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Transmigrant Memory

She has a connection with horses that is difficult to understand or explain. I’ve met people like this over the years, including my friend Del. Maybe they’re remembering something from a previous existence? Following this train of thought, I found myself writing this poem, my 12th villanelle.

Transmigrant Memory

For Bonnie

Horses race upon the fields; thunder rolls within the earth,
Where laughing neighs are echoed up the canyons to the peaks;
Lightning flashes in her eyes, dark eyes full of silent mirth.

She storms amid the thronging herd; all the valley holds its breath,
Where jays watch from the aspens, ravens from the elder oaks;
Horses race upon the fields; thunder rolls within the earth.

Billowed sepia-colored mane whips across her chestnut cloth
And dances in the ether, blown in long unfurling arcs;
Lightning flashes in her eyes, dark eyes full of silent mirth.

Each passing nimbus rains a mist, morphing like some giant wraith,
And shadows cast below them briefly dim the verdant brooks;
Horses race upon the fields; thunder rolls within the earth.

Feelings flood her human heart; karma wrought a human path;
Where deep within her nature something equine rears and strikes,
Lightning flashes in her eyes, dark eyes full of silent mirth.

A knowing broods within her soul, welling up to issue forth,
And somehow she remembers; visions fill her heart with aches—
Horses race upon the fields; thunder rolls within the earth;
Lightning flashes in her eyes, dark eyes full of silent mirth.

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Presence

For most of my life I have felt a presence, always near. And though I have never heard its voice, I can sometimes feel its influence on my thoughts. I’ve often thought that it could be an angel. This, my 11th villanelle, reflects upon this lifelong presence and its influence on my existence.

Presence

A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind,
Behind the din and chaos, where subtle voices speak,
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

Although I faced the world without a friend,
Among the thronging masses, alone within my grief,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind.

A being came from somewhere far beyond,
Beyond this realm of vision, a place we cannot see,
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

My heart was pulled to view the spaces grand,
Where filled with awe I trembled, while always there unseen,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind.

Where dreams and waking vision merge and blend
A shade has often offered encouragement discreet
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

I ventured far and wide a vagabond,
And when I ached with hunger or shivered in the breeze,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

Publication History:

One-In-Four — May 2004

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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.

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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

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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.

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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

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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.
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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.

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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

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Equine Dreaming

She has a unique relationship with horses, one that goes beyond explanation or understanding. I imagine that those she is intimate with must share in that connection on some level, hence this poem, my 3rd villanelle.

Equine Dreaming

For Bonnie

Shaded by the swaying pines, moonlit slivers phase and shift;
Water capers from the spring, sliding by with gentle sound—
Thrilling whispers shiver past; firm embrace bestows her gift.

Poised nearby, the unicorn drinks where crystal waters drift,
Golden horn and silver fleece lightly gleaming all around,
Shaded by the swaying pines; moonlit slivers phase and shift.

Dancing, leaping cloud to cloud, held aloft by feathered lift,
Flying horses fill the night, sharing in the joy she found—
Thrilling whispers shiver past; firm embrace bestows her gift.

Swung beneath broad ivory wings, pearly hoofs had formed a rift;
Chance and magic joined to coax water from a stony mound,
Shaded by the swaying pines; moonlit slivers phase and shift.

Subtle whinnies on the breeze blend with warbling water-sift,
Joined by neighs and clops until mystic equine tones abound—
Thrilling whispers shiver past; firm embrace bestows her gift.

Horses wing the spangled depths, prancing lightly, sure and swift;
Shaken loose, a feather floats, lightly falling to the ground,
Shaded by the swaying pines; moonlit slivers phase and shift—
Thrilling whispers shiver past; firm embrace bestows her gift.

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For Me Alone

On Tuesdays there is a poetry and music open mic at Northlight Book & Cafe in Cotati, California. I’ve been going there off and on for about a year to recite and/or sing classical poems. Recently an exceptionally beautiful woman started talking to me. This never happens to me, so of course I was instantly enamored.

The last time we talked, we sat on a bench out in front of the cafe and covered a few topics. At one point she sang to me, right there next to me, and my heart soared so high it came back covered in moondust. This is the sort of thing I’ve fantasized about since I was a toddler. So, my 2nd villanelle.

For Me Alone

For Julene Beeson

Her voice like golden harps of heaven rang,
As on a bench we sat within the night;
For me, for me alone her heart she sang.

To lucid resonance from mystic tang
Her depths of beauty shone transcendent light;
Her voice like golden harps of heaven rang.

Within my chest a soft celestial pang
Lay cradled twixt deep longing and delight;
For me, for me alone her heart she sang.

Angelic sweetness round us seemed to hang;
Divinely wrought with chords of richness bright
Her voice like golden harps of heaven rang.

Tremendous joys from depths inside me sprang;
My heart, in rapture, soared to starry height;
For me, for me alone her heart she sang.

As if emerging from an ageless pang,
I woke to living there before her sight;
Her voice like golden harps of heaven rang;
For me, for me alone her heart she sang.