Monday, July 2, 2012

Poem 3

I have seen the deaths
of those I hold dearest
unfold the mist from my eyes,
like the cleansing sunlight of dawn.
What's left? Heartbeat,
an inhale... the screeching of 1,000 wild boars,
an exhale... deafening silence,
an inhale... the mist curling back
through a forest of firs,
beneath the mountain,
and into the Source; the spring
and its whispering trickle.
Count, on the inhale,
the rows and rows of images,
each a gateway
to a memory
of being held
in the gaze of the Beloved morning light.

Poem 2

Those that enter this fabric
are standing and watching
from the side view,
but are closer than they appear.
Their eyes are made of triangles;
harps pressed into golden eggs.
If you look at them closely,
they eviscerate, become dust on a windowsill,
or shape-shifting clouds of ash.
If you squint, they might
drip down the side
and leave the impression
of a man who's hanged himself.
All the more gruesome in their lifeless form,
shocking you into wakefulness,
sending you into convulsions,
then dissipating into a deep, graduated silence.
What do the voices say?
I am undone, and continuous,
without context.

Poem 1

Intent, as a silver wisp of light,
woven into this body,
with its origins in the technicolor fabric
of a grandfather's loving presence,
was gobbled by honey bees,
whose salivation gave the world its sweet golden glow.
Such a light met with many musty,
earthen rows of ancestral tombs,
"Beware of holding onto what never happened.
Remember to stop remembering
and reside in the unknown."