Autumn & Cold
are all spun
& the Spider’s
an old poem
What symphony of sound do you bring on those beautiful days?
What is a reality continuously ending;
the Winter’s silence may not be heard
but the miracle of your coming to choose us
is a soft running inside the shadow’s pleasure renounced,
this conversation leaves me empty…
I’m no longer telling you anything that you
Beyond a breaking blue
as Heaven shifts/
Above the scent
of Wild Mtn.
a cold wind
distant Bells of
an April evening-
A quiet while
ago it seemed,
dream not ended;
Blossoms lift into
“And the quietness of
colours deep in pines.”
In the stillness of this solitudedreams clinging like rain to my blood soul
I did know a caressing of invisible hands
the presence of some monster unformed
spoke, giving me reasons to pray
and finally, invariably
allowing real freedom-
fear which brings me nothing
pallid death riding like a virgin in the dark night
all matters of wishlessness or anguish
rush toward the stems bloom
a mindful tomb opening in the light of
this first spring.
We are the wellspring of ancient desire.
Through the mist
I see orange hell fire
the age old contempt for man is burning
I am lonely
we are alone until
this place anoints the bleak fire
burning our soul’s gestation
Know your way to God.
And as I spoke your name aloud-soft, invisible wings, fluttering,
ascension in that somber air behind me.
To become the ancient characters
of the dream.
Oriental caricature of innocent pearls, white,
and apple tree leaves,
boughs the colours of sea foam at night.
That sweeter miracle-
letting it all come through me
I’ve never pleaded my heart into
a promised beating.
And visions for death reside the later morning dream-
I’m running a gauntlet never meant to be.
Past that blue ice Wintered Sky & through my eyes-there must be your still miracled Heaven…Where we may
begin again/ Within, within that silent song now brought forth
out of one blessed ressurection/against that day the garden was lost, and
all our heart’s protection. And longer now this day dream drifts.
For Hope is Love’s intention /As the heel was bruised, the
message lost until Love’s intervention/O Tender Word of Heaven/
O promise of Forever/
Advent-in all pure beginnings-Single poem of our every dreaming
Evocation-defend this dream-a
vision of shared Emmanuel.
O Silvery night
And in the stillness they were saying;
“Drop your time
This earth mantle
For it was vision that announced
You…and days into
Hours not ended, or faith evolved into
Blood-becoming part of us.”
No recognizable or outward differences You wish to find me alone
skyful chance, a Winter’s dance of stars
all gesturing downward
for my road shunned a million Kings
where the mind floods in decadence
So we are swallowed like Proust’s memories
alone and without the flowers
of God’s divining
Let us see the beginnings of things
That milk white mothersome light, O curious teacher, engraver of changes/ Moon tide or “watersong”, an eternity of our soft forgiving eschews the mire, as what becomes real enables the rest-a surge of Winter stars crest our broken light and the living continue.It’s easy to think of you Neruda, at just twenty, discovering your solitude beneath a yellow canopy of that dark continent.What wet, jade shadow jungle surely witnessed this soul’s first perfection?/ In an instant flow of connection or in the loving turn of a newer poem, one vision clad measure which breathed salvation; as fireflies dazzled golden grasses, rain softly fell/ and into silences before words, two white doves split the damp air with their songs.
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