3 Poems Across the Land


SAVAGE PEACE; WORDS SHATTERING; I NEED PEACE AFTER WOODS WALKING

                                 Savage Peace 

Many a’ time past I’ve seen this present before as savage, a catamount of me hunting. 

Once at war with Creek and Cherokee, the British and then against one another. 

Always moon touched closest to the Suwanee, Chattahoochee, Chattooga Rivers,
These lands around where I was born and grew to live most of my life wandering 

Stone Mountain, searching every line in granite to see the footprints of history. 

Later it was anyplace where I heard the Oconee and Broad, their many branches,
Home it was when water was near, wild in the Straits of Mackinac on The Island.

When I could hear and smell, see the California Pacific my American soul was born, 

Everything was big, the waves, the tales, the trees and then the strangest, Yeah.

Funniest creature alive I saw while walking alone in the Mendocino ocean side forests. Electric celestial yellow snail by my left boot there beside the ferns waiting to greet me, 

Welcome to the hills and cliffs, Garcia, Gualala and Elk River, unbelievable waves, 

Grey whales sailing upon the dark deep waters slowly breaching and hypnotic, 

Dig my soles down to hold onto this quivering land and I looked eye to eyes 

With another ancient inhabitant to this “here”, a potato bug turning his head 

As if spring loaded and crackled sounds so sharp I swore it was speaking, 

And so here I knew more than life more than dreams more was waiting here to be 

To rise and define what is me; this North Sonoma, Southern Mendocino 

was not ready for this Southern, wild, drunken, woman crazed, culinary flash,
Fog walking sands of Manchester, coasting across the grasses of Haven’s Neck, 

Finally knowing home is wherever, and I’m just digging life more smile than frown. 

Words Shattering

Carolina Beach, steamy Atlantic, a slow churning sea as my back yard garden,

Bluefish, drum, cobia racing past the ocean road of Hatteras bound two mast ships.

They’ll get there by break of dusk, before the fogs and errant sands appear along

Trails where racing tides follow same paths as those drifting our coastline,

On the currents of our great Intercoastal Waterway, Walking waters dune to dune

Between herds of grazing flounder, lobster and ever curious sea bream, hypnotic,

Where it seems only marsh is resting there is more life than imagined fluttering

In the star and moonlight, shifting to hide under floodlights blinded into actions

Of both hunger and fear. These waters these paths these dunes rise and fall

With hurricanes lifting homes off their stilts, asphalt from concrete, SUVs shelter.

House where I lived not long enough to be a home. Such are the Outer Banks.

Better a cottage than me out becoming coral reef, better anything than me

For the time being, for anytime back then when I had more friends than life,

More love around than the silence found in a hurricane’s Horus eye,

Here above me, around everything daring to love the sea more than inland life.

Down, damned and drained I’ve lost everything four times over 

Storms, divorce, fire and slow burning cancer suddenly exploding 

Taking things of life to expose this flesh, this person, this too broken damaged creature

Best at all things never of the social and the safe. 

Give me a wave and riptide, hungering streams and rain devouring rockslides 

Something to build upon when blood and love say no, no to all things beyond my grave. 

Give me NO so I have land to cross and love lies to build upon, build upon here.

 I Need Peace After Woods Walking In The Last Full Moon

One by one hundred these stalks of poison ivy seem to be everywhere,

Telling little green dangers hiding under tulip poplars. you’re alright for now,

Tomorrow it’s dust to dust, all that is created dies, solids melt with no goodbye.

And I think the ticks falling and trying to find a place to bite is funny

Reminding each one you’re late with Lyme’s then butane torch each one “bye-bye”.

I am all Deet full SPF sun name-a-bug protected so only thing shaken

Are leaves, dust, mushroom powder and ground red dirt off my white T shirt.

Come on in not a poison coming through except love letters black edged by fire

Written long ago when I was unable to hear anything other than Bach era

Math music and not much more as the images screwed into my fragile mind

Cursed by fire that ate my grad school cabin home ruined it all and left me heaving.

Sang a hard Blues way over Tallulah Falls down rock down moss down on tourists

Washed away where all Art crawled through conclusion walls

Thirty years in the making, man, it’s a damage done so slow to resolution

Hope it comes soon I am done suffering. Asking every road sign will Burma Shave

Make a comeback and if I can turn the years just this once and not again.

Sincerely crouching and wantonly walking there’s nothing more to reincarnate 

Take your teleology Cartesian reasons and Swine Rand books of if and only if

All this moment must surpass moment here to be in the moment here

The rest is air it’s only air refracting pollen yellow galaxies of Being Is Being As.

Savage Peace A Mountain Lion Gaze


Savage Peace A Mountain Lion as My Guide

Many a’ time past I’ve seen this present before as savage, a catamount of me hunting.

Once at war with Creek and Cherokee, the British and then against one another.

Always where the moon touched closest to the Suanne, Dog and Yellow River,

These lands around where I was born and grew to live most of my life wandering

Stone Mountain, searching every line in granite to see the footprints of history.

Later it was anyplace where I heard the Oconee and Broad, their many branches,

Home it was when water was near, wild in the Straits of Mackinac on The Island.

When I could hear and smell, see the California Pacific my American soul was born,

Everything was big, the waves, the tales, the trees and then the strangest, Yeah.

Funniest creature alive I saw while walking alone in the Mendocino ocean side forests.

Electric celestial yellow snail by my left boot there beside the ferns waiting to greet me,

Welcome to the hills and cliffs, Garcia, Gualala and Elk River, unbelievable waves,

Grey whales sailing upon the dark deep waters slowly breaching and hypnotic,

Dig my soles down to hold onto this quivering land and I looked eye to eyes

With another ancient inhabitant to this “here”, a potato bug turning his head

As if spring loaded and crackled sounds so sharp I swore it was speaking,

And so here I knew more than life more than dreams more was waiting to be

To rise and define what is me; this North Sonoma, Southern Mendocino

was not ready for this Southern, wild, drunken, woman crazed, culinary flash,

Fog walking sands of Manchester, coasting acro the grasses of Haven’s Neck,

Finally knowing home is wherever, and I’m just digging life more smile than frown.

Every Now and Then a Silence Is Just Too Much A Thing As Is


Every Now and Then a Silence Is Just Too Much A Thing As Is
A blank space,
peels of parsnip and carrot skin
in pretty curls on stainless steel,
all it takes is to breeze on by in col de sac winds,
preferring nothing spoken over
death grip of hateful masses,
smell not to rage but to taste,
so take it all out
on vegetables and dried tofu,
tamarind powder
and buckwheat ramen noodles
sprayed with walnut and wasabi oil,
a touch of sweet orange water,
and the mediation table waits,
Oh! and Dr. Seuss shaped bowls,
black chopsticks to pull it all in
to celebrate the rains of Spring,
enjoy the cool nights until light,
and be glad for what’s to come
maybe big vision, perhaps events?
of pampered lives no way!
not dead
but I have ridden Death’s coach
to neighborhoods end and woods beginning,
talked across the prairie
to be again with wonder
watching and breathing the mighty Pacific,
and turn around,
turn back into the Mississippi River,
hold my breath border to border
across Alabama till I smell pecan groves
and rich fields of land
live oaks brimming with Spanish moss
and curious, hungry fat raccoons,
bordering the Okeefenokee
and pouring out the highway
here to Buford, Georgia
where a neighbors rooster wakes
me throughout the day
and this circle of street becomes
a gift of light, of green meadow
and hardwood groves, hardwood forest,
where by the barb wire
I sit and watch the tall grass bend
and whisper in gossipy low tones
that to pause and meditate, ‘
to give in and consider
this moment is more
than a passage of clocks fascinated
by how things change;
here the grumble and croak
of cicadas and low flying planes.
Pass me the Sencha tea
whose leaves so electric bright green
seems unnatural in its naturalness
or pass on by, really, just
pass on by singing Isaac Hays
and pretending
to believe in having never known
the scenes idolized
are those best by being felt as best.
As being as the best I can.
Be.

TOUCH 2020


TOUCH REVISITED

Highlights in the high room,
a foyer by some, but just tall by me.
Single tracks stream through
silken dust galaxies;
they swirl into these rains,
new rains beyond, but just enough
out upon this new green meadow,
this into, this-as, this being there,
it is the spirit of Love, Beloved,
here leaving new dark corridors,
seamless tunnel rising, driving,
a long passage without sides
which we may reach into, yes,
yet feeling slow warmth,
only air.
it’s only air.

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….

 

 

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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.”