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Impossible Journey
How often as children, armed with no more than a rudimentary
Understanding of geology,
Did we toss a twig into a creek or a stream,
Confident and content in the knowledge that eventually,
After passing from stream to river to river,
It would eventually enter
Into that vast network of the earth’s oceans,
Free to travel to whichever foreign shore
The currents, the winds and fate might allow?
As we mature and become more experienced in the realities of life
We discover that there are countless factors
That make it virtually impossible for a stick
To make such a journey.
We realize that it would probably become
Entwined in a fallen tree, jammed on some rocks,
Washed up on a sandbar, stopped by a dam
Or entangled in some kind of vegetation.
And even if none of these perils occur, there is no assurance
That the river won’t dry up as it passes through an arid region
Or for that matter, end up emptying into a lake.
With all this knowledge at our command,
Why should anyone ever launch another stick into a stream?
Was there any truth in the notion
That taught us as children that such a feat was possible?
1983 – 1984 was a time when it seemed
that everything was an inspiration and a
challenge to my mind’s previous notions.
I was 35 years old. I have often told
others that I didn’t feel as though I was an
adult until I turned 30. Obviously I was
beginning to feel comfortable with my
relative maturity.
Once You Kissed Me
Once, you kissed me
and my eyes opened to life
as I suckled at your breast.
Once, you kissed me
and my passions rose,
ignited by your fiery breath.
Once, you kissed me
and my soul took flight
as you showed me the secret
of conquerable death,
Once you kissed me.
For all women. But more especially, those
women who have touched my life.
Behold, My Children
Behold, my children,
these numerous volumes
of words and ideas.
The secrets I possess
I could not have learned
were it not for having
read every word
Yet not one part of my wonderful powers
was ever found
within their covers.
I have read much in
the search for life’s
meaning and answers
to life’s mysteries.
Not all would be
considered academic by
most intellectuals,
but informative none the
less. Still, any
insights gathered from this
diverse wealth of
knowledge came from
reading between the
lines.
a zen poem
No two snowflakes are alike.
There are no flawless diamonds.
What time is it?
I’m hungry!
If one is not
careful while chopping wood,
one will be
forced to learn the sound of one
hand clapping.
(this is a recording)
I’m sorry, but this conversation is no longer being conducted in an
adult manner and I am unable to complete your call. When you feel the
problem has been cleared up, please try again. If you continue to experience
this problem, please seek professional help.
This is a recording.
Communication
is a difficult process.
THUS SPAKE ZARACOMPUTER
If ye desireth to speak unto me,
Ye must speaketh the Truth.
Some
communications require precision.
Bogus Dylan
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
to be stuck inside of triviality
with the relevancy blues again?
Sometimes
communications break down.
Messages
Sent From Distant Worlds
They say that
Halley’s Comet is due
to pass by here
in a month or so;
A cosmic
happening, so long awaited
and sure to be
quite a show.
. . .
But this summer
you came into my world
as bright and
shining as anything
the heavens
could offer.
When your eyes
sparkle,
new
constellations are discovered.
When you speak,
messages sent
from distant worlds
light-years
away,
are received.
(I return the
signals, but I fear
when they
finally reach you, I’ll no longer be here.)
. . .
And when I go
out into the night
To see Old
Halley’s glowing bright
Though they say
it’ll be a spectacular view
I’m sure I’ll
be disappointed
while
remembering you.
Whenever
a celestial event occurs such as Halley’s Comet, the
whole world joins in
the
excitement. It seemed to me a metaphor for missed opportunities and
potential
relationships left undeveloped.
TOUCHSTONE:
(a jeweler’s fantasy)
The Alchemist takes the shiny metal
Of unknown composition into his hand
And gives the piece the feel for weight.
"Not brass, too heavy . . ."
He reaches for the dull black stone,
Chipped and scratched from years of service . . .
(this tiny alter-stone
where countless,
worthless imitations
have been sacrificed
to the lesser gods,
and countless others,
when found worthy,
were passed on to the
purifying fire,
where their true nature was refined
from an inferior incarnation)
Now he makes the mark: a small rub of the metal
(the fingerprint of identity) about to be analyzed.
Two more marks are made, by guardian angels,
Created for just such tasks. They are keys of known karat,
One to the left, one to the right,
One assumed finer, one assumed a bit more gross than the entity
Present at the gates of eternity.
Now the test of acid pure, prepared for the final judgment,
Blind of prejudice, ready to strip away all superfluity.
The fluid reacts; some senses are offended,
But the verdict is clear . . .
"Better than 14K . . .
maybe even 18 . . ."
. . . . .
I sometimes get the notion that there is
A touchstone somewhere of the smoothest slate
Where every thought or deed,
When received by the karat-key spirits,
Is tested for its purity.
And if it is found to be of copper or brass
It is cast aside . . . , rejected,
Soon to be forgotten.
But if it is found to be karat gold of a high purity,
It is passed on to become currency for the gods.
One derives inspiration from the mundane objects
and situations that are near at
hand. Still, they may be profound.
Winter,
1985-1986
CRUX ANSATA
Stripped bare and alone there;
Hung up on a cross of her needs,
Her flesh had been torn
by indifference and scorn
And her parched lips had started to bleed.
She cried out in anguish,
"Please hear me, I thirst,
and my pounding heart feels
like it surely will burst."
The pole-sponge is lifted
filled with a gall.
For a need that’s so great,
the offer seems small.
But she is not discouraged,
she does not lose hope.
Though there’s no satisfaction,
she receives the strength
that is needed
to
cope.
She will sip, if she has to
from this bitter-brine swill,
But she fears to her soul
that she will never
get her fill.
A
woman who was a Sociology instructor had shown me some poems she had written
when she learned that I occasionally put words to the page. The reoccurring
themes that were dominate were the loss of her father through death and the loss
of a long time lover who had apparently jilted her. I wrote this in response.
SPECTRUM SPECTER
‘Neath bright of day
or dark of night
Resides the pure
ethereal light.
The colours that
confound the eye,
Its true nature
they doth belie.
Illusion’s hues
are everywhere.
So if thou wouldst know the
truth,
beware!
Light,
inner light and the red shift.
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