closer to heaven

The mind is a camera

Keeping the obscure; the shaper

Of a world of sight and touch

And time makes treasures.

 A soft set of chords and words

That keep a moment long past

As fresh as the breath we spent

Skin on skin, when lips could not say

What lips would say, and so

We painted and wrote in snail-foot movement

a wet-stained poetry

It was in a time of full moon and Jupiter

You were the altar for  passion prayers;

So many lives ago…when the heat

Of your breath solved cold winter air

And I was near inner peace...and closer to heaven.

Guided…

A rainbow in the clouds,

A fond and nearer imitation

of the distant winter sun

and harsh glares fill the glass

stings the eyes as I pass on a guided journey

In a day when the weight of air

bears down, and laughter floats close,

as if bound to fly a small piece of sky,

and the eyes take in no more than needs see

Signs are everywhere when the weight of care

Sharpens the senses, and the connected air-

from the first breath to now-

come full-flower in the fertile heart.

The touch of unseen hands

Assure, that the path is right,

and the courage of the last step taken

will be found before the next… The road

grows smooth in the hard places;

It rises again, to meet my weary feet

both sides of a journey

I watched the River through your eyes,

Counted clouds in ripples and curls,

And the gentle face of the ageless flow

Gurgles like the voice of a friend.

Like any winter day

the barges move coal, the bridge

touches both sides of a journey, but today

the waters reach out in supple fingers, as if

to calm the restless heart 

that carries longing in each step.

Breath is satisfying and whispers

puff into vapors; they cloud the eyes

for only the moment allowed,

to see a reflection…of love.

simply, more of you

Somewhere there is Christmas

Remembering a birth of hope

And the feelings of a fortunate childhood

revive and kindle as if a fresh breath

has met the rise of a slumbered hearth.

Somewhere there is gentle snow

falling to fill a season’s reasons.

Joy in the soft flutter of white

as unseen winds make evidence.

Falling and rising, a vision of home

and memories of happiness.

Somewhere there are soft eyes

that watch the slow road home;

With hope for change and a wish

For a familiar shadow at the door,

When more means simply, more of you…Somewhere

there is Christmas,

Somewhere there is gentle snow;

Somewhere there are soft eyes...watching,

when more means simply, more of you…somewhere.

the lee of the wind

Silence came between the first words

And the last were whispered, effort

and gauzy-breathed whispers.

Life can be this way, a long pause

between words and labored lasts.

Always within the man is the man himself

Stepping outside a bit to see the lee side of the wind 

 and the spirit wave like banners in the breeze

where the rolling masts invite the tiring gulls

To pause and settle, accept the rolling face of the sea

as a most fitting mirror.

Always without, the sense of self,

the judge’s judge; admitting the bias of pained heart.

The lasting scars are the words and deeds

done to the living now-dead

Where apology falls like the soft night curtain

and the petal’s edge has lost all invitation.

Always the man, in action, thought and word

A great deception upon the world for

Within the man within…is a lonely, lost child;

As soundless tears make lullabies.

a deeper slice of sky

Crowding against the cold
skin gathers itself to contain inner heat.
A prickled outward skin to keep heat within
and the world notices little
of the battle in brittle layers of life.
It is an ordinary winter day, and yet the sun
betrays the golden face of warmth;
aslant and through a deeper slice of sky,
we tremble and yearn for calendars to turn

faster

No matter the width of the world
one only feels the nearest inch, and in an endless bound
of space and time, sitting at sea's edge
it is the ship launched by the winded breath
of the mind's own sky, takes the onward path
to nothing and back, and all along the way,
creation in each inhale, filling forms
of bubbled galaxies in each passed breath

slower

than the pulsing light of life, can it become
a snail foot, when missing the reason
for the next step, when the only fear
is that tomorrow arrives before I can repair
today.

flames

Struck as if from pure air
a fire of the spirit catches and invents itself-
a formless filament nurtured by the essence of grief and loss-
fanned by  powerful winds of change
Breathing as if living for the lost
it rises upon unseen waves,
fills the already full hearts
that wonder after justice

Heaven is a place within the soul
that accepts peace of the righteous
it is to the outward eye
a fury... a burning rage

Yet to those who hunger so deeply
it is the rest of the unending urgency
to bring life from wrongs, to raise an altar
for the sacrifices that have been made.



-----------------------
Thousands of people march and protest the wrongful killings of Black men and boys in America; it is a movement begun from the hearts of those who value life...hdm

orbit slowly

Sometimes surprised at the brilliant full moon
as if I should always know
when she pulls my eyes to sky and dazzles
in a swarm of memories, stirring hopes
as the scars that remind of the fights I made
the flights taken to rise above the tedium of passing night

She honestly replies when asked of the meaning
of every task, that press down like fogs
falling beneath the cloak of darkness
when cloudy vapors rise like ghosts of dreams.

Sometimes surprised by the pristine beams
that fill the evening yet leave it empty still,
and waiting to be filled by apology for the missing
and the vow to be...a presence in the present.

I do know, for I can hear the tinkled glass retort
when beams fall like icy petals, parting the cold.
Near ground where I orbit, slowly; held by the gravity
of tomorrow, and still I am sometimes surprised,
how she...is the moon.

a ruined cocoon

Justice rides a slow, slow train

On a winding track, uphill

Into headwinds, broken rails and promises

They waited in Ferguson

Where heartbreak fell, ripped

Bolt by bolt from the peace of the world

They felt they could do what ever they pleased

And they were right…

Walking the streets like they belong

Is a cause for a strike, blonde-washed brains

See so much more than others, they see

A future of respectability could emerge

Like a butterfly even from a ruined cocoon

And so douse and burn, and entertain

The passion of the flames…walking down the street

Like they belonged

A flash, a mad dash, and head bumps anger

Flash and flash…flash flash flash flash

Fall like the clouds have gone to stone

Fall like fires of heavens into the sea

Fall in the tears of disbelief, and deep is the grief

That follows, can you feel the hot flame and cold

Steel of eyes that find a reason to make this the season

For taking the sun-kissed child…for

Walking down the street, like they belonged.

a slight jealousy

Should I envy the winds

That touch you when they wish

Or the golden beams of the sun

That find you through cloudy mornings

Am I jealous of the words on a page

That hold your eyes, embrace your thoughts

And places that you pass, keep a silent residue

A memory…they keep from me

And the spirit of music that sets body to sway

A seduction in the rhythmic way you touch

the world and all it can be, now I too feel

a slight jealousy in a 12 bar blues

Morning and America

It is morning in America

Because that is what comes after

An emptiness of stolen joy

In the night’s darkest hours.

Sown on winds of hope, now reap the whilrlwind 

a coming harvest from seeds of care

that fight and survive in fallow ground

Earth's sweet breath fouled by hatred.

Morning in America

Because the fiber of your being

Is resistant to destruction; though numbed by false sensation,

Will finally recoil from the temptation to wound

the weak ... simply because they are weaker

Morning, and the coming day

Holds promise of greatness

That the thin fabric and bare bones

Made by the sweat and tears of ancestors

Comes alive by the will of their prayers

To fulfill so many wishes for freedom

From the mean lash, and now to this day

It is freedom from a meaner lash of privilege

Morning and America, rising to a song of life

Precious beyond wealth, meaningful beyond measure;

it is the un-purchasable gift of a loving world.

It is Morning, when bleak darkness fades

To the rhythmic rise of an unstoppable tide;

The human spirit is not content to suffer

and rebellions seep through pores, as we

reach for the generosity of the Sun

The light of life has no favorite

leaves no one in shadow, it carries the spark

of creation;  it is we- connected, inseparably

in the image of something far greater, and

by Morning, it calls a day reckoned for justice

in the timeless want of the soul.

momentary butterfly

Perhaps every breath is an apology
for there is far more possibility than limits
my thoughts place...upon themselves;
truly in life, convinced of mortality,
I pause for mundane things.

I allow a sip of wine to dwell and occupy
the time a great novel might be born
I fantasize the passing buzz of a fly
to wonder if I could do more with a week of life
than irritate and vibrate.

I turn to the evening's menu, and the music
that will fill my ears and crawl into the seams of the walls
where once the music was a woman and song of passions
I think of the last and the next...and finally understand
love is the eternal strand of the momentary butterfly.

The epoch of a strife-less future could I have also
held forth like the vagrant millisecond-before
the Universe admitted the dimension of time.
The awful crawl of the hands on the clock
in the dream that comes like a mistral wind
when I was me and also he or she that I used to be
and knew I was losing and gaining myself.
A dream of birth and forgetting
and breath...without apology.





Inspired by:
Under One Small Star
by  Wislawa Szymborska  

funeral feast

In moments when each note brings
a memory, and feelings float above
the lines the singer sings and instruments play
such moments, like wine for the spirit
add a giddiness to the melancholy
and sadness to the sweet tastes like a cold, funeral feast.

It still rings in the ears and flows in deep thoughts.
Chest -deep snows, piles lead to flood near sweet water lakes,
dark clouds gather above the heart of freedom,
and madmen plunder the East. Yet, in all the world,
like the flutters of wings in chaos,
mankind is still linked to its weakest virtue; it is tied
to its greatest sins...

the child falls in Ferguson.

beija-flor

The whirring hiss and softest kiss

At  the edge of the petal

As furious wings belie

The peace of a moment…beija-flor

The burning yearning for sweetness fulfilled

As life spills into life

At the flower of the heart

A wind borne search, as thin air carries

A vaunt will to persist, an essence of the core

And seeps into the pores of an unwitting world

That knows so little of each and so much of all

That each stir of breeze has purpose

Every seed a greatness of hope

And every whimper, a pause at lips

That would speak rebellion until

 a tender surrender

uma Bieja- flor  Brazilian Portuguese literally means the flower kiss, to most of the world it is the hummingbird, for me  it will always be the flower kiss.

curtained mystery

I can feel heartbeats in the melody
that rise and fall  like the rolling sea
driven and borne of the spirit and love...
the boundless, endless care...
when we dare give all without fear

So much of life is a curtained mystery
amidst the chance of a passing breeze
followed from afar like the constant star
blind to all risk, the heart in full glows
Life is a beaming light amidst deep shadows

When we speak the art of the soul
and though we reach and try to hold
the soft wax we press, but can never possess
a burden never, the weight of a feather
the essence that binds us together, forever.

Venus in the morning...

A grand view of the fall of stars
around the crest of dawn
and the velvet deeps play
into a crescendo of lightened blue
that ends in the fire of morning.

The journey of a day finds its way
across a hurried path into the east;
 first the eyes and then the heart
grabbed by a moment of lonely Venus...

Speak to me of love
as distant stars have faded, lost
in the wall of morning, yesterdays long-past
find voice in the mirage of coming light.
You who have seen the dawn of ages,
and death of epochs, each folded
into the edge of endless nights.

You, who have seen the fire of love
grow cold, and the ice of neglect
cover vacant hearts,
and known the point of longing
when the unspent purse grows thin
Rise to remind
that love is ever like the morning-
it is the peace of darkness, and the
matchstick  of a coming day.

among night fires...

I was born beneath a dying star
its deep red glows from the past, afar
a light set free on a far flung  journey
Among night fires alone in the cold
defiant flames that yet grow old

the wane of life counts me from the start
down fleeting joys and pain, fill the heart
as if wind-born sands falling through my hands.
The lash of forgiveness leaves the deepest scar
I race against the night, beneath a dying star.

loving...

Hidden in an un-noticed breath,
within a soft exhale and eye blinks;
it was there in touch of smooth cloth to fingertips,
and in a barely-felt brush of your close passing.

Aloft on a wispy movement of air
stirred specks and motes in a sunbeam;
there too in the uncounted movement
of fingers through hair, or the
lost point of a stare to the nether of thought.

Floating like the winged hungers on rising drafts
when the world holds all of her life, 
there is only the  patient search for a final fall.
It is in the sullen glows and joyous sparks
that ignite small fires unto great rebellions.

The spirit is never still, for it is filled
by an essence and an untamed flow;
 it is love, in every part of us,
 and through its ceaseless inner voice
existence is loving...

dawn song

The music of dawn sets pen to dance

across a page and into memory; morning glance

and first light is a balm, a spiritual calm

and it sets us on a path for day,

as pillars of sunlight guide the way.

When we reach the edge of twilight.

and make the rituals of coming night,
a harvest of flight and gathered sight,
becomes a day in which we grew

by folding the old into the new.

signs fall

In the flow of human time

Came a  time without the sun

A dark age, and the rage of ignorance

Fell like the darkness.

Man, left  in the power of his worst,

Fed the life-dimming thirst for hatred.

As their crops fell fallow

And human reach retreated from

The edge of greater understanding,

Like a flower that inhales its scent,

Time went backwards.

And  to now, in an age that thrust

Mankind to a choice of abundance or slaughter

The measure of human greatness in the balance

We can do either…exceedingly live, or

Follow well worn paths to greed and death.

Signs fall from the skies, a feather

Comes into the casual ambit of my eyes

And a meaning extends from the delicate blend

Of circumstance and inner sight, free-fall flight

Of a air light white feather…

Signs fall from the skies, the sun disappears

And will it be for moments or years that we recall

The endless nights, and the fright-filled wait

For the gates of the near heavens to admit

A right we overlook each day, the miracle

That we need to stay on this fragile blue craft

And will we see that it is simplicity of We

That need the sun, the air, the sweet water

And… forgiveness

__________________________________
The sun dimming in December 2012  or in 2014  is a hoax-- but the ideas spread virally around the Internet. This was the inspiration here, a sobering look at the science of this day-- magnificent sun spots and enormous solar flares. Our connection to the Sun is the essential for human life on Earth, and hoaxes can focus on the reality, solar activity is unpredictable and uncertain except that we need it, and we are all in that same situation - we need the warmth of the sun.

drops

raindrops in the sodium streetlights
amber waves of rain, drizzle falls
in such numbers as the sands
or stars among the galaxies, falling
in casts like the souls that have gone before us

Rain drops on a life's journey from cloud to sea
the life of a drop, a cascade from heavy clouds
to wet ground and down ever down, drawn
by the heart of the earth

Such are we...like raindrops
on a journey of predestiny
and yet- the slightest wind can send
a drop like you--unto a drop like me

pot shards

Drifted through yesterday
and the way I made-up many days past,
and reworked them to suit the new filter
placed over the distillation of time;

I drifted further, into the places
beyond the easy handles of yes and no.
Falling softly into places
where fears and loving make crossed currents
that pull me under.

Then I learn once again
to begin to breathe inside bubbles;
I find courage to renew
the birth-time notion to chew water,

and in this mix of twelve and six-
inverted hours and powerless to stop-
the urges that spring forth.

I stand in greater need of forgiveness
but there is no one here to absolve;
all are implicit and indebted-ly involved,
totally invested in the seamless dream.

When it is all done, and we enter
the lasting silence of sleep, then
life becomes the broken-pot shards;
the undisturbed dust surrounding them
make a picture...for the final cover.

between you and the world

Speak to me as you speak to the stars

Knowing full the answer, yet you ask

Hear me in the silence that rises
in the spaces between you and the world
noticed like the last dripping spill of rain
the noiseless call that stills all thought.

See me as you see the face of the river

Giving form to unseen wind, holding

The soft shoulders of the moon

Know me as you know the voice of your mind
patient and forgiving of all things
eager for the rush of love

And feel me as you feel a breath

Touching your lips in a slow exchange

Of  warmth…

a fading rose

A sense of insolence flashes in her eyes

Beaming as bright as the night of her youth

In the full day of life’s stage, time bends her

inward, towards the latter evening

We see the living ghost of girlish youth,

hosted by slightly resentful matron

housed in present and past beauty,

she is a fading rose between thorny memory

and petal fall.

I am the weathered hand,

fingertips and opened palm still hold

the scent of the flower’s edge

I wonder of the air near her skin

where there is new treasure,

born of moments  that hold us

soft, like a gentle night wind

and leave nothing outward

but a place of eternal spring, within.
where her lost beauty is found
in the heart of my heart...

saudade to unlived life

The universe became a dream
a snowflake formed of galaxies
drifted in light-less cold, it beams
a candle flickered, it breathes 
of an Eternal Wind

and, upon it all

I drape this meager reach of life
from an immortal perch of thought
and build a mountain of faith
to stand above the curved mold of time
Seeing places I can never be, bound as all, we
have created chains from the will to be free.

Anchored in mire of other men's greed
seduced by banal fantasies of need, we lie
upon a wilted meadow
Watch carefree birds and chameleon clouds fly
as we quick descent to dust of dusty stars.
Only the mind is free to be as wont, only the will
is able to chart the untraveled parts of human journeys.
There is a creeping door, that closes more upon
each breath, life's brief flame, and we
the brittle filament and feel this moment
a saudade to the unlived life,
a deeply-missed could have been, we place
into a daily grave

steam ...

Lost in a thought- I'd borrowed
from her lips and eyes
and the mist from the tea
fills all I can see, a surround
and bound all presents

I drift into a moment before a kiss...
melting away, all the bustle
words they say sift through
a prism, and you are the anchor
upon this  softly rolling sea,
as mists, simply mystify....until

the room rises from fog
walls remove  sky, solidify
faces say who and why
skin tones reply  to my searching eyes
and I can only wish this momentary bliss
to stay...just this way

morning light

Red flame hooves
lead across the eastern sky
cloud and sunrise engage in a race to light
Yet dim, the sky yields slowly in this kingdom-
a dark-framed fury

Swept by night winds, awaiting early eyes
a thrill of spilled sun fire on the paling canvas of dawn
and in the blinks that separate the long view
I imagine vaunt chariots
riders and the rains of thundered earth;
they pretend across the bend of a new day
such an ancient glory

9/11...2014

Clarity comes in eye-blinks
peeling away what is seen to find meaning,
and so in a day of sunshine inviting carefree play
as summer lingered past the calendar's call

things began to fall from the sky
odd things, lives in capsules that we can only keep
sleep disturbing even now, clarity and blinks
when the unimaginable does not permit
a turning away

Years come unto a decade and more
and the raw moment recedes, but only until
that pristine day returns and we yearn
to undo time, banish a moment from reality

We cannot forget, just as we cannot endure;
we take the deep bitterness, and gain resolve
to live better, love more, hold on to happiness.

We revere the missing...the raw spots
that cannot fade, the ache that wounded hearts use
to go from then to now...and tomorrow

moon ascending

Into the night,
up into the bright, glowing face
golden moon ascending
rising from jealous trees
that keep you from me and give
faint stars-remnants of even greater age-
a dim and temporary stage.

I feign surprise, that so many wiser men
have said this too, it is something
in you,  a trust, a sensed confidence...
a wish to share that impels thought-laden breath
to bare wit and heart

If only I could keep one petal
of this bright flower near, vagrant
darkness would disappear;
I would finally hear the magic
in sounds of moonlit notes, and fallen
crystal spines of life

moon...

golden piece of moon...
faded storms conspire

a dance of restless clouds

calm holds, as I imagine
the rest of her

          ~

night unto day
elusive age of peace 

only the moon has seen

a sliver of a blue world
reflection of love 

            ~


clouds of gathered prayer
shed golden rays of  moon

rains of hope grow to flood

pulling tides of fertile earth
and seeds of peace
 
   

something we cannot...

It is the needful heart
that finds art in darkness
without need of light, a power of sight
and unerring perception

words make sheer cover
the inner voice, ceaseless in life
assures outer self of inner truth
and resolves the eternal mystery

of existence, and not- for truly we know neither;
we accept what we cannot change.
The ways we speak is knowing,
and its silence is something we cannot

for within us is the constant fire
and it is we...the undeniable- we
that make the filament of the flame...

burn...

 

Like watching the sun

from afar it is peaceful, the near star

shows its gentle fire, and it makes us

a world in which warmth is in the air

From afar a long line slowly moving cars

follows the path thru solemn gates

there the long snaking trail pauses

we wait for the further moments

We have been here before

played this scene in pain-filled dreams

and awakened to worse...

it is like watching the sun

bright warm light- so calm steady

but inside, a hellish burn of ages

where fire melts into fire

We stand the ritual way

and say words of comfort and will

that the awful spill of his life will matter

more tomorrow and tomorrow again

inside...we burn, and the fire

takes no rest, now we are

the heart fires of the star...we burn.

http://allpoetry.com/poem/11629657-burn...-by-Peteskid

around its gravity...

Seen into the unseen, and shaped in tones
that do not fade, life is a mere shade
of the light of a greater sun.

Once begun, it is a gift from an indelible giver'
and though we must only know in faith,
the signs take us straight
on an ever-winding path.

Within each, the light of an inner star
birthed into the cold, temporary touching
a passing world, we learn much
but acquire little that can be kept.

So much as we disagree, time slips
elagantly without excuse, we lose
as we gain...yet we Love.
We hold in orbits around its gravity
a mass that pulls the willing, it is
Love that makes a purpose of life

We love the children, the joy we know,
unfolding seeds of the great tree of humanity
they all belong to all of us
and so they are precious... and so
they are Michael

cosmic implication

When love seeps in,
in powers like air into skin,
every equation of human reckoning
changes...a constant
with cosmic implication.

Intrinsic as breath, subtle and hidden
as a state of  trance, yet the heart dances
to rhythms of another drum, resonates
to the thrum of other strings
when love seeps in... and it christens the world.

As if the wet kiss of clouds to earth,
touching all things, an equality of grace;
you are the dew on morning rose.
When love seeps in, it enfolds the world
and then I see the sun...and the glistened rose

teacups...

in my teacup...
finding long lost words
sounds of falling rain



raised teacup
wisps of steam

pausing at the lip

words I wished
into your eyes


at the table...
a mute conversation
breath in a teacup

my evening teacup...
stirring in the sweetness
soft cicada song



* three  hokku and  one tanka*

you...

It is a simple word

three letters and an exhale

but suddenly it means more

than the passage of moments

suddenly, it is filled with you

Life can be a slow drive on a speeding highway

life can be like the feeling of falling

when you are near

I learn the fear of being apart

when we are apart, I learn

the meaning of an empty heart

because you fill pathways with light

You cause stars to sing to me,

and you have no real way to know-

though, I whisper softly-

the word becomes a roaring wave

It is a simple word

a simple bridge across a chasm of longing

to say you, and know it is ...you

a short menu...

time paints in vivid strokes
as if a canvas, memory accepts
the colors of given days and blends
like the bend of sun and world's end
where only our idea of God can accept
the gift of the petal's edge

Memory shreds the ordered flow
into places we wish to go, and things we would;
and should is a passport to the space between
the sides of the page, burrow like leaf miners
raise the surface till it breaks, obliterates the fates
that have fallen once.

It is the comings and goings that do not lie;
nor morph into more pleasing substance-
alive or not, in the end...it is a short menu
for such a learned palate, and such eclectic tastes...

short takes...

Morning Gulls

dawn punches holes in early autumn
as day's beginning grows so lazy, it crawls
into an empty Mall parking lot, makes a scene
cackled rattles of gulls long separated from the sea
argue boisterously, noisy rites for trashy sites with
unsightly residue


Morning Man

eyes find cracks and seams, and exogenous lines of water;
last night's rains barely came, but night lightning
and thunders filled the silent spaces of dreams
as movie plots and conversational what-nots
sidled into play; the libido rests not and every hot image
blends into a hidden wish, lust is like this...holds him
like mortar between bricks

Morning Coffee

steam recalls a piece of last night's dream, and moist heat
begs the fog's retreat and day to begin; unwanted
this expenditure of precious time-- it could be better spent
chasing wishes that come so urgently...
after the morning coffee.
After thoughtful sips dwindle into tasteless drips
when the ghosts of forgotten hours, rise
to haunt the day

in my heart ...

You live in my heart, a place of thought

Wherein I cannot deny things

I accept as truths

It is resistant to the gravity of logic and convention;

It has the magic of wishes, and the powers

of divine creation.

I was... before I was born, and to that place

from which I came, I shall truly return,

And You

Will be there with me, matched

in the vault of my treasures, among

the gems and jewels of my existence.

You

who loved me on your splendid nipple

You who lifted me from fragile youth,

and You who loved me through this body

as if it were my eternal soul

All of You

The bricks and mortar

of the house my spirit calls home

the firmament on which I stand

When there is nothing of the world,

and nothing made of matter; there will be

All of You, and the me...All of You have made.

fitful sleep

In the older ways, when in far simpler days,
faith was easy; spun beneath a gentle sun
a greener world- its greater evils
seemed long done - and the
reward of virtue was simply...itself.

Now, comes the time when faith is hard
because it can neither pardon waste's gravity,
nor explain depths we can see- precious life
cast aground blithely, like spoiled water.

Then one must see, for all the things men do,
the errors of the present and failings they rest upon,
for the whole of our arts are in the takings.
We spill precious existence as if it were wastes
Yet, we can restore neither life nor water,
cannot create air nor constitute the fishes
that sometimes fill the boats.

For all that we can do
brings little of that we need.
We yet prosper by gift; for all pretense,
mankind  is still a vagrant seed
fallen into fertile ground to grow.

Now, we take more than given,
by depth of greed we foul the air
and curse the ground, and faith
takes a trembling refuge
in fitful sleep and troubled dreams.

journey...

In morning sun, the clouds hold gold and gray,
its deeper blues relieved by harder graft;
as if to choose which role the day shall play.
Life's journey is a slowly savored draught

As time unfurls the sails, this fragile craft
can glide through wilted hearts, along the way
the rising sun sets upon the fogged waft
to blend into a white and blue bouquet.

As bolder beams become a golden shaft
the will holds firm, and does not fall astray.
The rushing waters calm, in shallows draft
where muddy shores give way to arid clay,

to gaze upon the solemn desert lands,
an ancient river’s womb, these burning sands.

lesser stars

When we love, a seed deep within
begins to blossom, we reach for
a warmer Sun; we grow
in ways we could not otherwise do.
It is the beauty of love, and it rises into life.

When I see the rain of my care
and she becomes a flower in the desert;
a blossom in defiance of pitiless sands
a rebellion upon the waterless earth
a power to be where nothing else might

We hold a  blessing of time
before the fall into night;
it is as the power of tides
upon the greatness of the seas.
It cannot not lift weight of a world
but it changes the face that holds
a thousand pieces of the moon
and the fall of lesser stars.

songbird

Amidst a sudden storm, in pause of wonder,

as lightning fades to soft echoes of thunder,

I hear the wind-filled trees in rustled whispers
through morning fog, the cawing crow call lingers

Where does the honeyed voice of love belong,

and does the silken songbird love the song?

Or does she rise to simply set it free...

As inner fires find bright melody

the final spark of want ignites to light

a moment, which spreads velvet wings to flight.

A deeper spirit bond won’t let her be,

But I think aloud...she is just like me;

A restless silence that could never stay,

 a searching heart that would never obey.

sounds...

fishing pond...
a snowy egret dips low into
sounds of lapping waves

tossing ...
thoughts leap into the sounds
creaking floors

wet sandals...
she smiles into the sounds
dripping rosebuds

above the shawl...
whispered prayers into the sounds
her nursing babe

prelude to light

In a dream of flight,

which came to solitary night,

a rainbow encircled the Sun;

And suddenly I knew

it was always thus, so true

legends of gold fallen to one.

As the flight unfolds-

no longer tired nor old-

I rise, indifferent to direction;

glad to soar, gaze from above

gathered within, all of my Love

the greatest work my life has done.

Deep and slowly run

a river's journey once begun

a wandered web, which time has spun

bonds of endless light,

exceeds the reach of darkest night.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/howard-moore/just-because/paperback/product-3762788.html?showPreview=true

summer hokku

gazing on the slope...
listening as the east wind
interprets the clouds

rolling waves...
dressing and undressing
the shores at dusk

a rainbow
circling the golden sun ...
finds itself

the sparrow and the fishes

There was celebration, in usually quiet congregation

hand-clapping thundered, and rose to rafters.

Bits and chips of leaded paint fell,

like confetti, or moments of immense sincerity,

and Walmart said Amen!

The God of Lesser Corporations,

HIS children reborn, artificial bodies filled-

Transfiguration, spirit to cash-mere flesh,

with life and blood more real than menstruation.

In gloried Halls like Valhalla

rituals profound as Jehovah's, witness to

an awakening, the freedom to be

life and breath entities, by a Godly Court

a decree of  life from ink and paper.

The Spirit of God

moved upon the face of  articles of incorporation

let there be life...

and Walmart said Amen!

Wither the woman, vessel of saints and saviours

your choice to live in an era of manly–men.

Virtue can corrupt the Judges, when measured

by faith in penises. Cast wide the net

and capture every offending fish

for they have thoughts of freedom

choice a voice which interferes
 with the dearer freedom,

the favorite of the law, and only God saw

the sparrows and the fishes

 For the sparrow wanteth not and

 like the fish, thrive in floods of love,

thrash and run in tides of caring,

gathering scraps and pieces of life
 into loving existence.

They boldly hold... 

“there shall be no more waterless sky nor airless water”!

The manly-men scoff, for in sound petition
hallelujahs rise among them, called for Profits

They bare knives and forks for feast and care not
for drought or things beneath the waters.

They know, choice is on the wing of the sparrow

and in the wish of the multiplied fish,

and Walmart said Amen!

_______________________________________

The U.S Supreme Court has ruled (Burwell vs. Hobby Lobby) that for-profit corporations can have religious beliefs; and  which beliefs can excuse them from obeying the laws that apply to them.  While the ruling purports to limit itself to reproductive rights, it does not. This ruling has changed the law into a place where wealth and privilege now have powers to dictate a selective assortment of behaviour controls and morals. In effect it extends and ratifies private efforts to control American citizens.

tides of justice

Time is a patient teacher,
a slow drip that soaks into skin; 
a light bound lesson found in darkness,
an indelible trace of the journey.
Like rings of an ancient tree
counted dear in the stuff that makes us,
a wandering path that ends in truth revealed
before the most unwilling eyes.

The tides of justice ride upon a relentless sea
that takes all and keeps what it will
until it returns upon a someday shore
again to the sun, and in proof of all.

Faith sounds  above the noise
fails not the constant man, a doubtless will
holds power within each moment
to shape the world in the likeness of love.


 

Touching Mangos

In the Mango Trees, untouchable fruits languish

In the full Sun branches bear out of its seasons

Thick limbs bow, fall low, touching among those gathered

Shed hungry tears, that endless seek the restless ground

Would the fog descend and show the veils that hide

The untrue heart, the wanton spirit that assumes

The power to destroy that which it could never create

Life is the richest pearl, and here devoured by lowest beasts.

It chokes air from the lips, and the power of grief

Stays within, coiled like a deadly viper sting

In this land of ancient love, consumed by petty thoughts

That yet control so much, and castes like the worm’s way

Weaken the bond of human to human…

In the Mango trees, undisturbed by the sun and wind

Unblinking eyes regard the stillness of the living world

To behold the essence of breath…the bearer of an unchanged past

and a bitter seed that we must all taste, as we are

to deeply know the sweetness of  tomorrow;

In the Mango Trees, untouchable fruits languish.

Author’s Note

In India and Pakistan, rape of young women has reached alarming and epidemic proportions. These attacks often committed by groups of men have caused deaths and emotional suffering among victims and families, and an erosion of vital human rights of women in both countries. In one recent attack, two young women were found hanged  in a Mango tree. In the caste system they were regarded as untouchables.  It is the hope of this writing that awareness and opposition to these conditions will spread and cause change. The women of these nations have raised voice and outrage and the rest of the world should follow and add its weight, for as long as justice and dignity are denied to these women, it is denied to all.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2645231/Teen-Indian-girls-raped-murdered-left-hanging-mango-tree-pictured.html
 

solstice of the spirit

 

On Solstice Eve we pretend

to play a day that never ends, staying

waves of night that sweep

from an eternal darkness.

So much do we see, that also denies

roost-less birds and bees rise with night sparks.

The faithful lotus keeps its honey scents,

as a windless pause of sunset

joins the comedy of abstinence.

But we are the Stars before vast stars

slowly emerge to claim their due,

and in sticky sweat begins

a year-long shift that ends in frosted air.

We pretend, as in so much of life,

that a day does not end, but

in the heart we know, all worldly things end-

whether well or otherwise- we accept

the hold of gravity on  hourglass sand.

In a longest day, beyond calendars,

the Solstice of the spirit; we lavish all,

immersed in love we have created.

There nothing ends, except as we allow.

Within each grain of hope is pain

of losing; we bear faithful intent to endure,

to beam along an endless path

like the light of mothering stars.

In a Solstice of seasons of being,

we hold the day, and speak in prayer

to the God within each man

to mold a place of light and will

and set seas to roll in endless tides.