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Condensation

A full lifetime of pondering the implications of life and death, coming and going, has lead to a fair amount of reflection on the matter. Here I ponder the beginnings of corporeal life as relates to consciousness and its drive to manifest a corporeal existence.

Condensation

vapors ooze from a black unknown
   shifting places changing form
 currents swirl beyond sensation
   and dreams are set adrift
wafting like scents through the void

poured from starless reaches
   impulses consolidate in pools
 growing creeping crawling flying
   their primal manifestations
sprung in tandem from the abyss

color falls from the earth
   moisture grows from the sky
 soils sweep across the seas
   waters erupt into mountains
fires spurred to consciousness

flashes clear a shapeless dust
   and pink hued lumps of clay
 soak the stormy reign of thought
   stand and stumble struck with awe
blinded by visions of time and space

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Guardian

This poem, my 2nd trisect, reflects on my experiences on the Yukon River in Canada during two river trips, the first when I was 18 and the second when I was 27. Segment one depicts the modern canoe. Segment two depicts the river itself. And segment three depicts the animistic interaction between the paddler (myself) and the wilderness around.

Guardian

Cradle

Fiberglass for birch tree bark,
a coat of paint for resin pitch,
and plastic trim for cedar wood
compose the modern wander-boat.

Nonetheless there’s craftsmanship
in building plugs and curing molds,
sculpting sand to form a shell
that tumbles life down waterways.

A ghost of the old ways filled with gear
caressed by ancient subtle hands,
appraised and held in fair esteem,
the new unnatural ways aside.

Like driftwood on the open surf,
the fiber-foam cocoon is cast
and swept along on buoyant waves,
tossed by every twist of wind.
 

Meridian

Fueled by swollen alpine lakes,
mirrors to the craggy peaks,
countless glaciers, ponds and streams,
sprung from clouds and hidden springs,

an everlasting thunder rolls
that carves an everlasting path,
a stormy rush of living things
that slakes the stormy rush of life.

Firs collapse and boulders plunge
into the undulating surge,
swept across the winding earth
to strike with titan force the sea,

and clutched against the serpents back
a fleck of lost humanity,
immersed in sprawling majesty,
grips the currents deep and black.
 

Spirit

Black bears peer from root-filled banks;
ravens watch from stands of spruce;
eagles gaze from sudden bluffs;
a bull moose stares from out the wash.

All the dreamtime creatures wake,
bodied forth like smoky signs—
deep claw prints in frosted mud,
fang marks on the aspen’s trunk.

Each regards the floating soul
that wanders broken in their midst,
a well of rage and twisted grief
that echoes through the howling wind.

And each respects his long release
until the blood cakes on his lips
with massive silence like a mist
that rises up to steady him.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — June 2006

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Unfenced

A friend of mine died suddenly on the 12th. I talk a little about him and how we came to meet in “On a Life Left Unfinished”, another poem I wrote in his memory.

     Unfenced

     in memory of Del Warren Livingston (1944—2005)

          close your eyes my friend and listen
     hear the sound of beating hooves
your spirit-brothers come to take you home

          they have heard the call of your stallion heart
     wild neighs that pawed against your chest
and now they come to see you home

          yes they have heard you realms away
     known you as their own throughout the years
lifting their heads at the sound of your distant soul

          your stallion blood has pounded long
     confined within a human cage
at last you have broken free

          do you feel the wind flash across your mane
     can you sense the creased mountains in your nostrils
the power that ripples beneath your hide

          close your eyes and dream my friend
     no longer can the old pains trouble you
go now and join the waiting herd

          graze where waters wind through wooded vales
     gallop where the grasses stretch and gleam
nicker in morning mists among your kind

          fill your lungs with fenceless air and leap
     when you open your eyes and blink away the sleep
you will be home again at last… and free

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Starscape

Within my mind there has always been the nagging notion that maybe we are not actually what we think ourselves to be. That all of our experiences are manifest, projected, from powerful minds that reach out into the void of space to touch one another and interact. I talk of stars, the stars that pepper the night, the endless billions of stars.

Starscape

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:

Tales of the Talisman — September 2006

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Dreamscape

Reflecting on samsara, dukkha, impermanence, maya, and a recent dream, I found myself writing this rather abstract poem.

Dreamscape

splinters of lightning split the dark
   a billion thundering flashes
       lifetimes come and gone

       death has swallowed
   how many times
with its gaping fine-toothed maw

a suck of water
   a rush of loss
       oblivion

       don’t question me
   i have no answers
but i sense a certain permanence

the shape of lost lives
   enters into me
       splitting my sleep

       silhouettes flash in moments
   five shiny black claws tear past my ribs
and i wake bleeding anguish

did i know that loss
   those claws have taken something essential
       why can’t i name the sobs

       tissues harden around the tear
   even the wound is blurred with doubt
by midday

though the memory is lost
   the feeling remains
       swirling in blood-mist

       i know i am dead
   i know i am living
i sense they are inseparable

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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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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.

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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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Whispers

A truly random piece of writing, yet one that turned out surprisingly well.

Whispers

The silent moon grows strong, my friend,
And yet I hear her song, my friend.

Stars fall in glory through the dark,
Freed from the pressing throng, my friend.

The lightly scented night wind blows;
It heals the soul of wrong, my friend.

A gentle arc holds all our dreams
Bound in a stardust thong, my friend.

Soft feathered and unseen, one tolls
The heart of nature’s gong, my friend.

Can lone Zahhar, atop the hill,
Ever be there too long, my friend?

This is my 48th ghazal.