silent thorns quivering in
the deep gray matter quicklime
sinking sinking sinking
into dissolving pits
between gated neurons
thinking machines and
power hungry vegetation
powered by the scorched
earth prototype and
typecast by the living sun
typeset and written into dust
coding in the quiet mind
of the double spiral helix
sinking sinking sinking
into downrung ladders
climbing up the way down
he closed his eyes
in his forever contemplation
his beard pointed downward
where his feet were planted
he kept his hands
ready at his sides
but his mind was raised
far above and far away
Silence is the
mother tongue
of Wisdom.
She cut out
her own vocal cords
when she began
to speak
falsehoods.
Now she sits,
looking out from
her perch of
silent observation,
never speaking,
but seeing.
sometimes we find ourselves
with no place to hide
from the sun’s shadow
as it moves through the clouds–
so we put filters on
our lenses hoping to
change the shape of what we see–
change the shade cast by the sun
This is the first part of a series of spoken performances.
When I first started writing, I always wrote in my car. My car remains my main workplace. It helps to give me a sense of what writing is and does. In a car, you are in the world, but still separated from it slightly. The glass of the windows, the metal of the body, provides enough of a barrier for me to observe, but still recognize the connection between myself and the other.
This series is meant to convey that sense of separate-connectedness aurally and visually. It is something of a testament to my own process of writing as well as a statement on writing in general.
There are twenty-one parts to this series. Together, they form a sort of visual chapbook. Each poem is complete in itself, but together they hopefully form a narrative not by the content of the writing/speaking, but through the form in which the individual pieces were created.
The first “chapbook,” Car Poems, is complete and available for viewing on my YouTube channel, https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCS07r9HadpWZx_HIsuHvuNA
A new series, Image Poems, is in the works and new performances will be posted regularly.
Thanks to all my readers and viewers. Your positive feedback and criticisms are always welcomed and appreciated.
Peace.
drawn from etchings in space–
drawn to the light like moths–
taken from memory
and sealed forever
behind the veil in the space between
Stand aside, now,
you in the grandstands,
all the auditorium is aglow
with better thoughts
than can be dreamed
by those orchestrating the show.
In reverence to those aghast
with salient nectar
and fever-pods,
we go the course
of thought collectors
and bow to silent nods.
Whenever I find I have arrived at truth, the answers I sought are not to be found.
Whenever I find myself believing myself to be wise, I find the folly in all of my wisdom.
Whenever I find I know what it means to love, I find myself drenched in anger.
Whenever I find I know what it means to be patient, I find myself restless and anxious.
Whenever I find myself at my destination, I find myself looking only to the horizon.
Whenever I find I have achieved my destiny, I realize my destiny lies unfulfilled.
Whenever I believe my purpose has been served, I find my purpose is to serve.
Whenever I find myself running madly toward my fate, I realize it is time to stop and wait.
Whenever I believe my time is finished, I realize it has never even begun.
From bulb to bud,
the cross-section of seed,
all hands freed from restraint
and the blindness torn away.
From the hand that moves
to the hand that guides,
all manner of things entwine
in the procession of movements
between mortality and the Divine.
From spark to flame,
all that’s extinguished,
no cliche can tell the story
as rightly as it’s lived.
Speak of no sparks,
speak of no fire.
Speak of no passion.
Speak not at all.
Let the lips be silent
and let the movements speak.
‘Neath skies that sing
Hallowed songs of God,
The Divine, rapturous on wings,
Spread out from dawn
To sunset and on through long nights,
I, too, sing of the Divine, God,
Albeit with limited sight.
What songs have I, not already sung
Throughout the ages, voiced by sages
And strummed on instruments strung
With the purest of wire? What fire
Should I speak, not already spoken
In praise of the Maker
Or of salvation for the broken
In spirit, the poor of heart,
Those whose eyes have never dwelt
upon
The housing of the Divine Art?
What art have I, in limited sense
To dwell upon Glory,
To seek the Divine?
What story shall I tell
In the time that is mine
With a heart, unperfected,
A seat of dubiousness?
Diving Deeper 