a special instrument to me, even if I never learned to play it. It is basically a harp laid on its side, the strings of which are struck by hammers operated by keys. It’s a stringed instrument. It is a harp in all respects, and I love harps, too.

So, I thought I would write my 9th terzanelle to her and her piano, as a thank you of sorts.

Baby Grand

For Bonnie

Set in spruce and maple, with veneer of stained mahogany,
Her strings take on the fullness of rushing northern winds,
Sprawling open spaces strung in true and timeless harmony.

Within a rounded casing, beneath the sloping lid,
Gleaming golden iron holds a harp to mountain resonance;
Her strings take on the fullness of rushing northern winds.

Careful fingers fashioned every nuance, carved in elegance,
Where Cristofori’s vision lies fixed within the frame;
Gleaming golden iron holds a harp to mountain resonance.

Her scarred veneer remembers what men forget with time;
Tuners come and temper troubled chords back into melody
Where Cristofori’s vision lies fixed within the frame.

Colors fade and sully, yet she never loses empathy;
Her chords are kept in concert with nature’s subtle tones;
Tuners come and temper troubled chords back into melody.

Despite the many winters, her timbre never wanes;
Set in spruce and maple, with veneer of stained mahogany,
Her chords are kept in concert with nature’s subtle tones,
Sprawling open spaces strung in true and timeless harmony.

Posted on by EAT

Pilgrim

A most unusual friend inspired this poem, my 8th villanelle. The descriptions aren’t exactly accurate, but this is intentional. For instance, my friend has never used a walking stick. No, you might think of this poem as an impressionist depiction of who he is, or at least of who I see him to be.

Pilgrim

For Derham Giuliani

Lonesome pilgrim on the path, where does the journey end?
With eyes on distant clouds, across the broad horizon,
Firm you grasp a walking stick, and wander with the wind.

Since you left the seething swarm, a peace has filled your mind;
Beneath the sprawling stars you watch the turning heavens—
Lonesome pilgrim on the path, where does the journey end?

Wisdom lights your countenance, where thoughts are unconcerned;
Each morning fills your view with glowing gold or crimson;
Firm you grasp a walking stick, and wander with the wind.

Weathered though your face may be, your gaze is clear and kind;
You’ve seen days grow and fade on undulating oceans;
Lonesome pilgrim on the path, where does the journey end?

Lucid understanding gleams within your eyes, unstrained;
Reflections streaming through, the sights that met your vision;
Firm you grasp a walking stick, and wander with the wind.

Steeped in clarity profound, you neither seek nor find;
The moonlight’s phasing hues reveal the way you’ve chosen;
Lonesome pilgrim on the path, where does the journey end?
Firm you grasp a walking stick, and wander with the wind.

Posted on by EAT

Cloud

This poem, my 7th villanelle, is inspired by the visual and psycho-spiritual effects of cloudscapes moving up the canyon where I live in Brooktrails, near Willits, California. The clouds rise up the canyon all the way from Willits, which is 10 some odd miles away. They phase through tall redwoods and bold madronas as they obscure plots and houses in heavy shifting mists that reveal and reconceal a hidden world of thought and green.

Cloud

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. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

Publication History:

The Lyric — Spring 2004

Illuminations — Spring 2005

Posted on by EAT

Night Walk

There is a State Nature Reserve of old growth coastal redwoods called Montgomery Woods about 30 miles west of Ukiah, California. On full moons nights, as the great sky-pearl climbs toward zenith, I’ll drive out to this reserve and walk the three mile loop through these woods, up one side of the long narrow vale and back down the other.

This poem, my 6th villanelle, reflects upon those walks and their effects on my being.

Night Walk

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.
Posted on by EAT

Silent Consolements

Maybe there is something in the spirit of nature itself that reaches out to nurture those children who are born into the absolute worst of conditions. Maybe it is not just an instinctive will to survive that pulls such newborns through scorn, abuse, and repulsion.

This poem, my 5th villanelle, reflects on the notion that there are spirits within the wilderness, even though it may have been completely “developed” over by man, that reach out and try to protect on some level the nascent sentience of newborn human life when it finds itself festering, neglected and malnourished, in a puddle of terror, neglect, and disease.

Silent Consolements

Vaulting crags called down to one, who cried within the crib,
Squalling shrieks of unmet need that hailed to no avail;
Voiceless hopes were whispered on the rasping desert winds.

Scents from coarsely pillared halls would sooth with subtle kiss;
Lakes like mirrors mimed the stars from vales in mountains tall;
Vaulting crags called down to one, who cried within the crib.

Shadows pooled in pulseless ponds where aimless fancies swim;
Hints of sagebrush shrugged the dark where with a fragrant lull
Voiceless hopes were whispered on the rasping desert winds.

Streams in yawning canyons raced beneath their tufting mists,
Leaping down cascading cliffs, and guarding every fall,
Vaulting crags called down to one, who cried within the crib.

Dawn and dusk each passed in turn with burning pastel drift;
Colors paused on peak and plain where passing all the while
Voiceless hopes were whispered on the rasping desert winds.

Life began in bleak despair, too deep for one to live;
Sorrows crushed a tiny heart, but soundless through the pall,
Vaulting crags called down to one, who cried within the crib—
Voiceless hopes were whispered on the rasping desert winds.

Posted on by EAT

Path by Moon

Inspired by my many full moon walks in the Montgomery Woods, a State Nature Reserve of old growth redwoods about 30 miles west of Ukiah, California, this poem—my 4th villanelle—invites you to leave the wide and beaten path to venture into the mystic unknown of personal exploration. This “path by moon” is a metaphor for the discovery and pursuit of ones own unique path in life.

Path by Moon

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. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

Publication History:

Zephyr (web-based) — May 2004

Posted on by EAT

Moonpines

After nearly a year of spending most full moons deep in the Montgomery Woods, a State Nature Reserve of old growth coastal redwoods about 30 miles west of Ukiah, California, I felt compelled to dedicate a poem to my experiences therein. One peculiar trait of a forest of old growth redwoods during a full moon is the tendency for one among the towering ranks to fall entirely in the path of moonlight. It only lasts for a few moments to a few minutes, but the effect is absolutely striking, echoing deep into the psyche for all time. This is my 8th terzanelle.

Moonpines

         Montgomery Woods at Full Moon
            Mendocino County, CA
                Winter, Spring and Summer of 2003

Gently gleaming from shadowed depths, a single pillar shines,
Held in place by the full moon’s gaze, suspended on the night;
Bold within the enshrouded gloom, the silent moonbeam climbs.

Vaulted high into moonstone heights, both bark and bough alike
Etch mosaics of subtle hue in countless shapes and shades,
Held in place by the full moon’s gaze, suspended on the night.

Shifting softly with light subdued, the moon with traces vague
Brushes ever so faint the forms where rays, diffuse and dim,
Etch mosaics of subtle hue in countless shapes and shades.

Slowly walking, devoid of thought, low glimmers skim the skin,
Moonlight faint as a whisper’s breath, with tingle and tickle touch,
Brushes ever so faint the forms where rays diffuse and dim.

Sitting down where the wood is deep amid the moonshade hush,
Downy zephyrous breezes join the opal-toned caress,
Moonlight faint as a whisper’s breath with tingle and tickle touch.

Sudden, deep in the patterned depths one massive tree is blessed,
Caught entranced by the moon’s embrace, and all my heart is thrilled;
Downy zephyrous breezes join the opal-toned caress.

Here my spirit escapes the mind and laves in peace until
Gently gleaming from shadowed depths, a single pillar shines,
Caught entranced by the moon’s embrace, and all my heart is thrilled;
Bold within the enshrouded gloom, the silent moonbeam climbs.

Publication History:

Blackmail Press (web-based) — Spring 2006