for homey

I want to learn more of your soul--your colors, your melodies, your most natural forms.  I want to know your tendencies, the possibilities, and all the kaleidoscopic visions that rage in your spirit's composition.  I wonder how you'll shift or squirm under a microscope?  And how wide would your gaze become in the presence of enormity?  I want to know your zeal, your despondence, your fatigue, and your persistence.  The full spectrum of you.  The magic that trails in your shadow.

Shadow Sites (a found poem)

Shadow sites
are usually
the most visible features
on your landscape
where there are walls
or earthworks,
the raking light of the low sun,
early or late in the day,
accentuates the highlights,
and the whole shape
can spring
into life.

Slopes cast long shadows
and depressions are deep
in shade,
while variations
in height,
vigor,
and yield,
indicate
that a feature lies buried
beneath the surface.


found in:
p. 70 of "Archaeology: Theories, Methods, and Practice" by Paul Bahn

things that are loud but should be quiet

Helicopters, and grandfather clocks. Waterfalls, and gossip.

The T.V. in the morning, and the T.V. at night. Billboards along the highway. Words, spoken in anger.

The off-key singer who doesn't know she's off-key. The one-hundredth reminder about the same thing. Past lovers that can't seem to let go. Mindless revenge, passionless lust, and toilets, when they flush.

Doubt, persisting. Parrots, screeching. Cats, having sex. And awkward silences.

That one cellphone ringing in the middle of a good movie. The intellect who believes we are all beneath him. Gunshots, feudalism, the misuse of power in our courts, people who say "we will not triumph," and the microwave, while preparing a midnight snack.

My hungry stomach during a serious conversation. The lifeguard that tells us not to run. Your eyes when you gaze at me across the room. The passing of time that will never return. My pulse when you lean in for a kiss.

Clichés.

Onward!

All of eternity extends before us,

a deep golden breathing, steadily expanding,

rising, and falling, gently.

Your rhythms overtake us,

and our clean routines lie on the floor,

limp, lifeless, and stale.

But this strange living substance,

your Spirit that draws near,

flowing, pulsing, dancing, growing,

penetrates every shade and shadow

and secret.  And we have swelled

past the point of pain,

past the relentless knife of 

a righteousness that condemns,

and have found

pleasure

in being known 

in the most intimate places.

We have lost much!

But our grief is short-lived,

for we are long-loved,

and all fears dissipate with the dawn

of this breathing--this persistence,

this tenacity

this unquenchable hunger 

for more. And our appetites are sustained,

though never fully realized,

we are compelled forward,

ever forward,

by your providence.

As A Tree Has

(The words from "Trees" by Joyce Kilmer, rearranged.)

Lives, prest, never think that

a tree may wear

poems--and who can?

But that poem,

God made her lovely, intimatey.

Snow-hair, summer-breast,

leafy, sweet, rain-mouth,

make with

earth's hungry bosom.

A! To see a God-nest--a tree,

lain upon her arms--lifts all of me.

I, whose tree is like robins in the day,

whose tree looks in,

I shall pray

against fools only a-flowing by.

Decoding Beauty

What is it that makes someone so deeply captivating? I've searched for answers in your eyes, and am left completely baffled. All I found is the gravity of your gaze, the gentle pull that beckons me to dive in deeper.  Forgive me! For in me is this strange ambition to unlock the code of your Beauty, and to find, once and for all, its proper symmetries and proportions, and to tame it into a more calculable creature.  Again, I implore you, to forgive me! Forgive me for this insolence, this cowardice, this attempt to dumb down your Magnificence into measurable compartments. Know and understand that in my frail humanity is both a deep fear, and a great envy towards such scandalous beauty.  I've feared you for so long, for despite the distance I've tried to maintain, I've always had a keen awareness of your power to change, and rearrange the very fabric of my being! For who can encounter a tremendous force and leave unchanged? If only I could tear it into bite-sized pieces, then I could, perhaps reduce it into more manageable, comprehensible, and--what a haughty ambition this is--replicable forms!  But Greater Wisdom withholds me from such a foolhardy pursuit! She whispers in my ear all that I need to know--that the dissection of Beauty's intricacies would be the death of it--no--the death of me. Its soul is ultimately rooted in the unknowable, the sublime, the mysterious, the Divine. The question is if I am ready and willing to dive headfirst into it--into You--and all your convulsing energies, and accept the perfection of your persisting transcendence. 

Lover

How still you lie

in the womb of my imagination,

shape shifting 

with the tides of my desires.

I try to seek out your true form

and wonder if I've caught

glimpses of you

in my waking life.

Somedays I feel you stir

and am compelled 

to pray in the prophetic.

Have you ever felt

the soft whisper of my voice?

I've blessed you in the Spirit,

I've blessed you through our God,

and have learned to hope

that this faith has sent

ripples

through the pools of your soul.

My affections run deep

but to whom do they belong?

There are those who have come

rallying, claiming, pursuing,

but none have made a home for me,

none have stilled my 

restlessness.

To you alone I send this love, 

a surging torrent of dreams!

But I dare not ask that you make haste

for in this distance between us

lies a strange comfort. In here

is the steady pulse of transformation

from glory to glory

is how we traverse 

into each others arms.

09.24.10

Dream.

We were wading across the shallow end of the pool. I'd bob in and out of the cold water, which would shift from sea water, to pool water, to sea water, as I shuffled across tiles, and sand, and tiles again.

When submerged, I kept my eyes open. The water was clear, save for a thousand bubbles hurrying up to the surface. It was a strange frenzy of those pods and pods of air, those little orbs of void, whose movements were dictated solely by the laws of physics, while I could choose to anchor myself to the bottom, or to bubble up to the surface myself.

It took a while for me to realize that I was not just surrounded by bubbles, but by jellyfish as well. The translucency of their bodies were deceptive. They were only pockets of air themselves, encased in a soft membrane that moved like the skirts of women that men longed for. Each one was only about the size of a small orange. Their color: yellowing.

The waters began to grow more violent, and the jellyfish seemed to multiply before my very eyes. I stood up, and I found myself wading through a thick mass of pulsing, yellowing flesh, being tossed around by the wind. There were jellyfish everywhere. They swam through the air, through the agitated wind, whizzing past trees, and shooting up across the darkening skies.

I climbed out of the pool, and found shelter in a friend's arms. When I woke up from my dream, I had forgotten his face.

10.29.09

Dream

(Or at least the fragments of.)

He spoke of a night he spent alone on a boat, under the stars, in the Arctic Sea, where he basked in the glory of Everything. The entire night, he spent, just gazing at the sky, watching the stars slowly drift through the darkness.

Soon, the sun began to rise and he lay still on the wooden platform of his boat, allowing the gauzy glow of the sun to sink into his bare skin. He let his eyes drift from the slow illumination of the sky, to the massive glaciers looming over him, to the ice-cold water, gently licking the bow, begging, incessantly. He knew what he had to do.

He stood up, and, with an air of nonchalance, walked over to the edge of the boat, then took a step or two back, then drove headfirst into the Arctic. With that one, cold splash, he broke the silence.

♫

There's a song. Stirring. With no words. Nor melody. Nor any sound (that is, at least, perceptible to our ears). But it stirs, nonetheless, in its quiet spirit of restlessness, as it is decidedly there. In undeniable existence. In me. In knots, in rivers, in truth. In a language that transcends all things. And non-things.

It yearns to be realized in full comprehension. To be written. To have all its pipes and parts laid out in chaos, and in form, with Tangibility as its shameless aspiration. 

That is the heart of the song that knows no bounds.