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What are you waiting for?
And the little girl sat huddled, hunched
Intently staring, glaringly gazing into
The tiny star found in her hand.
And as she watched it, selfishly,
Sharing it with only she, it grew and
By its gleamings could be seen, the
Tinier mimicked stars within her eyes.
The Star in its growings…swelled, blazing bright…
Upon her life and making naked her very soul.
She started, at its new sizes and her awareness of it,
But knew its wonder was hers and hers alone.
But then; she heard the Star’s bright voice…
Calling to her crisp and clear, to share its light
With others, also, that they might know its measure.
And quickly clasped were her jealous child-hands
About the Star-jewel, shutting off all but faint
Glimmerings that escaped at random.
And quickly placed was the small bright wonder; and,
As quickly shut was the small chest’s lid; and,
On the high shelf behind the rag doll was
The chest-tomb carefully laid and hid.
Years, as ages, passed then…and next found her
Older, grayer…wanting…and
Brought her to her past, in person,
To bear her attic room in tears.
But by chance she touched the tattered ragdoll;
And, gasped, as it tipped and fell….forgotten
As she saw the chest and leaped to own it
And know the Star’s wonder once again…
…She turned the latch and bent the hinges
(Rusted now by the seasons’ changes)
And found only cold air…wantings…
.....and her own emptiness.
By the measured tread of time’s sure footings
We count such matters as we deem important
And glance, by chance, at those times seldomed
In moments odd, and by luck unnoticed.
And as the portents of age following age
Unravel the veil of cosmos spanning chronometer
We note, not ‘mused, that only love endures
The ravages that we burden all that surrounds us.
And what of such time lasting essence?
And by whose gavel must fall the judging?
And where stands youth within this aging?
When love smites hard and deep and clear?
Through just proceedings we class the runners
...Who race the clock and dare the challenge
...Who master in art or faceless music
...Who excel in words or psyche or mention.
And even as we pass the final passing
And hear our name called low and vibrant
We never near the true-cast die
Time rolls on ever, floating, tumbling.
But as I pass in my quick moment
A part of me will yet endure
For I did touch the heart of new-love
And it made for me..... all ages… mine.
You are a velvet sea of deep bluegreen...
Filled with constant life, Ever-moving,
Ever-hungry, ever-changing.
And I, a hot and constant sun, move
Slowly towards my unavoidable passing…
Closer and closer I descend to your
Cool and slow-to-part liquid depths,
Onward and onward, never altering my course,
And fully enter and mesh with you.
It causes you to swell until you start
To boil and vaporize… smiling wetly
As you rise up to become one with me.
Sizzling, I slip beneath your outer surface
And as you embrace and surround me…
Our world fills with steamy pleasures
That then bind us without bands
As you quench all but my inner-most fires.
And you, now as hot as I and totally alive,
Gurgle aloud your contentment…
…ahhh, but what an end.
You are a mist now… sea-fog’s sister and
A snow-cloud’s daughter;
Queen of wet discretions and misty secrets,
Moist from your own center to your
Outer-most point; and I, almost
Now a stranger having changed so much
While rolling through your life and
Murky mysteries, pause occasionally
Before proceeding onward, through you,
Searching to find the reasons for
Such a wandering tidalwave of love-lust.
I slowly and inexorably fade.
Your steaming mists cool and
Fill you until you are whole again.
The night finds me gone
But more of us in my stead.
…ahh, but what an end.
I had a dream last night. In it, God finally got tired of it all. Tired of women with crushed hearts and men with one-track minds. Tired of men who abuse women and particular those who hurt children. Tired of the all those who have no idea what true-love is. Saddened by the games and the heartbreaks that people play and cause. Tired of the anguish suffered by those few who do know what love means who must suffer through gauntlets of innuendo and suspicion and distrust and half-commitments. In the dream, God asked me what He should do about it. He said He was really tired of it all and left the decision completely up to me. I thought long and hard about it…. About lonely single mothers, single parent homes, fatherless children, the state of public education, the homeless, those starving, plagues and diseases of all types. I thought about drugs and alcohol and battered women. And lastly, I thought about all the virtuous women I had met in my life… of how much I truly respect the inherent nature of woman, the beauty that lies within, their ability to love and nurture and bring forth life. I thought about every poem I had ever written. I realized even then that significantly they were all in some way dedicated to the true-hearts that lay troubled, unappreciated by most men, but still beating beneath their breasts. So I asked God to withdraw His breath from every such mean or heartless or abusive and innately stupid soul, be they male or female. I figured women deserved better than their fare thus far. I also figured there would a higher number of men who would be gone than women, but….they deserved it.
When I woke up this morning, the population of the planet was 297,782,331 women and 12 men. I am not sure exactly where they other guys are but I plan on forming a club. There is no discrimination against anyone who might want to join but there are two qualification requirements. You have to know there is no measure to the depth of true-love…and you have to be willing to ask for directions when lost. Even God does at times…although I suspect….He already knew the answer.
Measure me not with your man-made measures
…For I would never do such things to you
…For I have known the heart of new-love
…And it transformed my world anew.
How might I prove the truth of this?
…That it is in giving that we receive
…That it is in loving that we know true-love
…Finding no means then to deceive.
Should I be like so many others?
…Who play with words and twist their call
…Who play with hearts and therefore cheapen
…True-love’s true nature for us all.
I find that it can ne’er be so
…That I might not love so deep nor well
…That I might take the path most traveled
…That leads past heaven and on towards hell.
For you that ask…Love has called me
…To bear its standard proud and high
…To share its measure with all who’ll listen
…And hush their whispers and their sighs.
It is for you then to hear this calling
…Let love smite hard and deep and clean
…And know that in the final counting
…The love you’ll know only God has seen.
You have only pain that you hold on to
…And only fear that you let live
…And you lessen the nature of your own heart
…When for no reason you cannot give.
It is my hope, my fond desire
…It is my most reverent, persistent prayer
…That you might stop and look deep in my heart
…And know once, forever, what God’s placed there.
In the stillness of the night….
After the rain has fallen….
When the dust of the day….
Has been washed away….
As you watch the reflection….
Of the stars dancing upon….
The water-covered pavements…...
If you listen you can hear….
The beating of your own heart..….
But if you listen carefully….
Very, very carefully….
You may hear the heartbeats….
Of those you love.
Pain through the ages neither lessened nor faded,
Consumed by her search left her silent and jaded,
Never finding true love... to break death’s cold wrappings
To feel life flow within her and not merely trappings.
How long had she waited with arms outstretched,
For life to beat rhythm within her troubled breast,
For someone to see past the blood on her hands,
To know and to grant her most secret demands?
How long had she yearned for the sun on her face,
Lifeblood coursing within her, no need for a taste?
But a mate for her soul never ventured nor dared
To see past her shell to the spirit she bared.
Each age that passed, more slowly she counted
Each silent scream as her blackness it mounted,
Until the day came when true-love did burn,
And opening her coffin, whispered softly in turn,
“I offer my own heart for yours that is riven
May it beat for us both, its blood freely given”.
Truest of fortune, the blessing, the boon,
She rose from the darkness, said farewell to the moon,
And walked hand in hand, right out through death’s door
Through the brightness of day, Queen of darkness no more.
Hold the passing thought
Within your mind's palm
And dwell upon it at your leisure
...Until you know its spell.
And bring forth the age-old memory
And search it with your mind's eye
And dwell upon it at your leisure
...Recall it wholly, deep and well.
Hold the instant in its moment
And turn it every, every way
And dwell upon it at your leisure
...Until it's carved upon your soul.
...And may your passing thought be prayers
each bright and clear and well-thought
of happiness for all men, and peace...
and health for those you love.
...And may your most lasting memory...
be of our love and friendship
and of the good, good times
that we have had together.
...And may each instant in your life
be filled with miracles and not with strife
and may the moments that you know
not be too fast nor too slow.
...And may you live and in love grow
until you fill and overflow.
...And may your bright love ever shine
until it matches even mine.
Might I call your name and hear
Your voice in answer, quiet, clear;
And pause, and in my moment dare
To relish each word spoken there?
Might I call to mind your love
And feel it 'round me, below, above;
And pause, and in the afterglow
Beneath its cascade my body throw?
And were you to answer now...
...might I hear?
And were you to call...
...wouldst I be near?
As quickly and as wholly
As fire consumes the brittle tree...
As constant and as stedfast
As the four great winds do blast...
So do I swear, my Specialove
On all that is....will be...and was.
...Written upon the walls of my mind-heart...
in the room there where exists the
true-keeper of my love-flame
is a record of the good good times as well as
wrongs and pains and lost-love-lost...
of misery and mirth, life and death and birth...
carved soul-deep with a dull-edged, rusted axe
wielded by my own sure hand.
And so the poet cried one silver
tear of wisdom and once
it had slipped his cheek...
he thought it lost...but, no....
A black beetle drank of it and supped.
He ran away then...
...bright-eyed and six-legged.
