Hanged Man (3rd version based on “King and” or “Arms of Mammon”


[note: Read slowly, forceful, accent on consonants]

Hanged Man

Vanity towers bury bonds
Calls friendship an illusion
A way to shelter for self grandeur
These ash washed grave robbers
Worship sincerity in gray mirrors
The reflection is a liar god
Do not breath same air as they
Who live as one cluster
Defy the shallow knave of swords
False heart, vision cannibal
Moments, like some earth of the dead.
Sell what cannot be sold?
You are true, of heart and soul, Run!
Rise up and remove from those who beguile
There is no ruler only those who are ruled.

Against Those Who Find Friendship Only When Ego Calls


Short Poem When A Friend Asked

Vanity towers bury bonds
Calls friendship an illusion
A way to slander for self grandeur
These ash washed singers
Worship in greying mirrors
The singer is a liar
Do not breath the same air as they
Live as one of God’s children
Never let them sway you from beloved
Moments and lives
You are a good person
Rise up and remove from those who beguile

Confessions Of The Unenlightened I (that’s me)


Confessions Of The Unenlightened I

Better to walk alone
Breath
Be alive
Anything other than the lies and deceit
So take it
here I am have fun
Brown needle earth
and the sway of white pines
a slope and a glade
gift spot of life breathing
where construction and noise
overpopulation and suburban
greed grasps at philosophy
of
this is mine
go away
snout noses and leaf blowers
poisoned lawns suspicion
of the living, a smile, hello,
then inspection of where
my dog walked and why am I friendly
telling me I do not belong
this is not healthy
this horrid, meaningless need
to judge
and claim possession
of what is not theirs to own
but the hate bleeds down stares
leaving trails of rotting muskmelons
proud in clamors of deception
brought in golden chariots
spiked wheels and nuclear waste
for water, in the soil, in the air,
and here I am walking here
missing lands where every walk
was a conversation or two
and if I wanted to talk about
WH Auden, Jim Harrison, Thomas Merton,
Discourses of the Buddha
and why the Sermon on the Mount
and the Agony in the Garden
hold so much significance
to the living minds
to the soul not given
into armies of Mara
or whispers of the great deceiver
try to find a conversation
try
Hello Pines and Tulip Maple
Hello Sweet Daisy
Ringing bowl tones and stretched muscles
I speak and listen
odd how with nature I find companionship
while in trying to find words among social “humans”
it is more and more of the same
over and over
and I know who they are hiding
inside petty words and significant actions
I hate it here
soul consumed rejected and sent away
It is
OK
I know I do not belong among them
no matter how hard I tried I am me
remembering conversations
unity and the happiness of being among friends
those I trust adore and learn more from them
than any books or contemplations
and for those I trust I miss you I do
to just talk judgement free
to simply be
to laugh and feel one another
in the hearts of one another
but that is all gone
so much ends with “-ed”
and let me say that the fight to overcome
complications of isolation
born of cancer, lyme’s and nerve damage,
drawing back the curtains of death and saying NO
to find the beautiful Yes if only for a while
and for a while I stopped dodging the arrows
and befriended the bowman and the huntress
it was wonderful it was life
finding Art so easy in conversation and encounters
finding it gone as all must live and do their thing
things change
oh yes
things do change
an dI wish I did not remember beauty so well
loneliness is not depression
walking through the gates of Hell
and escaping alive soul and love intact
hope still thrives
but being pushed away caged denied
even the slightest set of friendships
and trust is hard to bear
damned for saying what must not be said
such as miss you friends are treasures
and the wish for exchange of ideas
and to flush the harsh reality of mean people
away
cut the past over and over again and again
missing loved ones is not a weakness
it is the garden of essence
a clutch of seeds waiting to grow again
a look upon the politic and knowing
madness oozes from the diseased head
on down to the rest we call society
choosing to be alone
rating lies and deceit by the number
not by weight
even publishers who once called for me
now curse my name
how dare me go through the isolation
of fighting to live and akin to rebirth
I made it out alive when every doctor
said I probably will not
so why did I live on and why the saints with me
when cultural associations banned me damned me
for having risen so high and then fallen so hard
and came back trying to express the yes of Godhead
and visions suddenly brought to life
ha! still the mind
ha! give up love of friendships
acceptance is standing among nature
and feeling the divine
remembering all the love and life
the pains and rejections
the success and wonder
hardships are always present for all of us
the difference is if lived among the living
or cursed to be turned away
written and composed languages and music
better than ever and yet not a soul
to share one word or one note
without being ripped off or marginalized
at least I get to spend $150 for office visits
to spine clinic, neurologist and ent,
all to be told the same about white blood cells raging
tinnitus never ending back and spine my Mt McKinley
as tiny cells are pinched in nerve endings
never ending and so I agree to teas and rice
epidurals injections cutting and removing
and thinking I am tired of this struggle
but I must go on
there is more to write than Dear Diary
or bleak puberty sighs and revelations
I remember happiness
it was great
come back to me or I come to you
washed clean of proportional distractions
open to whatever is next or is
but fuck the death eaters and shovels on my grave
I ain’t dead yet
but I have seen what it is is
and I have heard the words GO AWAY
when my heart and intentions were pure and holy
lied to over and over all the time
but giving each time the chance to change
Rise from the cave
Speak the words spoken to
Express the visions
accept hate for what it is
I am tired of empty phrases
I can tell where I am unwanted
so here take it all back I will give no more
even decided to stop publishing
being mocked by editors when I was still bleeding
from wounds of attempted murder
contracts ripped and broken
well the escape clause was there to take
all your work and not pay stupid man
and the thing is I want not of the damned
they can keep their Mammon rides and tunnels
take my music and give me nothing
take my words and turn them into yours
I see the poems with whole passages
lifted from my works and given no thanks
asking for music, words and inspiration
but do not give me a thing not even a thanks
and still I live to create and to serve
and I give up caring who steals from me
or who tries to kill me
or who slanders and gossips until
I cannot even recognize me in the slime words
tainted and corrupted by deceit and deception
take it all there is nothing of value left
but my soul is not mine it is as it always was
property of God
for one cannot sell what is not ones to sell
but for sake of the Saints stop stealing from me
hold back the hate I have been hated enough
judged enough and medically tortured enough
Yeah, this all comes from a wounded man
A purge of the deceptions and cancers
A need to say I have had enough of lies and theft
yes intellectual and artistic theft
I have had enough of the suburbs
I have had enough of irrational judgments and prejudice
I come to terms with silence, poverty and age
being forced to choose between medical treatments
and slow starvation is what few foresee but it is reality
my lawyer said I am too nice I must cease trust
OK
A man really can be an island

Breathe To This Now, Just to Breathe to Be


Breathe. To breathe.
. As the hours and night passed filled in thought and dressed with lucid dreams, I woke up and the first word, first thought was “Breathe”. I opened the page and was about to comment on ‘be here now and be love now’ which I do believe is my being now, but then I remembered my Zen teacher from long ago who kept telling me to breathe, to take all the shit In my mind, exhale-inhale and move into the now. This applies as well to my Kundalini thing where the first movements and sounds are of breath doing it’s lung thing and refreshing all that is “I” until the cosmic connection takes place and words disappear into the thing here, this thing now, this that is Breath that is to Breathe and be here now not be here now then breath but to breath move this life in and out of me. So yes, ‘breathe’, I wish I had written that one word just as my Zen Master taught and said he does not care if Gautama taps me on the shoulder that in the moment of exhale nothing must take away from what it is to be which is “Breathe” then be love now. Sometimes I wish to remember be here now which is to Breathe, simply breathe….

 

 

I wish I had the money to be ad free on my site because the ads ruin my words

 

Rilke Poems in French, here it is Poem #53


Je ne peux pas m’engager ‘a accepter ses idées frivoles. Jamais, jamais, je ne l’obéissance pas un meneur, cela ne mène a rien.
Rereading Rilke’s poems in French. It was a masterful exercise in testing his knowledge of the poem and if he could communicate th senses of things felt in French as well as in his native German. The same stands for us, the readers. We must allow that Rilke was just wanting right simply of things felt. But the desire to analyze is always there so it does take an effort not to fall for the pretentious inclination to work a hermeneutic on them, but he tell us not to waste our time, just let the poem be.
This is about the poem itself. Forget any worldly relations because that will muddy the clarity Rilke was looking to place into his writings, not about Alma Mahler or the pre Raphaelites, this is the poem, the 59 poems, then the prose poems in French. No outside world. No gossip of who and what as this is Rilke seeking refuge in his last writings, near last writings. The Duino and Orpheus works drained him, and the publicity wore him out. Works in French is refuge.
I think he went beyond, beyond into an even more mystical and touched by the Heavenly Host as he sought God throughout the ways of language, in how we think and compose, how we think in a second or third language.
The beauty and spirituality is at times wavering between worlds of 2, 3 and 4th dimension.
Exhausted after the peak of excellence which pretty much drained him in Sonnets to Orpheus (my favorite of his collections) and the Duino Elegies (really neck and neck with Sonnets to Orpheus, but man, to write with such elevation and cloud touching as he did with his German sonnets he needed to do something in small ways of experience and things felt, so he used the French language to write of small things of the senses and almost by accident, of the mystical. 53, for me is one of those which begins as a lovely experience among rose bushes, which I relate to in many ways as I have always planted several different roses and Lillies around and in the path to the stairway entrance to my home. At one time I had 14 different kinds of rose and it was an ongoing marvel wonder and precious thanks to the Lord for such small beauties and inspirations.
Roses and lilies engage me physically and spiritually. So, I guess it is natural in terms of how I relate to a poem that I chose 53 to challenge our balance of being pretentious and being in awe. I am both. I seek to be held in awe of Gods gift of this earth which we so readily seek to destroy, and then for some we offer up our roses to the angels to decide. Yes, the wisdom of experience in things felt as sensory and No mind do elevate the soul.
If one is confused by the questions then no answer will ever offer consolation and the other will continue to live in a fantasy of made up imagery and conflicted slander and gossip rather than just looking upon the question and finding this is where stands the soul of the “I” or of the “other”.
It is so hard to be held transfixed by the most elemental of things. Now, the use of the “I” in my description of this pleasure in the text and in the relative meaning is not limited to me, but to all pronouns: I, me, you, yours, ours, theirs, they, them, us, he, she, You, They, Us, Me, Mine, I. All may be used and the meaning of the question and beauty of the answer reveals that it is in the question we find the true self. “but when will we find ways to be equal to the rose?”
The Greek poet Sappho asked a similar question in one of the fragments found of her poetry and it began:
“after so much giving I am exhausted.
where, my love, where are the roses for me?”
We, the reader, find so often that the poet, the writing, the poem itself asks where is there something in return for all I have given, and the poet must accept that what is of the poetic heart is not as it is for regular people except in time of reflection brought on by tragic or heroic events. For the Artist this question simply is a part of the lamented life where we wish the isolated life of the Arts were at times giving us a more social life just to be able to talk with others, to love others and to be free to enjoy conversations without boundaries. Yeah, the critical examination almost removes the delicacy of the poems intention in the first place:
“…
mais comment arriverait-on
a egaler une rose?”
“But when will we find ways to be equal to the rose?” and if we keep up this pretension of roses and tenderness will we then corrupt the angelic touch upon this moment? Right. There are those things written which just are as they exist in the poem, a moment felt and the fear of its being divided up and crushed under the pressure of cynics pen and paper.
Rilke poem Francais, #53
“On arrange et on compose
les mots de tant de focus,
mais comment arriverait-on
a egaler une rose?
Si on supporte l’étrange
prétention de ce jeu,
c’est que, parfois, un ange
le derange un peu.”
In English:
“We arrange and we compose
words in so many ways,
but when will we find ways
to be equal to the rose?
If we keep up the strange
pretension of this game,
it’s because at times an angel
deranges it a little.”

What Is This Land?


What is This Our Land Becomes
What is this where I have tumbled
What is this where I have been denied
What is this my life and labor
This thing that was my heart and love
What is this where waters flowed
And now rubber tubes clog and litter
What is this I looked upon and adored
Only to find it eaten and destroyed
What is this my work left behind me
So undone unfinished desired and waiting
What is this I tried so hard and found
Dead in the leaves of the gutters above
What is this knowledge denied and rotting
That for thousands of years was designed for now
I held my hand to feel the rough edges
Gone now are my knife calluses soft
And cumbersome where once they raged
What is this when I walk alone unafraid
And still in search for a challenge
Who are you in my garden today
You who would rise up to snatch my life away
What is this I believed for so long
My love of faith spat upon by of course the faithful
Where are you when I speak of my love
Who am I when desire and the sexual
Are fed to the dogs waiting outside the door
And so I know what this is when life rests
And says no more so I accept who I am
See this flesh wilting from my bones
There is little else to smell but rose and jasmine tea
The smell of cigarettes makes me want to vomit
I cannot stand the stench of tobacco and addiction
Long freed from needs of drunkenness and the wild
I was still looked upon as if sparks would
Fly from my fingers and all around bursts in flame
What is this I have called my family who scowls
When I know just how they see me
Wishing I was no longer a man better dust
And a marker with just my name
A thing to be forgotten left lame and rotting

Poem: Material Essence


 

 

 

 

 

MATERIAL ESSENCE

A Pot left sitting in the grass
On the roadside
A four lane intersection
Lights and roars,
Talks and shrieks,
All things being what they are
The Pot sat silent
Till one day it grew
Two legs
Stood and walked away
To another place
Being a pot it needed to be used
So it found a home
All filled with dirt and tomato seeds
It became itself
Finally
The absence of being long gone
And far away

Prose Poem: Look Me In the Eyes Judge Me & A Part Of You Not Me Dies


I said I don’t know how it is happening, this rolling through hidden, painful diseases, migraines unfolding over the years suddenly, calmly, admiring the sun casting shadows over the horizon edge into the elms, oak, maple and yellow pine, thinking this is beautiful, this is sparkling and bending into a kaleidoscope with Isaiah steaming and proclaims He shall not be broken…

Darkness. I don’t know. I was sipping orange blossom tipped water and then I awoke in a bundle, water all over me, time what time? There was no marker beginning and ending.

I looked at my right leg, my leg, knee down and around my arch and ankle back up again in splotches of gorgeous purple and saffron bruises.

I stare. I cannot stand. My entire body was stretched and beaten, reformed and disassociated. It was a seizure. I was terrified. Five more in a few weeks. So I told my neurologist. I was afraid to speak. But I did. Thus began two years of barbaric tests and medicines. Time to time they still return, shadows pulling me to a cavern Of night. A cavern Of bright souls singing from Psalms and sometimes chants, songs of Milarepa as I swim through the Bardo and again awaken. My lip swollen, tongue bleeding, I know where I had give and reflection makes it a whirring set of waves of fear. Few things are stranger than never knowing when they will emerge. Seizures. Meds no meds many meds new meds murderous meds then meds work ok looks good let’s cut back What? Ok so I do and click Jello legs and hello floor. Scratches. Bruises. Gazing into the wooden floor and hoping here nothing was broken. Deal with it. Give warnings when Lyme’s takes new forms old forms beware stay back it strikes do not touch me the muscles more powerful than the steroids they were injecting. Life. Deal with it. I said Doctor, the only thing that really worked without burnt bay leaves and thyme in my mouth without side effects killing me or making me wish it would was medical marijuana. Thank you, Georgia. Lack of legislation for medical for Lyme’s and all the disorder leaves me tsk tsk tell me no drama so fuck off it hurts keep personal effects out of my definition. Through cancer through the many legged Lyme’s nerve damage disc disorder white blood cells contour and dominate into another gate of hell and idiots try to place blame on divorce and I cease speaking into that void. I lived. St Padre Pio St Raphael St Patrick and the 8 fold path. And so as Lyme’s rises as it does now stay on track understand that all this pain is not a choice.

So I laugh find a way Rise. This is Lyme’s. A strangers sneeze could kill me. So benefits are cut and SNAP goes down to $15 a month I ask do I starve or face the hydra headed threats of death in my veins and dna. It does not matter between Medicare and the state I wonder who will pay for my ashes. Look me in the eyes and say you understand That is all I want Just understand.