INDEX
A:
AFTER A
CRAZY SINGING WALK
A LETTER
OF ADVICE TO AN OLD FRIEND
A LONG
JOURNEY TO NATURAL THANKFULNESS
A lost Dutchman
is comforted by her Little Prince
AN OLD
MOULIN
B:
BY A
LITTLE STREAM IN THE FRENCH PYRENEESS
C:
CLO
D:
DEATH IN
THE MIDST OF BEAUTY
E:
EVERY
ESSENTIAL THING
F:
FOR THE
HIDDEN CHILD MY DEEP HEART KNOWS
I:
IMPRESSIONS
OF AN OLD WORLD COUNTRY
L:
LEARNING
FRENCH
M:
MARIENOELLE
N:
NEAR
THINES
P:
PIO AND
LILLYÕS HILL
S:
Shakespeare and Co. Paris
SIMPLE
OPENNESS
T:
THESE
COLORS OF GODÕS DREAM
THE HEART IS DESIGNED TO OPEN
THE
LITTLE FOX
THE
SPANISH BULL
THE STORY
OF BECOMING UNFOLDS
U:
ULYSESS
V:
VINCENT
W:
WE SPUN
BY THE SEA
Y:
YOUNG
BEAUTY
22 poems
LAST POEM
IN FILE: IMPRESSIONS OF AN OLD WORLD COUNTRY
THE POEMS
Shakespeare and Co. Paris
6/5/00
This is a
maze for mice,
a
labyrinth of literature,
a
flophouse for brilliant,
dreamers
who chase the moon:
readers,
writers, poets, adventurers.
Amazing
souls.
*
It is a
place of presence; a vortex of ideas encrusted
with old
books: the legacy of trees,
bodily
fluids, hot juice, tears.
I'm here to write; to gather my head
back to
my bones in the dust of old places,
to feel
again ancient souls
moving
through things--
mirrors
of magic
lit by
imaginative memory,
clear
glass undetected by
those
overly concerned with
reflections
of the preening self.
Notre
Dame, the sound of passing cars;
Paris
wearing gray like a pouting schoolgirl
not allowed to wear her lipstick:
dutiful,
dull, passing time
until
night comes--when she
makes her
own sunshine:
an
amusement park
made for
masked dancers;
a
costumed lady with a dark belly.
Shakespeare
and Co. proudly founded in 1951
and run
by a wizened man,
a
literary relique, a man who admires angels
dressed
as little girls.
I hear he
got Alan Ginsburg drunk once.
I don't see that as much of an accomplishment:
except it
was to overcome his shyness
so he
could howl his Howl. Just another night in Paris
becoming
history.
Famous
George of Paris has seen a lot of history
here. His
eyes clouded with countless memories.
Many
writers on the walls--
pictures
inscribed to him. Jacqueline Kennedy
slept here: well at least passed by. I doubt she used
the tub
or looked in the fridge,
(reliques
with the mold of history on them there as well).
But many
have looked, and laughed, and left their own marks:
poems and
pictures, hieroglyphics of the mind,
testaments
to an old man holding a child inside
who
dreams of being welcomed into heaven
by angels
he has housed here.
Pigeons
drift down from the rooftops of Paris
to peck
dirty food scraps into small pieces.
I've watched them do this,
mannequins
marching, strutting
like
intellectuals too full of their own thoughts
to feel their way into another person's ears.
Willy is
sleeping on the coach.
The day
too gray even for an Irishman.
(I didn't think such a thing was possible.)
He was
going to write a few thoughts down today
but lent
his pen and paper to a wayfaring woman from Canada.
May the
muse reward him. No bit of kindness is too small.
I've delayed my train ride to Italy for just three days more.
I want to
be here in Paris. The first week has been a delirium.
Now it's time for feasting. It's not a dream I pursue really,
a poet
hidden away, pouring gold from his pen
amidst a
fabulous hovel of books,
but
rather contacts with real people, mind touching mind,
heart
massages that only friends can give,
joy in
nuances. Those huge old French tapestries
were all
woven by patient people, one throw at a time.
So goes
the making of soul and the passing of time.
There are
pretty young women here.
I haven't outgrown that attraction yet:
the lime
green thrill of fresh womanhood.
God grant
me grace that I never do.
My eyes
follow soft lines, the smoothness.
Something
inside me feels without touch.
Food for
the young woman who lives
in my
heart, an immortal litheness springing.
I'm going to slow down now. I must.
Read
poems in a bar and talked to a young man
who has
walked the pilgrim trails of France.
A
feasible dream for next year, if my legs hold up.
Perhaps a
horse goes slow enough.
Perhaps I'll acquire an animal friend
to nose
around back roads,
medieval
highways, the dust-choked expressways
of
beetles and birds.
*
I'm delaying that train ride to Italy again.
Can't get enough. It only gets richer.
Paris:
its bells ringing; sirens in the streets.
Flower
stalls, subdued paintings on old walls.
Fluid
chatter over coffee; languid looks
over
wine. A magician with
the
masterful slight of hand.
I laugh
at my good fortune
in this
cascade of sensations
awakening
thankfulness and thought.
Rainbow
festival, Italy
Late July
to early August, 2000
VINCENT
Confused,
clear,
passionate
as fire,
walking
through forests
dreaming
he can talk with God,
the man
is a child
who needs
to be held
for
weeks, for months,
for years,
in the warmth of some woman's lullabies
until his
heart knows
he can
never be rejected,
never be
lost and unknown again
for he
sleeps in a starry sea
and
amidst the rolling white clouds
that
spill over black mountains
after a
rain.
One day,
this man
Vincent
will sing
a song,
with such
innocent passion of heart,
with such
honesty of intent
that
birds will circle him as he sings
and bears
hidden in deep brush
will lick
their paws with anticipative joy
knowing
that such songs
are the
beginning
of a
dream so beautiful
as to
awaken even
the
slumbering souls
of men.
ULYSESS
The man
is a bear
in the
hairy, brown skin
of a
seal. A barrel-chested man,
he is
half wild with loneliness
of soul
and happiness of mind.
He sings
as effortlessly as birds,
and howls
his hidden pain
in the
joyful cry of a crazy wolf.
He
specializes in massaging
young,
naked women,
a service
of sacrificial love--
and in
passing the magic hat
so food
can be multiplied,
japaties
patted and cooked.
His gray
beard is made
of wood
smoke,
his blue
shorts
were torn
from the sky,
his hair was stolen from a wild horse's tail,
his face
was forged
in a
furnace of dirty brick.
Life
moves through
this
small mountain of a man
with the
same thrill
that
trees feel in the wind
or that
river stones feel
as cold
water passes.
If
Ulysses should love a woman
with all
the intensity
of his
crazy soul
she would
melt
into
liquid metal
and
quivering, reflect
with her
fire
his
shining face
to the
sky.
A lost Dutchman
is comforted by her Little Prince
We noticed
him sitting on the stone wall below the ancient Etruscan city.
He
reminded me of my lost self so close to me, so precariously
shielded
by this company. She stepped beyond patterns
people
teach each other and asked him questions
about his
life. He was so happy. And Love had her.
She
wouldnÕt back down. Soon she was telling him
of her
favorite story, the one held in the small book
she
carried, the treasure, her one possession.
He responded: the lost child touching the face of God's child
without
fingers, but with the luminous chords
unraveling
from his heart. She gave him her book.
Rioz,
France
SIMPLE
OPENNESS
Simple
openness:
the whole
world fights it:
this most
natural state,
this
foundational being.
Silence.
Sky
shining
through
the eyes
from open
windows in the heart.
The belly
spills out bright water:
and
laughs.
Everything
is a gift
to those
who welcome everything:
Who has
bought the sun?
Who owns
the sky?
Who pays
the grass to grow?
There is
an apple tree
with red
apples shining in the morning light.
It is a
miracle!
Rainbows
play through dew in the grass.
Heaven is in an old man's back yard.
The old
man sleeps
in a dark
as deep
as a blackbird's wing.
In his neighbor's yard
I am
breathing in
and
breathing out
every
essential thingÉ
Love
pours.
EVERY
ESSENTIAL THING
Forgiveness
is freedom.
Letting
go: the shadows burn away,
flying
upwards into the sun.
Colors
break through some gray in the mind.
Welcoming
every essential thing
flowing
from the still point
of nothing at all—
my
opening heart sings.
THE HEART IS DESIGNED TO OPEN
REWRITE:
October 28, 2000 Davis, CA
Someone
with an open heart
is
wealthier then all Corporations combined.
The
treasure of Life itself
pours
through. Awareness opens
and
expands outward, inward:
the
natural rhythm of existence.
Happiness
radiates from each bodily cell.
The hands
shine; eyes shine;
naked
feet caress the earth.
Such
foolishness, such poverty:
the
luminous pearl shines in dark shadows
of dense
things.
Everyone
is scurrying around,
lost in
desires that lead nowhere.
Ah, the
joy of desiring
the
sublime and luminous source
of
everything!
A soul,
weaving itself with treads of light,
with
smears of rich color,
appears
in the garden of invisible beings.
Someone
is singing with the tongues of angels
amidst a
world asleep in rock-and-roll:
some
naked person is clothed in luxurious light
amidst a
world ridiculous in designer jeans.
The sun,
the moon, the stars
pour out
the gift:
the earth
sings God
and time
rolls onÑ
the
inescapable reality
spilling
souls out into eternity.
What
laughter, what weeping:
this
divine joke, this cruel delusion:
Death
teaches us what is essential in Life;
Life
teaches us there is no death.
Up in the
towers of Corporations
everything
essential has been forgotten
for
essentialities are free
and lead
to freedom.
In a land
where every unessential thing
comes
with a price
who can
pay the price
of
forgetting to become real?
How
tragic it is to forget
that your
heart is designed to open.
THE STORY
OF BECOMING UNFOLDS
The story
of becoming unfolds:
written
on the leaves of trees;
written
with the ink of clouds
on
weathered stones.
Life
flows through to touch Life:
Love
flows through to awaken Love:
Like
seeking like. Angels blow trumpets,
peeking
out around castle walls.
Love
dismantles walls, stone by stone,
to reveal
a city of sunshine.
A LONG
JOURNEY TO NATURAL THANKFULNESS
What a
long journey it is
to this
joy:
simple,
natural thankfulness.
DEATH IN
THE MIDST OF BEAUTY
A pearl
is shining
in the
morning sun.
Rose
petals glisten
with night
dew.
Earth is
fragrant;
sky is
fresh.
An apple
tree
drops its
fruit on the ground.
A worm
has eaten
an
endless hole.
Shriveled,
this apple,
reveals
death
in the
midst of beauty.
Mystical, essential apple...
LEARNING
FRENCH
Rioz,
France
A new
language,
new
meanings:
Sounds I
do not know.
Worlds to
enter;
souls to
meet.
A woman
speaks
this
language like bird song,
singing
sound
into my
heart.
Her eyes
are full
of young
light.
I love
her.
August
28, 2000
Rioz,
France
AN OLD
MOULIN
Cheese,
wine,
an old
moulin
where
many Germans died.
Sleepy
wandering,
the river
and I.
We pick
berries
to make a
necklace
under a
lacy sky.
Childhood
memories:
a dead
rat floats;
a stolen
boat;
above the
earth
a
human-headed eagle
flies.
August
31, 2000
Rioz,
France
NEAR
THINES
Little
pools:
a perfect
place to be silent,
to open
the heart,
to run
naked,
half-wild,
to come
clear.
Above us
an 800
year old church,
Romanesque,
like a
foursquare stone,
meek in
Catholic graces.
The wind
whispers instructions
about
transparencies.
By night,
faint light of stars,
ancient,
eternally young,
singing,
enwraps us.
Love is a
young lightÉ
I've learned
that the
soul who understands death
and the meaning of life's graces
is
ageless.
Here, in
the slow flow
of
unhurried time
I've talked to Love.
She told
me I am loved.
Now life
is about throwing open
my arms,
about
saying the absolute Yes
my body
was created
in its
beginnings to speak.
The
little river spills
light and
laughter
from pool
to pool.
Life was
made
to share.
September
1, 2000
Rioz,
France
THESE
COLORS OF GODÕS DREAM
The dream
of love
comes
from clouds,
from the
wild eyes of horses,
from the
laughter of water falling.
It lives
in simple houses,
in stone
sinks,
in wooden
tables and chairs,
in loaves
of bread,
in
dustpans and brooms,
in a bed
of love
where
sunlight
shines in
the sheets.
Love is
poetry,
a poetry
that asks of us
all the
heart:
to drink
the brew of heaven,
to pour
out simple
shifting
fragrances in words,
or
colors, or the forms of things.
How rare
is the soul
who knows
how precious is the gift
being
offered.
The Great
Love
is
everywhere,
enveloping
us
as oceans
enwrap
fish,
as sky holds birds and clouds...
yet how
rare the soul
who can
drink it in
and wake
up,
with
passion to share
this
poetry of life,
these
colors of GodÕs dream.
CLO
St. Pere
Pescadore, Spain
She moves
like a sensuous cloud
with her
laughing eyes.
Slow,
meditative, free,
curious
and shy,
defiant
and strong,
fragile as mist...
she
moves through me.
Her quiet
humor comforts me:
"Molto chic!" She makes me feel
full and
beautiful, like a young sun:
I hold my head high—I shine!
and laugh
down to my innocence.
With
surrender and desire
I do a
dance around her
young,
sensual womanhood.
She is a
holy gift to be desired:
half
woman, half selfish child,
compassionate
and wise beyond her years
because of death...
Slow to
arise, moody,
when she
awakes
pink
roses are in her veins;
an Indian
moon in each eye.
The
forest sings in her blood,
mud and
the new Spanish sea.
We eat
avocados from Israel,
sardines
from the North Sea,
the oils
of Italy and rye:
she
savors ecstatic gifts.
Her feet
are thick, like a peasantÕs,
to wander
the world:
holy
islands;
the high
Pyrenees;
sweet
pools of Thines.
Spirit
flows from her open palms:
she
touches me;
my body sings—
and the
little child in me
gazes at the child in her—
we laugh, "Molto chic!"
and love
this happy
face of
God.
WE SPUN
BY THE SEA
We spun
by the sea
naked,
covered with the sand
of Spain,
under the
circle of sky,
around
intentions,
around
aversions,
around
desires,
laughing,
dizzy
with
dreams,
with the
raucous cry of sea gulls,
with the
silky shift of the sea.
A test of
strength,
a child's game:
Young
life surged like sea wind
over the
sandy hill of years
and
spilled gently
into
unguarded hearts.
One in
the game,
first I
fell, dizzy as a child:
Will she?
Spirit
laughs
when it greets itself:
by nature
disregarding differences.
We are
both of us, young and old.
The hot
sand,
the cool
distant sea:
soft foam
imperceptibly
at the intersection.
THE
SPANISH BULL
A lonely
little Spanish bull
looking
for one beautiful French cow,
searching
for his missing heart,
shows us
a place
to share
words
that open
the deep heart
that make
eyes shine into eyes,
that make a soul find its way.
Dancing, we celebrate love's gifts
which
cannot be comprehended
but are
often diminished,
for only
love celebrates love;
only love
remembers it.
How weak
are words
to express love's rivers
and all
the dancing elements;
yet how
magical are words
as love
flows through.
We cry,
for a delicious moment,
in the wild excess of truths our hearts know —
and the
gift passes,
submerged
in the dim waters of actualities.
Two souls
are once more alone, each in their own body.
A lonely
little Spanish bull
is still
walking slowly somewhere,
eating
grass at his leisure,
dreaming
behind half-closed eyes,
defying
with his muscles and his stare,
marching
as sure as the shift of seasons
towards
his missing heart,
towards
one cow
he
beautifully imagines
waiting
for him somewhere
on the
green hills
of
France.
THE
LITTLE FOX
Winding
through the mountains
on a
little back road
we came
around a bend
and there
he was,
so small,
so full of spunk,
a baby
fox, red as fish gills,
running
away and towards us
at the
same time, so uncertain
without
his mamma,
so tender
and untried.
We
stopped my little car
and he
ran up the hill towards us.
We got
out and he retreated,
light as
feathers, with little starts
and
leaps, watching, wanting,
fearing,
not knowing, concerned.
We got
back into my car and rolled
back down
the hill. He ran ahead
and
stopped, on the very edge of the road.
I rolled
up next to him, and there he was,
just a
few feet from us,
sitting
behind one thin blade of grass
which
stood in front of his nose,
his
round, shinny black innocent eyes
peering
at us on either side.
"He thinks heÕs hiding," I said
and we
laughed and laughed.
He
watched us from behind
the grass
blade until I got out
and he
skipped over the edge of the road
and
disappeared in the dark trees
off into
his journey, so young
to
survive.
BY A
LITTLE STREAM IN THE FRENCH PYRENEESS
After the
spirit opens,
(hands
lifted to sky),
a woman's egg falls
into a
cold mountain stream;
then the
gaze of love
that
gives innocence.
A little
boy, a young girl:
speech as
natural as grass.
Clouds
cover the sun
yet the
shadow passes.
How warm
and sweet
is
innocence,
as warm
and sweet
as God.
How
beautiful the healer
and the
soul healed.
Goodness
flows into goodness
like
fragrant flowers falling
into the
warm breath of hay.
Years of longing for the comfort...
Oh, to be
purely held.
If fingers won't touch,
eyes will
sometimes do.
Words can
also
convey
kisses.
PIO AND LILLY'S HILL
AURIELLE,
PROVENCE, FRANCE
I drove
through the country I had dreamed for many years:
just
north of Arles, and a little to the east.
Everything
seemed familiar
as if I
had traveled in night dreams
with
opened eyes here to France
to
carefully study a place I had never been,
to record
the details I was yet to see.
I saw two
distant hills,
There was
something clear, child-like about them,
as if
invented by God just for stories,
as if
once some love-crazy prince
had
battled a dragon there
while the
princess watched
and
clapped her innocent hands for joy.
I was
weak from pain, from days spent
sick in a
small tent amidst cold rains
in the
Pyreneess, but I had to climb,
to feel,
to see, to know
if by
some stroke of divine magic
this
place was the place
of Pio's dreams, of Lilly's healing.
It was a
slow walk, a difficult climb,
my mind
distracted with pain,
my heart
asking for awareness,
for
color, for the music,
for a
simple smile.
I came to
a small hill below the hills
I had
seen and turned with amazement
to the
east. There was the little road
winding
through the hills
where Pio
had seen Lilly returning
with her
birds, and beyond the road
the
distant hills which she had often wandered.
I didn't want to continue, this was enough,
but the
hills above beckoned:
perhaps
there was more of the dream to see.
I walked
through a small valley
then
climbed up to the rocky, round summit
and
entered the land of my heart:
there to
the west lay the little valley
as I have
so often seen it,
and the
small farm buildings of the gruff-hearted
neighbor
I invented so many miles from here,
alone in
the Oregon nights.
In front
of where the little white house would be
ran a
gully, made for a stream;
to the
east, the slopping hill where an orchard might be,
and to
the south the hills rolling down to orchards
and the
great flat lands which stretch to the sea:
just as I
had dreamt, just as I had felt and seen.
I walked,
sat, stared, tried to soak it all in,
to forget
my weariness and pain,
to feel
the miracle, to wonder how it could be.
The sun
settled lower in the western sky,
just
where I knew it would, over the garden
where Pio
and Lilly and the children danced,
beyond
the neighbors little house in the valley,
setting
with the slow glory of patience,
in the
mysterious rhythm of a manifest dream.
I
gathered some stones
to
remember, to celebrate,
and
wished to God for a feather
on this
wind scoured hill.
There was
wild Rosemary. I took a handful
for a
celebrative tea, but every feather
must have
been blown to the sea
by the
last Mistral blast.
Just as I
prepared to leave
there one
stood, entangled in a tiny plant,
a soft, fragile
feather standing
straight
up in the air
as if
calling to me, as if saying
don't miss me, don't pass heedlessly by,
I am here
to proclaim your fragile, soft
dream
that is stronger than stone.
I laughed, and thanked Pio's God,
Lilly's wildness, the creative, dreaming Love,
the wonder I cannot fathom...
then
walked back down
out of
stone clouds,
out of
storybooks,
out of
castles that sail through sky,
out of
reality
into someone else's dream.
September
28, 2000
YOUNG
BEAUTY
Young
beauty
rises
from the infinite face
of Young
Beauty:
deathless,
breathless,
ecstatic
essence,
primal
light,
graceful
with grace,
flowering
with potential,
silent as
herbs,
wet of
eyes,
longing
for nothing
to
explode.
The rain
falls:
someone
is weeping
in the
shadow of themselves,
someone
is running
away from
the sun.
Half a
soul
caught in
the dance of becoming:,
the young
soul
kisses the old soul —
something
golden
slashes
through the gray.
Young
beauty
laughing,
rolling
in mortal clay,
taking
the sour grape
fully
into her mouth.
The heart opens in silence —
a window
to nowhere:
Everything
is shining.
The mind
opens in silence
to dance
with words.
Young
beauty
paints
her image
with a
straw brush
upon a
canvass of sky.
I smell
wet herbs
and laugh
for there
are arms around me:
I so
young, and she so old,
I dying,
and she welcoming
me home.
September
29, 2000
MARIENOELLE
Crazy
howls:
night
falls through her mind.
Crazy
singing,
falsetto
choruses
wild
undulations,
a soul
disrobing.
A seed
blindly pushes
its way
through black mud,
sensing
unseen light,
the gold
above.
Crazy
howls:
night
falls through her mind.
Her heart
wrestles with dark angels;
her mind
splays open
into
peace.
And in
her face,
some
sunshine has rubbed
its warm
color
into her
skin;
her eyes
laugh and shine.
AFTER A
CRAZY SINGING WALK
1.
Crazy
singing, shouting to the sky,
poetry
happening
in the
glance of an eye.
Spinning
and singing,
skipping
hand in hand,
understanding
without
even
trying to understand.
Laughter
keeps happening
in the
dance of her mind,
she's found in the act
of
seeking to find.
Crazy
fullness,
sunshine
in her eye,
body
holding grass and stones,
spirit
singing sky
2.
It
started as just a happy walk,
hand in
hand, swinging arms, laughing.
And
laughter grew in the love
that
walked in us
up a
green, winding hill
towards a
promise of blue.
A little
mountain, green in the mist
and a
hawk, motionless between two winds.
It
started with yellow patches of cloud
amidst a
sea of gray,
then, a
soft cloud of color:
a smear of
beauty like a corsage
on a rosy
dress of sky.
Rainbows
and birds,
a little
dog happy in its ways--
and the
sky was busy burning beyond us:
light
held in the sensual breasts and bellies
of
surrealistic clouds.
Red sky,
red hair, a beautiful heart
asking to
see the Face of God.
Perhaps
it was the beauty
that made
these two French women
giddy
with life and song:
three
pigs singing,
chicken
clucks, cow moos,
my dear
little Christmas duck.
No smoke
nor brew
can match
the joy of natural drunkenness.
And as we
walked arm in arm,
holy
children half mad with rivers of words,
darkness
fell
as light
grew.
St. Jean
du Gard
September
30, 2000
FOR THE
HIDDEN CHILD MY DEEP HEART KNOWS
She is
one of those abandoned ones,
born
lonely into this world,
full of
fight: infused with some unknown strength
that
comes through the stars,
from the
warm color of the sun.
She holds
her head high,
not out
of ignorant, adolescent pride,
but from
a deep, pure dignity
that
comes from the songs of birds
in her
humble heart.
She is a
royal child,
born by
the winds
across
wild white seas,
carried
by the voice of deer,
held by
the strong arms of God.
If you
see her, tell her that I love her
like I
love the snow, like I love the waves of the sea,
like I
love the golden voice that called my name.
Tell her
that I would give her a child,
that I
would heal the earth with her,
that I
would sing her soul in a thousand poems,
that I
would paint her face on canvass
with the
colors of the sun.
Tell her
that if she is lonely,
if the
little child in her is cold and wanting comfort,
if the
dark world draws too close,
that she
can climb into the warm nest of love
I spin
for her in my prayers, that she can stand strong
in the light of God's love for her
pouring
through my heart.
October
7, 2000
A LETTER
OF ADVICE TO AN OLD FRIEND
I
recommend that for two months every year
you run
wild in creation;
that you
become naked and primal;
that you
run through forests and pasturelands,
mountains
and sea shores:
and
there, amidst pine trees and brambles,
wild
herbs and scrub brush,
lilacs
and laurels,
in waves
and in rivers,
howling
with the wind and searching the stars
you light
the seven flames of God
within
your body
until
your whole body sings
and your
mind clears like mountain pools;
your
heart opens like wild flowers;
and your
desire to live fully in love becomes stronger
than your
strongest aversions:
then your
emotions will open to flow like rivers;
your
passions become innocent as children
and GodÕs
primal ecstasy will shimmer through your being
as the
crown of your heard lifts up
like two
doors of the sun
to let
the warm flame of God
seep and
soak your brain and body
until
through your voice is born
such
energy of words and songs,
such
freedom and forgiveness,
such
passions of peace,
such
wisdom as poetry,
such
laughter and leaping,
such
sorrow and sighing,
such
compassion and creation
as to
inspire one soul,
someone,
somewhere,
into
kindredness of desire,
into
vision and emotion
which
impels them to take two months a
year
to run
wild in creation; become naked and primal;
running
through forests and pasturelands;
mountains
and sea shores
and
there, amidst pine trees and brambles,
wild
herbs and scrub brush,
lilacs
and laurels,
in rivers
and waves
they
might howl with the wind and search through the stars
lighting
the seven flames of God
within
their body
until
their whole body sings
and their
mind clears like mountain pools;
their
heart opens like wild flowers;
their
desire to live fully in love becomes stronger
then
their strongest aversions;
as their
emotions open to flow like rivers;
their
passions becomes innocent as children
and GodÕs
primal ecstasy shimmers through their being
until the
crown of their heard lifts up
like two
doors of the sun
to let
the warm flame of God
seep and
soak both brain and body
until
through their voice is born
such
energy of words and songs,
such
freedom and forgiveness,
such
passions of peace,
such
wisdom as poetry,
such
laughter and leaping,
such
sorrow and sighing,
such
compassion and creation
as to
inspire one soul,
someone,
somewhere,
into
kindredness of desire,
into
vision and emotion
which
impels them to take two months a year
to
run wild in creation; become naked and primal...
October
14, 2000 Tarn
IMPRESSIONS
OF AN OLD WORLD COUNTRY
(A Song)
Feathers
and chestnuts,
sea
shells and stones,
old
churches to pray in
silent,
alone:
sitting
half in the sunshine
and half
in the night,
half
naked in shadows,
half
blinded by light .
A rugged
old country,
red cows
in the lane,
a little
fox running,
the color
of flame.
Mists on
the mountains,
wild
hawks in the trees
a faint
song of freedom
in the
gray of the breeze.
Slowly my
face
turns the
texture of stone,
old
village walls
and a
mystical moon;
slowly my
soul
finds the
path of the wind
deep in
the dark
of a wintry
wood.
Chickens
and berries
and goats
in the grass,
silence
and singing
of a love
that passes
out into
memory
with
barely a sigh,
sweet in
the shadow
of an
opening eye.
Without a
glimmer,
bereft of
all reason,
seasons
are passing
into a
season
when minds
melt down
to the
roots of the heart
where
music and madness
and
ecstasy start.
Feathers
and chestnuts,
sea
shells and stones,
old
churches to pray in
silent,
alone:
sitting
half in the sunshine
and half
in the night,
half
naked in shadows,
half
blinded by light .