Journey

 

it all comes down to the same materiality

the same music, the same books, the same talk talk talk

Lucifer sniggering in the shadows

Jesus watching from the cross (oh God, why have you forsaken me?)

powerless to intervene

powerless to console

powerless

(…why have you forsaken…)

 

and then death

(there is no eclipsing death)

(and death shall have its dominion)

 

morning light crackles

                 shifting shadows

                             placing flowers on a grave

 

the sting of joyful sorrow, sorrowful joy

petals floating

ending/beginning

 

let the light

     let the light

                 let the light fulfill

 

a journey is a journey

                 with no end in sight

                             rain clouds on the horizon

 

 

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Wisdom

 

dew drops prismatic in the sunlight

                 a chickadee cocks its head

                             white primroses

 

we feel the whole of it

     from quarks to vastness

                 from moment to infinity

all at once

professing the wisdom of slaves

 

and the answer is:

                 the question

 

even God doesn’t know

     if God exists

 

 

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the mortality of love

 

the mortality of love

     – does love transcend death?

     so we are told

     but not by the dead

     love eternal ends in the grave

     only the living can love

                 and often not even them

love is a hostage of time

     (forsaken)

bringing forth the pleroma of spring

     the reticence of fall

a mechanism of highs and lows

to make the moments bearable

to make the unbearable bearable

to make breath

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a pea under twenty mattresses

 

madrigals in evening light

     embroidered sleeves and tenor voices

                 brushing the scented air

 

the past is what we want it to be

     a horror story of remembered wounds

                 that cannot be undone

                             nailed into coffins of moments

                                         remembered

                             rising like vampires at all the wrong times

                             sucking the minutes from our love

                             the cremated ashes of songs

 

stuck here in the existential problem

     blind beyond cultural constraints

                 to think beyond the limits of ourselves

                             the conviction to be right

 

revolutions begin with a pea under twenty mattresses

 

     (just because a statement says it is true, doesn’t mean it is true)

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one certain outcome

 

there in the yawning shipwreck depths

     there are no decisions

                 only impulses and yearnings

 

where are the heroes of our age? Struggling

     from the sunken                    hull

                 castaway on distant sho       res

rising lightning-like                   to stormcast   skies

     against eternal quest            ions

of striving into for          ests

     be        fore the last clang      of

fatal iron y

     falls from an imaginary para            dise

into vermillion and ochre

     the impossible semblance    of

a waning moon   over

     odds that would chill the rain

be fore stepping blithely into figures of eight

     where the struggle goes on amidships

with only one cer           tain outcome

     that can only be known

as uncertainty

until the lies begin again

     (as if they ever stopped)

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