Poetry Archives Index



                         Poetry by Blake Steele

                         (FILE 2, Opened 4/8/98)




                         A DISCLAIMER OF GOD FOR GOD

                         A DOO-DAH DAY

                         ANOTHER MORNING

                         A POEM FOR A CERTAIN LIL

                              TO REMIND HER OF HER DIGNITY

                         A POEM IS A PLACE

                         A SUPPLICATION

                         AUTUMN DANCE




                         BEAUTY IS MY WORK

                         BE CRAZY WITH LOVE

                         BUDDHA'S SONG





                         CAFE SANTE



                         FOR LILLYBUD BLOOMING








                         IN EARLY WINTER

                                         I WISH



                         PONDERING THE LAMB-LIGHT



                         SANITY'S RHYTHM

                         SOMETIMES, A SLIGHT SHIFT



                           TO TAKE THE HOLY TUMBLE










                              TO TAKE THE HOLY TUMBLE


                              I would be a poet of the wild

                              and wide world,

                              but time and time again

                              I must return to my own heart

                              and strive to be real--

                              to write this transformation,

                              to expel black thorns from my brain,

                              to turn again

                              in the free flowing loops,

                              to take the holy tumble

                              into God's bed:

                              happy and naked,

                              vulnerable and blameless,

                              blood splattered,

                              and sleepy,



                              a silent






                              IN EARLY WINTER


                              I was feeling down

                              about the state of my life

                              when I read an Oliver poem

                              about barely breathing and thinking

                              you were alive...

                              So I went out naked into

                              a winter's grouse of wolf-wind

                              and raised my arms up silently

                              towards the silent moon

                              and all the stars that praised you

                              and surrendered open again

                              as the wind whirlabouted

                              to bristle my hair and prickle my skin.

                              Then I turned back indoors

                              to my cluttered little workshop

                              which was suddenly a warm and welcome nest,

                              and brimming with thankfulness

                              knew I was alive.






                    A DISCLAIMER OF GOD FOR GOD


                    There is a dead way to think about God,

                    a way of oppressive connotations:

                    a baggage ladened, bickering, constrictive way;

                    a gray way, all pinch-nosed and guilt riddled,

                    of an angry old man in the skies

                    or of three prudish guys--the status quo

                    we've institutionalized.

                    I would like for you to set all that aside

                    if you can, and consider with me a second way:

                    A way of glacieral freshness,

                    of deep belly laughter,

                    of love's naked longing,

                    of star spattered vastness

                    and the eruptive white spume of whales--

                    of delirious songs of birds drunk on berries.

                    It is about the greatest freedom you have ever known;

                    the wildest abandonment in beauty!

                    and a light that melts you

                    every time you see it shine in a human eye.

                    It is about the repose of a rose garden

                    in a face you instantly love,

                    and the greatest fairy tale of sacrificial love

                    come true! It is a Voice

                    that captures your heart forever...

                    Or being electric with life!

                    shaking your head in a dance

                    refusing oppressive existence,

                    breaking open

                    until you are brimming with life--

                    being crazy with love--

                    spinning in wild circles, singing

                    for no one--not even yourself!--

                    just because you must sing to say it

                    and move in it, the eternal spume,

                    the gurgle in the gut:

                    drunk and giddy--

                    angry and blatantly sober--

                    snapping the chains!

                    passionate and flaming,

                    thirsting and howling,

                    green and all growing,

                    falling and flowing,

                    forgiving and free--

                    like a river.


                    When I mention the God name,

                    please know that I'm referring

                    to this second, more primal way.






                         FOR LILLYBUD BLOOMING


                         This huge beauty of love:

                         a woman-child

                         once lonely in her longing

                         for something of substance,

                         some wakefulness to wonder,

                         some fresh fountain through a face,

                         some words that dance in the mind

                         and birth a sudden joy,

                         this scamp-child of lilies and roses

                         dances softly before the eyes

                         of a dying man

                         to lighten his spirit

                         for the long journey into brightness;

                         then slips a cloth angel

                         into the little girl's pocket

                         who watches her father's anguish

                         to leave

                         his body for ever.

                         Drifting in a haze of love and grief,

                         someone she has never seen

                         leads her into an adjoining room

                         where a man labors to die

                         alone. She rubs his arms

                         and whispers promises in his ears

                         that angels will greet him

                         and sing him into lands

                         of love and beauty

                         he has always secretly languished for.

                         This is the unfolding

                         of a tight pink bud

                         into a lavish bloom

                         that perfumes the world.

                         This is birthing!

                         How the heart longs

                         to be slathered with love!

                         How the feet long

                         to dance in rose petals.

                         It all unfolds

                         in creative compassions.

                         The sick and lonely and dying

                         draw out the bloom

                         by the power of their secret sun.

                         The rose dies open

                         in a simplicity of flame.






                         THREE LEVELS OF BEING


                         My body eats the grape.

                         My soul suddenly awakes

                         in gratefulness for the miraculous gift.

                         My spirit senses the divine

                         beauty of God's thought

                         of a grape

                         and I am amazingly clear!

                         though drunk with light.






                    A DOO-DAH DAY

                    (Psalm 96)


                    Today, the trees seem very, very happy.

                    Perhaps it is as the psalmist foretold--

                    they are clapping, they are swaying,

                    they shimmy and clang!

                    they feel God...

                    If they could pull up their roots

                    they'd dance on them--I'm sure of it!

                    because when I feel God--all fresh and lissome,

                    frolicking in green--

                    my spirit shimmies, like those trees,

                    in an inspirational breath--and I want to dance

                    from an essential urge bursting from my core!

                    To throw back my head and howl!

                    like those trees surge back:

                    clattering and trembling,

                    ecstatic and shimmering,

                    rattling with sky in a wind!






                         THE LAST AVERSION


                         There is a white ship sailing

                         over beautiful waters:

                         it shines like a simple flame

                         or a star.

                         If you ever saw it,

                         you would run at once

                         towards it

                         into the waters and drown.

                         But, like most,

                         blinded and averted of eye

                         when it comes,

                         you hear the water lap

                         against its bow

                         and fear it! struggling

                         to climb up 

                         an impossible cliff

                         to familiar land,

                         until, at last, too weary,

                         you fall back into a dark sea

                         where the boat will assuredly find you:

                         your face shining like a simple flame

                         or a star

                         after you drown.







                         BEAUTY IS MY WORK


                         Beauty is my work:

                         to labor in spirit, letting life spill into words

                         which might move your mind

                         in ways that release that light

                         I'm love-drunk for: the light of the truest you,

                         all wet with wonder--fresh I mean--

                         a wise and wild child shining

                         through the intricate maze

                         of your soul; through your eyes,

                         all awake and wanting nothing but love

                         and loving; peering out your face,

                         beautiful with joy like the sun,

                         innocent as a breeze,

                         or calm with repose, like a rose,

                         soft and sleepy on a summer's day.






                         SOMETIMES, A SLIGHT SHIFT


                         I have seen sunlight fragmented

                         on the ground, fractured by the trees

                         into innumerable fluid, yellow bees

                         spluttering as the trees moved--

                         the light altered by wind.

                         And I have looked up

                         as trees parted,

                         wind-shifted to another place,

                         and all things changed, the thousand lights

                         coalescing to a single fire in the sky

                         that burnt my eyes.


                         Sometimes, the slightest shift

                         is all the difference

                         between standing next to a person

                         or slipping into them.







                         CAFE SANTE


                         There is a cafe

                         where love is the main dish.

                         It is in our town--

                         right between the beautician's parlor

                         and a lake where swans

                         effortlessly glide.

                         All my life I have ached

                         for what the world could be

                         if it awoke to the task

                         of birthing beautiful visions,

                         if it carried in its heart

                         the ecstasy of angels.

                         In this particular cafe,

                         the waitresses are the angels,

                         serving an infection of love,

                         healing the human spirit

                         with warm, deep hugs,

                         cups of smiles,

                         platters of beautiful words.

                         The world is so hungry for love,

                         --not soulless selfishness as sex--

                         but love that opens your chest into

                         a great spaciousness of light,

                         or instinctively lays hands on your head

                         for a moment of blessing.

                         It is love that opens our eyes

                         to spiritual visions that have fed us

                         for thousands of years.

                         And it is love that calls us

                         to the great task before us:

                         the hard work of joy,

                         the descent into the dark

                         to transform our souls

                         until honey runs in our blood.

                         There is a cafe

                         where joyous freedom

                         is a thousand times

                         tastier then its savory dishes.

                         It is in our town:

                         right between the cracks in the sidewalk

                         and an eternal dream.







                         BUDDHA'S SONG


                         God fell between the fingers

                         of that prince who trembled

                         high in northern mountains

                         amidst the cold fragrances of April.

                         Hands wide open:

                         gold coins dropped

                         into gold bearing streams,

                         silk garments thrown upon the grass,

                         body dipped in the silver flow,

                         beard glistening with pearl drops,

                         ears soothed in bird song,

                         heart welling with angels--

                         the great loneliness slipped away

                         as the meaning that could not survive

                         in temple or palace

                         streamed through his mind

                         to ravish his heart

                         like spring breezes thrill

                         the emergent bud.

                         And so he returned barefoot

                         to the warmth of southern lands

                         with almond oils flowing from his fingers--

                         naked amidst the naked ones,

                         poor amongst the poor,

                         to sing in bareness of breath

                         the core of his soul

                         from earth to sky,

                         from bud to blossom.






                         THE LAMB-LIGHT SHINES


                         The Lamb-light shines

                         when her heart smiles through her eyes.

                         Nothing is as clean and beautiful:

                         not pure gold, nor mountain streams,

                         nor scoured linen flapping in ocean breezes

                         on a wild island.

                         This is the scampish wisdom

                         of restored innocence.

                         It is the laughing light of lilies,

                         a soft rose glow

                         in the essence of her spirit--

                         the joyous grace of the primal Christ.

                         Though the world may sully her,

                         grind her up in its beauty factories,

                         muddle her, dispose of her

                         in a land of illusive shadows,

                         nothing shall defeat that light!

                         She will remember.

                         She will come home.






                         A SUPPLICATION


                         I desire

                         the One Cause--

                         the great primal Life

                         of all this beauty--

                         to be poured forth

                         in one form:

                         one wild woman,

                         one wise and passionate child

                         who is my muse,

                         my longing,

                         my heart's delight,

                         my ecstatic song.


                         We have been in each other

                         since the stars were born,

                         and shall be loving God

                         in each other's soul

                         when the last star fades.


                         Perhaps we are apart

                         so I might write

                         about this longing--

                         its beauty and its pain--

                         until we are together

                         to celebrate it.


                         Other then this

                         I do not understand

                         the mystery

                         of our separation.





                         ANOTHER MORNING


                         Another morning

                         to throw the heart open

                         to the mystery of lamb-light,

                         to the one silent life

                         busy with intelligence,

                         singing through delicate, red leaves,

                         bursting from the tiny jeweled fire of seeds;

                         the ants in the grass.


                         Another morning

                         to drink forgiveness:

                         to gulp it down shamelessly

                         into the belly and the heart

                         until my whole being opens

                         in the intoxicating beauty

                         of love's innocent light.


                         Another morning

                         to receive the invisible,

                         who's influences we see

                         in a love-lit,

                         open-souled face

                         and in the good story

                         and song of their life.


                         Another Morning...






                         We can believe

                         in the naked influences

                         of the silent flow--

                         sensed, not in the essence

                         of itself,

                         but in its effects

                         and inspirations:

                         the glorious Lamb-light

                         rising as joy in a human eye;

                         the spontaneous expressions

                         of love;

                         the emergent sensitivities

                         to beauty;

                         the graceful way the body learns to move;

                         the passion to radically forgive

                         and make ourselves

                         and others free.





                         PONDERING THE LAMB-LIGHT


                         I love the thoughts

                         and feelings

                         that open me

                         unto the joyous


                         I love the silent flow--

                         pregnant with

                         Love to live.


                         How beautiful the eyes

                         of Christ must be.

                         How rich with countless feelings

                         that flow through them.

                         How whimsical and innocent

                         the humorous joy of them.


                         I have glimpsed

                         the eyes of God's Lamb

                         in the eyes of my Lilly

                         when she is happy,

                         or eager in wonder,

                         or tender with sadness.

                         I have glimpsed the eyes of Lilly

                         in countless eyes—

                         a sudden shine,

                         an unmistakable gleam.


                         And when I see her eyes shine

                         I would fall into their light

                         and be found.






                              BE CRAZY WITH LOVE


                                The earth bears

                           every sorrow of the lost,

                      those who see life through the pain

                      of their anger, their bitter blame,

                           their insatiable greed--

                  those who afflict the innocent with hatred.


                              Be crazy with love!

                   The Earth cries out for your jubilation!

                         You who have rent your heart

                that the primordial, infinite sheets of Light,

                     --the young joy of God--might shine.


                           Look up. Ah the blue sky!

                          It is a canopy of paradise.

                        Look down. Ah! The green earth

                               beneath our feet.

                      It is Eden waiting to be restored.

                          Look around. In all things

                          is the Miracle of miracles!


                           Here is the face of God!

                              Be crazy with love!






                         SANITY'S RHYTHM


                         When we rejoice

                         with a child's complete joy

                         and pour forth our wonderment

                         in praise

                         we forget the miserable ones.

                         It is not possible to do otherwise.

                         So, we must keep to the rhythm

                         of ecstasy and compassion:

                         the first, like rain-slicked petals

                         slipping into a silky sea;

                         the second, a gleam of light

                         squeezed out of dark, hot

                         visceral organs--love's ooze--

                         pure in the melt down

                         of self,

                         ashamed of its frivolities--

                         though free

                         to drink nakedly of whimsy

                         and forget again.





                              A POEM IS A PLACE


                              A poem is a new friend

                              that was an old lover you'd forgotten.

                              It is written to be companionable:

                              even if it jerks you upside down!

                              It's a spurt and a spout,

                              a prink and a dazzle—

                              moistness in your pants.

                              Or, barking dark in God's light!

                              a ribbon of silky smoke

                              unwrinkling in the sky;

                              a spacious place to pass into:

                              like a opening soul...

                              or lithe wind hidden in a stone.

                              It's a room without walls

                              and a ceiling of spattered stars.

                              It's a slow excretion of color in your mind

                              as the universe in you sings.

                              It's your own primal voice speaking

                              from a simple flame of empty silence—

                              the naked Christ.


                              Enter a poem's heart with your heart.

                              When you come to its wordy doors,

                              throw yourself open!






                              A POEM FOR A CERTAIN LIL

                              TO REMIND HER OF HER DIGNITY


                              Sometimes I wear a crown

                              and walk with wide-eyed women

                              in places of the heart

                              that are beautiful and free.

                              Sometimes I swim with sharks

                              in quiet lagoons

                              and make them my friends.

                              This happens in the country

                              where wild and passionate children play

                              and are never afraid.

                              Where spinning on their toes

                              with the feel of innocent delights,

                              they would sooner spit out the sun

                              as betray the speech of birds,

                              the watchful messages of deer,

                              or the long, eerie cries of whales

                              singing to their young

                              of how the whole creation is waiting

                              for human beings to let love

                              overwhelm them.






I wish I could fly like a swallow whenever I needed to be happy: twisting, and spinning, twirling and diving, and that all the bugs I ate were made of flying ice cream.


I wish that trees had secret doors in them that led to paths that wound around roots down into the bright world of fairies and gnomes. I wish that every fairy and every gnome knew my name.


I wish that every once in a while you would meet an animal that could talk.


I wish that it was as easy to love and be loved as it is to drink water and

breathe air.


I wish that mushrooms were made of chocolate and that chocolate was the

healthiest food in the world.


I wish that whenever you sang a very sad or very happy song from your deepest heart, a beautiful angel would appear.


I wish that whenever my heart was especially filled with love that birds would come and swirl around my head.


I wish that whenever I walked in the woods that deer and bears would walk with me.


I wish that if someone was very sick and your heart was full of love for them,

that your fingers would shine like candles, and when you touched them they

would be well. 


I wish that I could secretly breathe water whenever I wanted.


I wish I had a small white cottage surrounded with lush gardens and a

beautiful woman to love and love and love and to write poems about and to

paint pictures of and sing songs to under the stars. And we would dance with

the owls, and all the plants in our house would be huge, and birds would fly in our windows to chatter in the rafters, and children would come and dance and sing before our fire every night.


I wish I could speak French without the hard work it takes to learn it.


I wish my poems would go all over the world to make people happy and to help people see that God is wild and beautiful and good.


I wish that bad things never happened to children.


I wish all love's wishes would come true.






                              AUTUMN DANCE

                               (To Native Americans)


                              Old Tom danced, dressed in rough skins,

                              dressed in flying feathers,

                              dressed in wisdom's garments

                              of nakedness:

                              until the partridge and pheasant

                              fled into his dance

                              and chipmunks chattered amongst themselves

                              how this man was supernally

                              turning the seasons.

                              And Tom skipped and spun!

                              And the deer listened

                              then leapt towards high plains;

                              the hawk heard and gyred away.

                              And Tom collapsed down...

                              then jerked his knees up, strutting,

                              circling, mumbling the many deaths

                              until flowers folded stiffly inward

                              upon their seed-empty bellies

                              and trees pulled at roots,

                              losing momentarily their old patient

                              acceptance of limitations:

                              longing to lift tree roots and twirl;

                              longing to stretch their branches

                              to scratch the ominous gray

                              belly of the sky.

                              Then Tom spun again, arms stretched wide

                              while the trees tossed their gold leaves,

                              out in spreading circles

                              like silent songs caressing the cold.

                              And the chattering chipmunks marveled

                              at man's power

                              as awe sang on the winds.

                              But Old Tom knew by naked wisdom

                              it never was him that did a thing,

                              but the immanent music

                              that moves stars and things...

                              and his body in the dance.




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