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SOMEWHERE OUT THERE

October 3, 2012

Or perhaps it’s actually inside the walls of the skull…

Sometimes an image just springs out into the mind full blown with at least one sentence or phrase.  I am not always sure what these poems are really about, unless writing it out brings me further clarity.

I believe the following poem is the first one where I let such a phrase “create” the poem:
LIGHT VISIONS
You don feathers of light
sink into the sun
where it melts on the horizon,
draw colors out of the night
become the rainbow
that halos the moon.

I have seen you dance
along the flaming hem
of the Northern Lights
singing the songs of eagles.

Your magic owns the sky;
you pull the stars down
to decorate your raiment,
pile the clouds into mountains
like a child playing
sacred games in a field
of new fallen snow.

I reach for you
but discover only
tricks of light and shadow
nothing substantial
not even a shred of feather
to hold in my hand.

I think this poem came  from a song stuck in my head, and as the phrase went turning around up there, it spun a shimmering trail of, well, star dust I guess… I’m not completely satisfied with the ending yet, so that may change.
A POCKET FULL OF STAR DUST

science still dabble
s
in alchemy
probes every crevice
for the Midas key

seeks to measure the soul
weigh the spirit
ponder the gravity of love

or it may be
love is the first moment
of time
over and over
exploding outward

transcendant mysteries
flutter before us
shimmering butterflies
that vanish
as we lift the net

mind may be the interface
between matter and existence
more beautiful than the speed of light
staging the past
with the sighting of every star

so we participate even
while we seek to confine

 

And where did this idea come from?  I have absolutely no idea.
NOTES FROM THE CENTER OF THE EARTH

breathing is not necessary
so far underground

without the need for oxygen
rock burns
liquefies
flows in circles

pushes against the roots of mountains
flicks tongues of magma to worry
the cheek of the world
stretch the skin outward
probe
seek the softest places
a crack   a cavity
a locus for a vent
spew fountains
of flame into the birth of mountains

here gravity descends
the universe weighs upon us
squeezes this core of purpose
into an ever tighter ball

it is bright enough
within the soul of fire
to read the animus of stars
their desire for birth
the significance
of their enduring radiance
the exchange of matter for energy
while they burn into a state of ku
write across the face
of visibility nothing is ever lost

to seek the limits of eternity
only these expressions
measure time
the origins of breath
the extinction of fire

This one is fairly obvious, I think.  It’s a subject I’ve written about often enough, and it certainly has been covered by so many other writers in one way or another.  How did so much time get past us?  And what happened to all the plans we made?  I included it because I thought it was expressed from “out there.”

YOU ARE HERE
never where you intended
to be
you had other plans
maps
to other places

there are no familiar landmarks
yesterday
you took the springtime road
a froth of blossoms
above your head
while bright cups of color danced
about your feet

today you walk this maze
amid buttery summershine
the alder’s October leaves
holding tightly
to a season already past

you cannot fathom
what trick of space or time
delivered you
to this unexpected place

if only you could
retrace your route

the marker before you
s
hows nothing
but a path ahead
seems to hurry you along
with a chill wind
that swirls a clatter of leaves
to the ground

Oh the wonder of space travel.  At least as I read about it.  What a universe we live in! I want to see it, but at the moment, the only way is going within, and then…

TRAVEL BY WAY OF STRINGS, WORMHOLES,
EVENT HORIZIONS, BLACK HOLES
AND/OR BIG OR MINI BANGS

Instantaneous.

The mind’s arms
make no sound as they
escape this mundane universe.

You can walk along some trail
where one world is so close
to another
visions of both
simultaneous
become
ordinary.

I have spent hours sliding
into the pages of some book
devouring parsecs
suns, planets,
entire galaxies, a hundred times.
At least a hundred times.

Where do we go when we dream?
That place, those places,
can you pull them with you
into the waking world?

Mostly, we dress
these vast rooms in our minds
in our favorite colors.
We put pictures on the walls
that show the happy ending
of every adventure.

Unless
we are too terrified
to find comfort
in creating peace.

Unless
we are too angry,
too unloved,
too hungry.

Unless
our curiosity
keeps changing
the lenses
the filters
the sounds.

Unless
there is too much darkness
or too much light.

Perhaps this one doesn’t fit, except that it collects ideas that don’t really belong together –except for cluttering up the brain–that express themselves when I have another idea I want to write about (spring) and the words aren’t flowing.
RANDOM THOUGHTS WHILE
WAITING FOR SPRING

Make extravagant promises

Expect nothing

Forecast rain may not fall

Keep your eyes open
both of them

Unless you are about
to enter darkness after light
in that case close one

It won’t work the other way

Pennies cost
more than they are worth

Save them anyway
good habits
become treasure

Change, of course, is constant

Trains do not grow smaller
as they move away

The sun does not really set

No one has fallen
over the edge of the world

Nor have any returned from the grave

Once again daffodils
prepare to bloom

This last poem is for my husband.  It has no title, although it was published using either “Come” or “Welcome” as a title in Living Buddhism (ten or so years ago), which is the study magazine for the Nichiren Buddhist group, SGI-USA, to which I belong.  The idea that sparked this was a PBS ad that had people exuding stars as they were inspired by something on a PBS station.
(untitled)
come,
my arms are wide, welcome,
well come, embrace infinity
enter this universe
where songs of light
stream through your mind
time and space weave
colors of eternity
build atoms
into beings

We choreograph a love story
a life story
as worlds create
stages for us to dance across
juggle stars
toss them into the dark
sparks which twinkle joyful hues
possibilities
to claim order from chaos
hope repeats, forms reality
a mantra of becoming
again
again
again

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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