It's not a song of anything But maybe it can help. It's not about hope, or pressing on You wouldn't want to hear that anyway
It's not a mile I'd walk in your shoes A poet's hope can't sustain you And the miles I'd go, they can't tell you so When you have to walk them anyway
Because you're fighting the fight that's fighting you Why would you want to press on with that? You're fighting the fight that's finished you When this is all you ever wanted to be
So don't be who you are Look in the eyes of the healing Don't be who you dreamed you'd be Just look in their eyes and start healing
I know this is hard for you to hear That healing isn't about you But you'll only miss what's next to you When the mirror is all you see
So let the angels wrap you In their staying, and passing And let them take your eyes away From the one who lets you down
Because you're fighting the fight that's fighting you Why would you want to press on with that? You're fighting the fight that's finished you When this is all you ever wanted to be
So don't be who you are Look in the eyes of the healing Don't be who you dreamed you'd be Just look in their eyes and start healing
If you think there's no good In the life that's all around you If you think there's no peace In the moment the sun comes up
Change your eyes, child Keep looking outside of you She's still there for you Waiting to hold your heart
Not long ago, winter's prime of light and fires Led to chimneys smoking. It stayed the ice That crowded around the window’s edge, sneaking to steal the warmth which always Waited at the door. Apples roasted for the pie as Butter melted, the sweetness rising with the scent That whispered, stay...still...see...stay. Heart thundered at chopping block mutters. Both Clung together as animal-bound hands reach to tear Apart what iron could not. A brother's craft.
Harvest gave her soiled bounty to heal All she knew winter would burn in time To come. We worked the ground to the bare of both Our bones, and she has watched us well; gifting Her strength in wheat and hearty barley to Face the ash of winter's so-called mercy. I see the gray-once-red bush of thorns. Does it remember the hummingbird? It flew on children's laughter.
I will not want as much as they, the constant Ones, who always stay and cry and laugh and Die with the land that gave them life. But now they cry for me too, the changing one. Discontented by the roast we killed, or the land that raises sage, juniper, and those crab apples That mother always wished to make into jam.
I am a sail torn by starboard fair of Grass unseen and muses unsearched, harvests Unmet for my heart to ponder; yet port With garden memoirs and soiled doors Planted in me. If roots of trees are not touched by The frost, why am I so cold? The tallest trees die From the top down. They stay…still…see…stay.
Taken by the Google Pixel 3 XL in front of St. Stephen’s Basilica in Budapest, Hungary.
Non place, non time, non sense.
My compatriots, silent as always in
Their conversations and movement through.
Through what? I say. Through what? Here I could be anywhere.
Managed as a wing-ed stripe through blue that revels in petrol cloud,
relinquishing any hold it has on the ground.
It takes me here, a place abundant in newness,
Never relinquishing its wonder.
Arrival is intrinsic to me being. And it has done well; I. Am.
Here. Here in the by-alley waste that paints architecture
and lightens street corner haze, stretching into the distance.
What makes this so familiar? I feel I've been here before.
The hills become fire in my memory, as if forgotten,
a whilst of Eden's compromise. To me,
as it's always been, but never fully known.
We see the buzz that's wasted on all
who live here, reveling in newness and plight.
We run for the steeple that rises from ancient
and holy ground. It lifts the words that are lived by:
Ego via veritas et Vita. Other buildings are not
held as high as this belief. It graces the people too,
marking every head and shoulder in reverence.
And these cold walls hold a place of stillness for me too,
keeping my gaze high, as the one who builds desires.
The saints may smile as I tread the path they lived upon,
shown as a veil that brambles the sky.
Time dims. Cities wake. Beams from the gaslight
arise. Joyous sounds color the water, bliss and
blossom spindle the eyes. I have only been here in
longing, but now, without rest, I feel.
Flowing the wine and ripple, we relinquished our grasps of doubt.
For the praise we met neath Saturn's light, we gave thanks.
I have never seen such light. Castling the darkness, reaching
It's fingers across the water, touching the stars. What murmur
It makes against the might of the mast, and the countenance
Of the masses. On these they look on in wonder at the start,
And triumph at it's passing. Once again, I. Am. Here.
Here with the whisper wind and velvet ground that rocks
in solidarity with every turn of the wheel. I am removed, relishing
The existence of so much life, while yet, forgetting my own.
Oxymoronic wonder. And yet it's what heals most.
But so in this stilling, e’er I mete the dealings and steps,
Time yet has its place in wonder. Though myself forgot, though
Healing comes in fold, and reverence on the way, I need.
And so in sleep of this place, I rest once more.
Between revel and rest, this existing bequeaths such
Thought of more. To move in the Haven of youth that
keeps my ears the hearing and sight unsaid.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life!*
Afraid then for the losing space of four suns, I set
To burnish the tinge of the marmot, who pries
the dirt from the eyelid to wake. Wanton in the way wonder,
I promise I will not let die the sake from which this
metre plays within me. I know and hold.
I know what keeps the bridges fast. I know the strength required
is like that strength to keep me still. Strong, reliant, we trust
without knowing. But I know that I may trust. And I remain still.
I gave it part of myself, so more may come with me. What
is easy to forget, just means that what is left is remembered.
I cross the Danube at last, to meet again the companions
that go anywhere. The petrol cloud, an unseen tail of a bird
that forgets to revel in flight, beckons me to the next.
Beyond which I am nothing. In that empowering non sense
of my place in existence, I am not. I do not. I feel not.
But I feel it here, the light and dark, of doubting my riddance
Of doubt. Doubting the surety in what I yearn to seek.
Yet one last look, and she reminds, like gravity. So,
For the last time, for now, I. Am. Here.
-
*From Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Friendship is a milestone Wrapped around your neck And bound to the heart, Never given away. It is there to write in stone What can never be held In the air.
A moment that's true, And honest, requires no voice. A time that's safe, A warm embrace, Is never lost When freely held out In the rain.
Grass will grow. For this is true friendship: That you find joy In the company of those With whom your heart is safe.
A seasons of life poem, this highlights the metaphor of dwelling on autumn in anticipation of life’s winter, which often conjures thoughts of hardship. However, the end shows that the cycle of seasons is constantly moving, much like a stream, and that the joy of spring is promised in the beauty of autumn.
On the silent side The song that plays One of nature's best The stream, I know, has it's nooks And cranes, that flowing and flowing Flow on.
A constant, million pulses, Each with it's own voice. They carry aloud the autumnal Demand to be known by its dying flash Of red, brown, and gray. The music is seen.
I know and I know well, Assuredly as the sun May wake the tear, This ethereal falling Is Eden's second death.
What does this mean for me, As I'm sitting here alone? The death of Eden alive again, Cuts as deep as cherubs sword, And the ice-ed wound won't heal.
Day after ashen day, When small fire is all That doesn't add to the pain Of this season, I can't walk without the reminder.
But once upon once, in all time, We relished in Caesar's joy. Now it's all I remember, Sitting here again, hearing the song. It carries away the snow now, The scars of Adam's falling.
I look to the stream again, Still flowing and flowing on. I look to the skies and see, Nothing is falling now. Not snow. Not leaves. Not stars. It is not a wish I make.
The trees reveal the lilt, Of Caesar's long promise; That winter is not death And snow is not for life. The land and the river still play The same song it always has.
And just after dawn, when green spring is gone, And flicker of leaf chance to fly, The flowers of morn Are newly reborn As myriads of trust from the sky.
Awake and still in buried dark Wanting and waiting away. The moon casts her shadowed mark As time, her branches, sway.
Out upon where dire leaf To withered branches clings, And feels the bite of cold relief That flies on wintry wings.
I wish the wind, her fearless dance, Had made some wings for me. A sleepless night is naught to glance For one as ancient as she.
Yet here I am in all abound, Wishing and waiting away, Time to pass and hear the sound, Of wind and the nightinga'e.
Oh fly! Oh fly! Oh fly away! Above the snow-lit ground, Over the winter and over the fray And over and over the sound:
Of the wake and the still of the sleepless night, Of the watching and waiting away, Of the dreams and the tears recalled to sight, Of the love I am losing in gray.
To a place in the night where town bells ring, And the light from the doorway splits. Where the arms of my trust recall to sing, And the fire warms hearts and mitts.
But a dream and a poem is all I own, In this waiting and waiting for day, When all I can think is the love I've known Is drifting and dreaming away.
Oh take me from the thoughts of night, And wing me a'winding away! To the time and place that you're in sight, And the sleepless nights can't stay.
The tea shon gold as silver string, Tied in ribbon on glassy wing. Her finger here to linger where She found the warmth to tarry there. The leaf had left its own.
The northing star upon the head Descends the summit, turns to bed. To rest and rest, as if to dream She'll find her healing- shine again! Though war starts within.
But through her sleep, she cannot lie. The sun reflects, and moon is sly! To trick the midnight to a'light And steal from her the erring sight, As feet begin to run.
Away! away! from resting sway! Toward the moon and wounded day. She'll not fear the blood-bourn beam, To dance free 'neath moony gleam. The light her truest friend.
She'll dance in fields of evergreen, And pick the hyssop, ever-clean. To her the moon doth bequeath Upon her head a silver wreath Of joy-light from the stars.
Yet scars of day may reach the light And scatter moons in dreams of night. Round and round the ribbons go, The tea is but a chilly glow. Your hand has left the wing.
Now you search the star-lit west, To set upon a sunlit quest, Where hope is full of better days With love and joy that finally stays, And gives you more than rest.
As I pray you will be healed, By comforts that the moon revealed. You'll find a day where surely you know In picking your hyssop, you also sow. Thus, healing is at hand.
To the first and the end I've been here. They smile in silence as the Tay watches o'er me, a sole mast at the top of the sea. Fire washes eyes in the dead-silence of bird song and bitter-sweet farewells. I am not ready to move. For bonnie is the greenish of the law-cresting pine, silver as sky-reflected sea, Hollowed are the steeples in grander bristling sway, The wind is still in the song of the free.
The road on my toes pulls down, grounding me to my memory so far beneath. Weighting and waiting is the stride that carries beyond the way. I bid farewell. Hearing again the voice of many collected, it drowns the senses in a pool of chamomile flower. Once lived, it echoes in empty space only known.
Shall I know the sage of summer? Can I taste of the mint in your water? Will the gulls cry for me as I leave like the ships lost at sea? I will go on. New in my journey and new in my return. I will go on, fairing far in farfaring.
Yet now life is distant to this gazing, left in separation From the rosary dusting from the hook. Never knowing the height of this land, It calls me, tells me, yearns me stay. But I, the wandering child, will never be the same. I see it here, now, as it deepens in depart, a stranger to love and land and life. She turns away unburdened and unknown. And I do the same, drooping eyes that never meet.
Falling away from the cradle, branded, marked By those who could never understand. Feverish to turn to restoration, Ever reliant on the flashing of street lights for constancy. As newness reigns in me, Transposed by my rambling mind and feet, Its curse and blessing will not fail.
At the fastest, rising pull of gravity's alite, I shall see you soon enough.