The Meteor Shower

The poet is the child of the moon,
Reflecting all the living light the sun
In graciousness will not withhold. The loon
Can hardly sing a mournful song to one
Who wishes he could say what can’t be said
To those who in the sunlight can’t be fed.

 

I watch the sky to see the stars, to see

The dust and tiny meteors now streak—

Perhaps the stars will fall, or stay for me—

In colors of the fireflies I seek

Among the trees that partly block the moon.

I cannot dance. Perhaps I’ll see her soon.

 

The prophet always speaks in complex verse,

And so the sun in metaphors speaks true

To those who have the ears. I cannot curse

My gifts. I read the sky. Night’s almost through.

Perhaps there’s nothing left for me to see,

But I suspect the sun won’t set me free.

 

The lights are flickering. The fireflies

Are seeking mates. The falling stars are seeking

No one. Warmth, love and nothingness defies

The meaning which we make, are slowly leaking

Into the world where people meet—each verse

Brings greater life. Denial brings the hearse.

 

I listen to all the blue sun has said,

Reflect it like the moon and give the gift

The sun expected me to give. It led

Me, fed me, read me so that I could lift

In flickered patterns like the fireflies

The hazy messages where deep truth lies.

Ascent and Descent, Butterfly and Moth

The butterfly, as blue as sky, ascends
Into the sun, but does not fear to melt—
The moth, in pales green, flutters, descends
From off the moon, its body soft as felt. 

 

The shadows move from bright to dusk

The shadows move in gray

This body, moving, is a husk

Between the night and day.

 

The light and darkness, day and night, only seem to clash—

The moon reflects the sunlight to a moonbow made of ash.

 

Now, listen as the moths are flying

And smell the subtle scent

That brings them to the nectar lying

With sweetest truth that’s bent.

 

The butterflies descend and drink the sweet

Sun-warmed and ripened red persimmons—smell

Them as the rot upon the ground. The feet

Can taste them where they putrefy and fell.

 

Which life will you embrace?

Or will you trace 

Another through the trees

With dappled bees?

 

The light and darkness, day and night, only seem to clash—

The moon reflects the sunlight to a moonbow made of ash.

 

A sky of mist, a somewhere in between—

A cloud with sun, the seen and the unseen.

 

And though they drink at different hours,

They both are pollinating flowers.

The moth, the butterfly both mean

The same in all their pollen showers.

 

And both will drink the dew, 

And both will drink the tears—

And both will drink the juice,

And both relieve my fears.

 

The butterfly, as blue as sky, ascends

Into the sun, but does not fear to melt—

The moth, in pales green, flutters, descends

From off the moon, its body soft as felt. 

 

The light and darkness, day and night, only seem to clash—

The moon reflects the sunlight to a moonbow made of ash.

Medieval

My body is an iron maiden, sharp
And pointed pain that pierces through my back

And legs. What? Shall I slide down this rough scarp,

Attempting to escape my body, rack

That wracks me, in the hope that other pain

Will wrestle me onto another plain? 

I wrestle in my bed with no one, throw

The blankets as I turn and writhe and groan

And turn with tight-backed movements they made slow

Until the aches and needles throw their last stone

And I am pushed into a sleepless sleep

Discomforting my night until I weep.

The pain of spirit and the pain of mind

Arose and were resolved and humbled me--

The pain of body now has joined to bind

It all. How shall I be an escapee

This time? The badlands stretch and crumble down

Beneath my feet, beneath the star-dusk gown. 

There's a brazen bull that bellows through the night

And keeps the mind awake--I fail to pray

No more--I am the prey of pain's delight

In being senseless, pointless. It will flay

Me, try to slay me, but I will not slip--

The scarp is steep--I live upon the tip.

Finding a Place

What shall we do with this young man--at ten

Much more a man than men twice, thrice his age--

Who plays a manly rock-n-roll--his pen

Has written lyrics showing manly rage

Against the dying of the light--no less

Opposes womanly pop music--he

Will build, create with focus, fearlessness,

Declares all rulers "suck"--anarchic, free.

But where shall he emerge into the man

That is his destiny? This culture will 

Declare him toxic. Focused on his plan,

Perhaps he will ignore and then fulfill.

This boy who loves his father was born for

A balance made in music, not for war. 

The Song of the Prophet

Eternity is present to the soul

That pain brings to the light. I follow fate

On which my will will freely dance. My bowl

Is filled with spirit. I will not debate

With God for what He’s given me—a voice

That speaks in only truth, in poetry

That sings. Come sing along. Come sing, rejoice

In all the complex love that makes us free.

You thirst? I pour out what has overflowed

The bowl God filled. There’s more than you can know—

Perhaps I cannot speak all that God showed,

And I am but a rhyming afterglow.

I am the moon who in the night will pour

The light out of my bowl to show the door.

At the Abyss

 I stood upon the edge of one of these

Before—they look the same, but different—

You stare, they stare, it’s you—the slightest breeze

And you could fall, it seems. I have been sent

Again, sent to stare at the abyss—bliss

Of love, bliss of death—nothing would dare tear

Me away from the source. My love for this

Was hereby made and made all that is fair.

 

But now I know where I am standing, dark

And infinite below—the things you know

Don’t bring the fear that you once had—I grew

Into this daemon-driven poet-lark,

And this new black abyss will help me grow,

Direct me to the nothing that I know. 

In Fragments Shall I Live

Your soul contains my self—I cannot die
So long as you, my children, live—

Death rises on the sunset—it’s a sigh

Of shadows every life must give.

You stare at the horizon, and you say, 

“It’s death.” I say, “Approach.” You say, “I can’t.”

Indeed, the red horizon of the day

Recedes—you run, you run, you pant,

But all horizons must recede—the sun

Descends behind it, though, for you 

Can never reach the setting dun—we’re done

One day, and we pay what’s due.

 

Your soul contains my self—each poem I 

Have written someone reads, each book

I publish, play someone has seen, reply 

In scholarship—my words a brook

Delivering my mind to others’—my songs

The music of my mind that flow

Into a delta—all my rights and wrongs,

My vanities and virtues grow

And grow with all the minds who take my words

And make new meaning out of them, and eat the curds

That form out of my milk—are for your sake. 

 

Your soul contains my self—this poem’s worth

Is measured in remembered rhythms, rhymes—

And after I am dead, they will give birth

To minds all holding mine throughout all times

That people understand these words—the sun 

Will never set—Apollo rises soon—

The earth will turn—daylight has begun

Upon another face—another noon

Will bring enlightenment—under my tree

Will others seek to flee the heat, but light

Is dancing through the leaves. I’ll never be, 

In my becoming, night, the moon in flight. 

Flight

The leaves are made of emeralds, chrysoberyl

jade stems supporting amethyst flowers

opening to opal needles hovering,

darting in and out of their tubes.

We watch, hovering on wings of air

without caring where we go,

drifting among the smoky quartz trees,

malachite weeds tickling the soles of our feet,

long leaves sliding in between our toes,

nose tickling from amber pollen

drifting, flying through the quartz air.

Our freedom comes with consequences such as these,

pollen blown from trees and weeds,

diamond serpents biting our heels without warning—

but we'll always choose our waxen wings of air,

our flight, so lifting, so brilliant— 

amour.