The Reach

27 06 2013

An island stands mountainously,
a back drop for lookers on.
A monument to creation itself.

The reach lies in wait,
silent, without disposition or expectation

-terribly still-
a mill pond calm
prevails grudgingly.
Distances vary as the lodes
of the living waters transit
change into ponds,
and then again
to rivers and streams,
deliberating their contiguous
routes to the sea of commonality.
Twins, Kindred, they be,
of the divine ways they have traveled,
the hapless spawn of intent bringing quieting,
rioting bluebells in spring, freshening, while
making inscribed, weathered highways of this world.
(though there are other worlds than this)
Long traveled, familiar, yet un-navigable

is the reach-

it’s byways gone(un-mapped)in a nod of whispers(or a whisper of nods).
Traveling rivers of desire. Scaling the mountains of knowledge.
Afloat in a salty sea of truth. Sanctified by sanity.
Sanitized by sanctity. Gifted in absentia…

We journey from
shore to island,
from island to shore.

Love lies in the reach.

For so long as blue bells bloom
or mountain avens give birth
from the rocky, hallowed crags
of creations womb, then…

Love lies in the reach.

Belying the compromise of
our brief, flowing span,
Eternal and Indigenous, we are, when…

Love lies in the reach.

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The Greening of the Birch

1 06 2013

She rises now, into the sky, in green and white perfection,
not knowing how, or caring why… embracing her connection.
Such grace and truth, in natures yield, shared upon the earth.
The face of youth, in every field, such rare and timeless worth.

While mother birch, lay fast asleep, through frigid silver nights,
the willow first, began to creep, her way towards the light.
Her furry limbs, caressed the sun, and drank in all that power,
as spring begins – now one by one – each bud begins to flower.

As summer starts, the green becomes, the flowers burst and bloom.
There is such art, in scenes undone, of winters thirst and gloom.
While beauty rested, under snow – a million gleaming points,
our flesh was tested – as she sows – where frost and ice anoints.

Now I sit, amongst that green, amazed again by truth.
This hurried fit, and sacred scene, I find solace… in that youth.
I cannot voice, the things I see, now flowing through the air,
there is no choice – in things so free – or knowing of despair.





The Wisdom of Youth

22 05 2013

Timeless voices call again, from plains and prairies, bog and fen.
Ageless whispers on the wind, ending now where they begin.
Sounding on the wondering ears, of those who listen – those who hear.
The ones who feel the earths great truth, the wisdom of our graceful youth.

The longing cries of gulls and crows, lost we were, within their throes.
Waves releasing on the beach, seeking there, what she released,
from her great sieve, her wondrous oceans, magic spells within the motions,
of the tides perpetual grind, treasures there we’d always find.

Running careless through her sands, our skin becoming dark and tanned.
Swimming in the bright green waters, fathers sons and mothers daughters.
In our youth, we felt her grace, and as we age, we feel a trace,
of all the beauty that she is, her loving touch and tender bliss.

Returning now, to youth we lost, does not entail any cost.
The wonder that we felt so strong, her blissful dance and ever song,
lives on – though we may heed it not – if we so choose, it will be lost,
replaced by things we wanted more, while youth still dances on her shore.





tenet

10 01 2013

 

 

 

 

Looking through a pool,
from below, 
a multitude gathered above,

concentric,

hands out in welcome.

Spiraling onward,
spirited through waves
of effervescent colors,
tinged with dark hues.

A face turns,
smiles,
as he shies away.
Come
she says,
look my way.
I am here…
for you…
as always…
A tenet.

Lines of thought,
irregular emotions,
light the skies.
A battle cry
of non resistance.
Love lies deeply embedded,
on the shores of this land,
and floats in the forever waters,
where we stand.
Forever…
…timeless.





Impervious

10 01 2013

 

 

 

Softly the muse calls

from the dimly lit corner of the room,

alone.
Again,

the raven, hermes incarnate,  brings together
multiplying fragments of wonder,
though they dash from the darkness as if troubled.
Light coalesces, invades, becomes, melds

together.

The journey begins as it has before.
Soft footfalls begging forgiveness
of the treads where she has walked…

Still,

lies the body of one who has left the realms
of known and entered another.
Paths interwoven, promises whispered,

oaths shattered,

on the nights gossamer threads,

he rides,

the dark moon aloft,
awaiting another passenger of fate,
clasping hands with

The ferryman.

He waits this side of the river,
obol disks clinging to cold thin lips,
as though the bough is lost…
though with it,

they return
whole.

Impervious.





The raven laughs

1 01 2013

 

Outside the raven sings his song – the earth joins in and sings along.
A small bird thumps against the pane, I hope its neck is only sprained.
The things we’ve built upon this earth, to them this is their only worth…
The raven seeks the things we waste, the others family flees in haste.

A million answers on the air, a million questions seeking there.
Will any bring the truth for all?

The raven laughs!

Pretentious caw…

He says the truth is what he gives, he seeks it not – he simply lives.
He does not think like you and I, he simply lives – and then he dies.

The snowbird flies as summer wanes, his autumn skies bereft of grains,
that toiled on the prairies breeze, or broiled on the foamy seas.
They took the bounty that was there – through fire, water, earth and air,
and when it all began to change, they took to wing and flew down range.

The raven – he will stay right here – he knows the cold, and does not fear,
the icy chill of winters hand, that soon will be upon the land.
He knows the dumpsters will be filled, as will his belly – if its willed…
He knows these birds will leave behind, fallen brothers, he will find.

To them there is no wrong or right, there is no grief for others plight.
A solemn feeding, on the things, that once were treasured, once had wings…
The snowbird feeds then passes by, such wondrous frenzy in the sky.
They simply feed upon the things, the season brought – and always brings.

Awash in all the gifts of man – the need to think, the need to plan,
I see the lessons of the birds, the truth of all the dwindling herds,
their numbers so much larger when, our thoughts had not yet gone to pen.
Now carved in stone, our place will be, the victor writes the history…





Ever Breeze

12 12 2012

 

 

 

The faces of the earth are seen, in forests deep and ever green.
The cosmic dust of man gone past – make fertile ground – their only task…
Mother Earth takes in the waste, of cycles born with bitter taste.
While she remains the sacred ground – here what we throw, may still be found…

Waves of wind caress my soul, and make me feel so fresh and whole.
The gentle current and the flow – melding green and indigo.
A towering standard, to the sky, that’s seldom seen by mortal eyes.
The velvet summer breeze that blows, can call for me, and I will go…

Wafting on the ever breeze, gently kissing all her trees,
bending…swaying, with the touch, painted by her velvet brush.
Skimming tree tops with the feel, of winds that blow and turn the wheel.
The bell tolls loudly on the wind, bereft of law… bereft of sin.

Ever blows the ancient song, of ages lasting ever on…
Of days gone past – that still belie – the questions asked, the reasons why…
She puts no mortal thoughts to them, she simply paints, again…again
Her paintings are the things she is, her violent wrath, her gentle bliss…

Onward goes the silent knight, his magic being lack of fright.
He seldom prays…but often dreams, of velvet skies and greenling fields.
Where man is not so high above, the things she is – the things she loves,
where mortal man was meant to fly, to violet castles, in her skies….

Ever onward goes the path,  embracing love, accepting wrath…
Ever onward trudge the souls, of those who feel – of those who know…
Within the wind, the blades of grass, the teeming shores, on which we bask,
Sounds the ever wondrous call, heard by few… but felt by all.








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