picks
Teetering on the edge,
The fragile balance of sorrow and gladness,
Is shattered by a stream of immutable joy and peace.
Tears of love remain.
Where are you now, shame?
Are you not cast out by tears of love?
Broken shoe,
Unbridled joy,
A little less serious,
A little less 'mysterious'.
O broken shoe,
How does it feel,
To peel back and flop,
To break and kneel,
To be tread on,
Yet yield,
And support my weighty soles,
Through mire and field?
O broken shoe,
Unbridled joy,
I take myself a little less
Serious...
Maybe a little glue will hold you together?
Quietly now,
Rush off to the silent land,
And hush your merry twittering,
For the stillness of today will end by the morning,
And the dawn will kiss your eyelids awake.
So go quietly now,
Rush off to the formless place,
Where you shall see and unsee,
Laugh and unlaugh,
And leave your past in the author's hands,
Stepping onto the other pages.
Go quietly now, my child,
Drift off to the consoling warmth,
Its time to lay your failures to rest,
They don't follow you into the author's arms,
He has new lyrics for your heart,
And new dawns for your smile,
So leave them in the gentle waves.
He awaits you in the quiet place,
And holds out His arms with deft and grace,
To rap you up and make you smile,
To hold you close,
And still your restless heart.
A soft crackle of snow,
Chases my shadow,
Dancing under the chilly pale light,
And waltzing with my shoes.
A cool breeze,
Caresses my nose leaving it red,
And sleepy clouds seem to fall off their axes,
Down, down into the waking land below.
A quiet walker,
Trudges on to his home,
A faithful friend limps beside,
It's not a long way now.
How he loves him.
The blues hues,
Sit lighty in a hazy snooze,
And all the world is frozen.
The earth and heavens subdued,
Together in a glacial muse,
And the flowers are hidden in austere blankets.
The snow is lingering a little longer.
A heavy cold is about,
The very manifestation of violent stillness,
Uncaring of the ember it devours like a lamb,
Impassive to the dancing lights that fall dull in its maw.
Just as the old king said,
A time for all things under the Sun,
For the pleasant rays,
And voracious blight.
A corroding of pipes and stripping of bricks,
Cracking mud when the chilly night pursues,
The cold days are few,
Yet now they begin again.
Hefty bag,
Laying deep into my shoulders,
A burden of utility, civility,
And a little bit of food.
Maybe one day,
My shoulders in dismay,
Will sit battered,
And ponder...
...the weight of knowledge.
Silence has a lovely tone,
And depths in which few dare to tread,
The hubbub has its murmuring merits,
But silence and the little sounds...
Silence and the little sounds hold such weight,
In noisy days that seem to mound,
Mound and mound like weary walls,
And tower in their furious fever.
I wish to sit in silent times,
Dare I tread in those black waters?
Yes I dare in silent sound,
And tomorrow a little longer will I try.
Try to be less busy with it all,
And leave my work in churning fields,
All when the day is done.
Small words,
That are a tad brief,
Are at max five in one,
Here nor there,
Only some by the side,
Like a tiny spark,
That dance in merry brain waves.
Walking shadows,
Walk between the longing shade,
And talk between the leaning trees,
On mud, gravel and stone beneath their darkened feet,
Overlapping sometimes,
Doubled up and down to split beyond,
They silent walk and talk in pocketed hands,
And gaze sideways at numerous stars.
I see you there,
The floating bastion,
Austere in raging, fragile might,
Ever passing like the countless vessels of deepest sleep,
So drift alone - elusive on the non-Euclidian waves,
Dance alone - trancelike by the shores of burning ice,
Dread alone - steadfast under the weight of sharp realities that eat...
Dream vessel of impending past,
Be drenched in purple blues and clearest cyan,
Translucent like the crystal's shards,
Begone now,
And recede into the lifting dream.
This blessed bread,
That feeds the soul,
And utters glory to the depths of renewed man,
And such weighty blood,
That washes dirtied feet,
And quenches the thirst of walking friends,
Praise God for this holy remembrance and restorer of these tensile bonds,
As surely as he sets the sun, shall he knit us closer and wash us clean.
Mirrors in the muddy grass,
And your glory permeates the land,
The light hangs like pearls -
Drooping off the edges of leaves,
They seem burdened under the weight,
Yet hold it with pristine elegance,
And their brilliance warms the day,
Even on the ground you place glistening gems,
Catching wanding sunlight and storing it,
Resplendent on their gleaming heads,
The light falls gently now,
And the shadows seem brighter,
All the while your beauty triumphs in the dimming days.
Pale Emperor of the winding wood,
Your kingdom abounds in brash bristles,
Taming the rippling mud hills,
You grasp the light and steal the shadows,
All falls dim in paling fields,
And in your calmest annunciation,
You whisper songs of palest moonlight,
That measure through the breadth of this land,
Yet I'll see you soon in withered dust,
For one domain prevails at last,
And flimsy flowers grow prideful in their wilting ways.
Sunnied heads,
Bob along to thudding steps,
And greener fields find wandering impressions on their face,
Dodging horses now long gone.
Even darkness is as light to Him,
And shaded creeks like open sea,
Transcendent to the highest place,
And still He sits enthroned to see...
Adopted sons and daughters run,
Through darkest shade and blazing rays,
For darkness is as light to Him,
And He knows our days.
The sky is fog,
And I pierce my hand into its depths,
Yet I don't make it even half way through,
But glance a trailing blow along its teeth,
And - a little slower than a run - I turn to jog,
Under the fathomless sky in all its breadth,
And I feel my breath again renew,
And trust the sturdy path beneath my feet,
Although I only see a glimpse below,
For the sky is fog.
Three cranes loom in the sky,
Backs crooked - scheming,
They peer like kaijus from the heart of rolling cityscape,
And aloft they stand,
Watching busy creatures walk austere in shadows low,
And standing under metal skies,
Held together by rigid bars and pillars true,
The busy creatures step in tune with blaring horns,
That roll out from their metal frames,
That glide along the iron lines.
Come crashing down dear hope of mine,
Not wishful in the slightest sense,
But gifted by the Faithful One,
Of things unfinished,
Things not seen,
Things to dance about and praise,
Goodness past assures the soul,
And goodness now for my rejoicing,
Yet goodness near is shelter from despair,
Umbrella to the stormy day,
Shield to raging flames and darts,
Life to dying oaks and brush,
Come crashing down dear hope of mine,
Not wishful in the slightest sense,
But gifted by the Faithful One,
Of things unfinished,
Things not seen,
Things to dance about and praise.
Deciphering the songs of old,
The songs the ancient circuits chirped,
They orate great myth and furious fight,
In square waves and jagged might.
Annoying tasks,
I see them seethe a little,
They don't like it when I do the things to be done,
You could even say that...
I'm ticking off the tasks.
Longest days that stretch the clock,
That make it creak within its span,
From morning to the dimming dusk,
Awake I am, awake I've been,
And stretch it with my eyelids open,
Now they try to shut on me,
At least the day is stretched not squashed,
For I love my toil, I love my rest,
I rejoice in one who blesses me,
With time that stretches,
With time sufficient for my needs.
Rain walking through the air between,
Waltzing verticle to my feet,
Greeting red clothe over my head,
It's soft chattering scatters on the concrete.
Hello brightness and wonder,
What is it to be joined at hip to flame?
And march out routes on blackened sea?
Maybe we'll talk some time from here.
Hello beauty from ashes,
What is it to be Son of my Lord?
To be His friend and servant too?
Maybe we'll talk some time from here.
A drop of red smears the sky,
And the blue is crushed to lavender,
The fragrance dancing at the precipice,
Constrained to sight amidst an amber flare,
The afterglow of day in rolling colours.
I didn't have a poem,
But He called me then to pray,
Lord craft in me a poem,
Lord teach me what to say,
For I am like a desert,
That forgets its very thirst,
He'll show in me my needs,
And meet them ever first,
For I'll walk with him tomorrow,
Just as I have today,
And learn to not forget,
My need, my want, my love.
I like a gentle blue,
That treads along the edge of green,
And sets for muted hues instead,
A blue thats murky then untamed,
A vibrant tropic depth beneath,
It wanders besides dispassionate orange,
Lightly wound like barricade tape,
Into itself till hotness boils,
At edges frayed and licked with blue,
This hotness drains and leaves a fiery stillness mute,
They seem to brush but never mix,
They seem to dance but never to a tune,
They seem to leap about but crash and sway at the extent of the other,
I like a gentle blue,
And dear ochre that joins it in its waiting.
Travel is as travel does,
Sipping on the cooling air I walk,
In shadows cast and through the pale,
And evening glow that takes a perch upon my toes,
Then to the belly of a metal snake,
A gentle rumble then I feel a tug,
It blankets me and presses in but I press more,
I walk along to find its teeth,
And wait for when it opens wide,
I am in a place that's not the same,
I am in a place that's far from home.
A good laugh,
The kind that leaves your lips,
A little open in a wobble,
That reaches up past your eyes,
And smooths out your forehead,
What a gift.
By means of bark and branches,
I am become a tree,
Firm hold the little squirrelses,
I cast them out like heated breath,
That clouds the air and fades careless,
They are at once unseen,
Into the frosty air and out into the mess,
Of roots and curling leaves.
Winter's maw lies unhinged in open air,
Teetering on the edge of snow,
But holding off another day,
If time held fast it'd make it slow,
If seconds passed it'd make them linger.
For liquid frost falls from cruel Winter's fangs,
They seize the earth and drag it down to deepest stillness.
Walking on a snowy afternoon,
A sight as enchanted as its rare,
It does not deign to linger soon,
Like faeries in the molting air,
I walk on slowly as you do,
Beneath light sift to palest glare,
My mind trots on a little tune,
To make a poem strung and fair.
Hello sweet eyes,
I see you heavy in the day,
But through you I see smiles,
Full weeks and setting Suns,
Speckled artfully by the way,
I see the world its beauty when it's cold,
The rising Sun flow lazy through the trees,
This land I live within a play,
It calls - beckons me to live to full,
To wade through heavy sight to see,
Glory as a man,
Who meets me as I pray.
I'm transported to a rainy world in blue,
The sky is shaded mint - the drops of rain a gentle hue,
To dash the world in reverie,
The verdant meadow splashes new,
Like watercolour on the air above,
A turquoise in the lazy droplets,
Glistening the grass like morning dew,
Abandon and a reckless walk,
To feel the falling rain strike softly on my hair,
To spend a moment as the pitter patter,
To watch it colour glasses sparkling and blue,
To patter by the dreamy view.
The morning sky is blue grey,
Washed out and fuming vapours through its teeth,
It bears them in a contradicting grin,
Down to the rolling clouds below,
Puffs that make the air blue grey and close,
The dew slick grass and open concrete,
Gaze up upon their vaporous host,
And bid him wind when mid morning close,
When mid morning toss his anger with a burst of light,
Vapour clears - the sky more blue less grey.
Walking on the right side,
When daily I walk left the road,
The world unfolds a little changed,
A clearer view to open skies,
The clouds like golden whispers streaking through,
Then purple scars then orange plumes,
It's beauty and its awe at last,
Just from a daily path the same,
Yet its different and I know it too,
Another side unfolded in my eyes,
Another glory refracted through the haze of life.
I wish to write a nonsense poem,
For I've reasoned through the day,
I've straightened out spaghetti code,
And wrinkled up my brain,
So now I shall describe the feeling,
Of misstepping on the stairs,
When all is dark and the well falls short,
A step from what you thought before,
Oh tumble up and over yonder,
Your sole stomps down and shin asunder,
At least it feels so in the night,
You lay there in a dazzled plight,
This misstep of an upward fall,
This hubris shattered as the glass,
This clattered mirror of the world,
That holds just one step many in your eyes.
A joy to look,
On brief English air,
That rolls on by,
In grey greens and browns,
The curt nods of trees,
The neat standing grass,
The wizened oaks that grin:
"Moornin'"
And holler from a friendlier world.
Morning walks through livened wood,
The air is crisp and fresh to gasp,
I see the delicate birds fly by,
Ornate wooden sculptures in their hazel coats,
They make another branch their path,
And they roll it out into the air,
They tap the wind and melt into its turn,
These wooden crafts and beautiful things.
I saw a bird in obsidian cloak,
Make ripples and a flaring splash,
Knee deep in mirrors on the muddy grass,
Playing free to dust and clean itself,
To shed away all filthy things,
Now skyward march the bouncing rays,
Up with the swooping droplets lest they fall,
On rippled clouds and sky below,
Off now the bird unshackled from the dust,
To leave the mirrors by the swaying grass.
O golden haze ephemeral,
I see you drift by mud slick roots,
Come watch the weary leaves turn bright,
Amber emerald in the gorgeous rays,
Like precious gems and golden drops,
Such beauty and high majesty,
To turn the wilting shrubs to glass,
To temper them like bronze in biting winds,
This golden haze that marks the air,
That causes springly birds to sing.
A wooded walk through half-lit night,
Cascading from the moon pale light,
Wrestles through charcoal smoke to sight,
It's bone white glow submerged in plight,
Then busting through again with might,
The moon makes charcoal dust and smoke
Like passing shadows beneath a pristine cloak.
Allegiance to the King,
Not earthly but divine,
Become a babe and fell in line,
So forever I can sing.
All glory to the throne,
Preeminent in all ways,
For He alone was slain,
So I am clean and known.
Outside a misty dress this April rain,
Ebbs light and soft upon the window pane,
Drapes fit the form of day in ponderous grey,
Then frills of light and weaving spikes array,
Pretty flowers upon glass leaves do sway,
Take firm the droplets for a coat to stay,
The wind a brash caress that turned away,
Found solace by the bulwark - April Rain.
Three of fours,
Make way for two,
At least there's only one,
But gladly it is half of four,
A language that does dance in lines,
That makes the numbers merry acts,
That turns itself in knots to do
A magic trick in metred step,
What gift it is this language broad,
It's cry I heeded: All Aboard!
So now it's mine a gleaming sword,
Cut gems of phrase I can't afford.
My resting place in mountain halls,
By pillars of deep basalt weeping,
Tears of love a mingled magma,
My hiding place and fortress rock,
O Lord my God my resting place,
My portion now and never gone,
Far further than the crust falls still,
Far further than the mountains fold,
Far further than the valleys and the seas roll up,
You will remain farther than the rocks,
And you have given me rest.
The chirping birds frame trees in sound,
Now here we stand when Grace abound,
In these I see a glory woven,
My purchase at the seat of God,
His body taut on wood and shame,
Divisions broken at His name,
I see the thick oil painterly clouds,
It's beauty now to me so rich,
For all is mine for I am His,
Now He is mine, what more is this?
•- •--• --- • -- in Morse code,
Half a language for my abode,
To bare my memory full strength,
On characters two: briefness and length,
Twin summits verbose and universal,
In text or falling snow, a tapped rehearsal -
The pitter patter on the peaks,
The flashing lights and mouth-made beeps,
So I present to you an olden road,
•- •--• --- • -- in morse code,
A hearty pangram steaming on the stove,
The ancient stew dear to typographers,
Lifeblood of font soldiers and marching sets,
A tale to span the breadth of language yet,
To hold the gaze - transfix philosophers,
Why did the slight brown fox run quick?
Why springly jump into the midnight air?
Why chase the lazy dog while good stars sleep?
And bar them peace to bask in silver glow?
Just to watch the sunset fall,
Isn't it beautiful that the day is done?
Can't you see this gift of time all wrapped up neat,
In such fervent descent into gold and mauve?
Painted tranquility just as Turner's Carthage.
In laughter and a wandering peal of giggles,
Cold breezes by the tufts of grass,
Innocent of the time that passed,
Come find the memories that
Huddle at the roots of fledgling trees.
In all this wholesome friendship found,
Confess that the day is done but He remains and
In His name we sought to find a friendship good and lovely.
The bulwark of my curiosity,
This canvas hanging on the wall,
And likewise countless through the ages,
A far time stone then black and white,
Come bare these workings on your coat,
Come take on symbol and this meaning,
Come solve with me my many proofs,
I scribe a script - you write on me,
An exposition of reason intertwined,
I look to see what we have made:
A saga in black characters.
I'm truly glad you're strung along,
For all my wandering and song,
I'm tickled that you dare to stay,
For my artistic whim and varied play,
I find that when I open up,
My empty head into the cup,
Of wordy thoughts, it crashes out,
A poem on the talk of poems -
A poem found in mental drought.
The texture of an open space,
The vacant sky and distant blue,
Flows into hazy beams of light,
That shatter on the reeds and grass,
A tugging but withdrawing ache,
A refreshing breeze to season such a place,
The open world - that homely countryside,
Perhaps I'll long for you in time,
When I am far beneath a convoluted sky,
This place of youth and open land,
This blessed texture for a distant time perhaps.
The elegance of these reasoned facts,
Expressions in no uncertain terms,
I've come to love to read such symbols,
Cutting to the core of things,
Stripping off obscuring particularities,
Until all that's left is quickened fact,
To which I soar and glide upon,
And make an engine for my mind,
To bolster thoughts and make them run,
To chug along in boiling fluency,
Until the quickened facts cascade,
Into their pretty consequence.
Man in the mirror,
I can hardly remember when you were not so,
It seems the tides of time have washed your face,
Like sand you've slimmed imperceptibly,
Like sand it's dragged away the marks of youth,
Yet I see a sparkle in your eyes,
As shiny rocks that glimmer in the water's wake,
You are becoming yet become,
And if He wills I'll watch the wisdom mark your face,
In creases 'till I hardly remember when you were not so.
I'm in that heavy room again,
The rain becomes something deep - profound,
Kilometers above pressing down and down...
Until the rumble is synonymous with air,
It becomes to me a heavy stillness,
It becomes to me as quiet chorus,
It becomes to me as toil of days and long spent hours,
It becomes to me a wettened stone,
The room three quarters lit,
Makes friendly company with air,
Onwards they tug the space without a care,
Until the dimming is synonymous with air,
It becomes to me a watching father,
It becomes to me as expectation of my own,
It becomes to me as cloudy reminiscence of this heavy room,
It becomes to me a passing place I care to be,
I care to be without the lightness every while,
I care to see the buckled genius in crouch,
I care to taste the fruits of work come sprout,
I care to know this heavy air and know its weight.
Met a question in the heavy air,
Glanced upon the clock - there's give for time,
"Would you care to answer to my mental court,
To make your case upon my mind?"
Then melding molding merging into space,
All tangled up in air it seemn't care,
"Oh quick and simple! come be clear,
I'll tug you loose but never tear!"
And tugged it was till in straight lines,
A jolly fellow sound as beams of wood,
"Good gentleman, I see your riddle,
Clear as courts have shown what could."
A walk beside fenced rolling grass,
Old village houses and their twinkling glass,
A pebbled path away to depths of civility,
To hidden lodges lambasted by their shrubbery,
I never see the people of these houses,
Perhaps one day they'll stand in sight -
Neat shirt all tucked and blouses.
An image that can't help but be,
So different from the bare reality.
Well goodbye my eager pictures,
Your tale is ancient and refactored time again,
But I shall place you down and find another lens,
I've grown accustomed to your fixtures,
Neatly on walls and sketched out in pages,
Your quaint flames and beams and glassy gauges,
I shall replace them with great whirring metal,
Your successor or at least a retold tale,
Drawn in silicon - a truly eclectic portrayal.
Find the symmetries of a curve,
A tool to hammer out a sketch,
I'll add it to my belt although I find,
I miss half a swing for each I hit,
My arm grows steady with the time,
As all the memories I swifter fetch,
And grow the satisfaction I preserve.
In scathing light of problem puzzles,
To taste defeat but cry: just yet!
This very day I fall but I will stand,
Another morn' the puzzle banished from my eyes,
In clarity cast upon the mast of darling reason,
Bearing fast upon the storm until I'm through,
Just yet! I will see the problem through.
Oh distant wings upon the lower sky,
I hold my ear up to your distant whine,
The evening rumbled in your song,
In swaying air the deepened line:
Away away to farther field,
Drag dust and soot sojourning,
Come cast beyond the surging sea,
To trembling mounts and valleys vast,
Span skies beneath the setting sun,
Grasp grandeur till your heart humbles,
Away away be swept into an awed applause.
What glory crying from the world,
What depth and height a gift of love,
What wisdom vast unsearchable,
What majesty that seeps into each blade of grass.
Once again I set out to carve,
A place upon the face of information,
Falling with a vigour as if to starve,
The mind of gaps amidst the murmuration,
To find a dusty cleft to call a far off home,
To set a window looking to the waterfall,
Call out to weary travellers now to roam,
From storefronts to my garden wall,
The rock is thick. I too see why,
So few have ventured carving out a place,
This side of all the petty information lusting for our time.
A contentment that does move to tears,
One like me who holds a shattered cup,
Tender molded now made whole again,
To hold not wrath but blessed joy upon joy,
Praise to the mender of my cup!
Come close all shattered bearers far,
He mends for all who see their shards.
Wet grass and the cascading whiff,
Of all encompasing life in verdant sprawl,
Wisened roots to gentrify in truer sense,
Lowly paths to watch ascending arches,
Leaves and moss to drape the land in pearls.
My oh my, don't you just like
To hurt my head each step I tread,
You show me that the path I walked,
Seems now to fork from just one head,
Serpentine elegance, you fearsome hydra!
A language built from tiny scales of dread,
This fang here seemed so quite complete,
Until you showed me as I read,
It's but a pretty reflection on your scales,
Composite in its consequence.
Lingo flamingo!
Have you come for bingo?
_No, dear one, but bringing lingo,_
Tongues of fire for awed impression,
Skulls for unencumbered laughs,
Modern people in their little windows,
Talk in pictures as they did in ages past.
🔥💀
Upon a whim to stand on clouds,
Adrift so meekly in their tread,
The world below to cease its sound,
Turn upwards to the layered beds,
Behold low geometry upon it crowned,
Some wispy stairs to fuller threads,
Perhaps I'd think it without bound,
Yet skyward architects betray:
It skirts from the absurd to the sublime.
When feet are small for tasks,
Ahead. The way is steady on,
But we will walk as they who ask,
Yes, slowly we will see it won.
With overdrawn strength, by grace we stand,
Though feeble legs belie, our hope is poorly put in legs,
But better in a cross that marks,
The place of greatest comfort and distress,
That He who gives the wind to strength,
Would breathe one last, yet now!
More fully strength is named in Him, our strength.
Am I an actor in the theatre of my mind,
The dusty stage, its weary rebecoming,
I fasten myself an orator twice-lectured,
Ever pacing on the contours of ideas,
Two steps; the echo pierces now the air,
Mere fancy that I sit a playwright, nay,
Each laboured lecture casts my hands
Unlearned, my quill ever wettened,
And my parchment dry.
Making friends not war,
Though samely on a battlefield,
So argued in a series of rebuffs,
Round cruelly dreamt up traps,
Dictated plainly in expanded thought,
Discursive hills and valleys for the board,
Until the silence reigns in rest,
Before it's shattered at a twice held awe,
One learned, the other flatly fresh.
The date clicks into an awaited sum,
Stacking days across the gaps of months,
Like bridges over chasms of sand,
Folding dunes until they, unsettled,
Play their cavities like the gaping mouths of violins,
Bowing out the gargantuan cries of time,
Until the spans of peaks are reduced to meager nullity:
The desert laid flat.
Dark spires decend in shadows steeped,
Drawing near to kiss the head and turn,
With haste up to their lofty peaks,
To watch the deathly winter yearn,
To thrash beyond the sky as if to meet,
Imposing arches with primordial throes,
The ancient stones belie this forceful feat,
Old cracks amidst the sprouting new.
Oh wisened bells I cannot comprehend,
Perhaps your learning drags your even' calls,
From melodies past to cryptic volleys,
Which strictly remark the short hand's deft fall,
Surely now this the very same remark,
Punctuates a different essence of the time,
The day is short, dusk ever on our heels,
Yet every tone is struck as if to rhyme.
Great mourning flood dragons,
Enthralling clouds and chasing winds,
Bursting them with fearsome calm:
White roses bloom. Blotting out the sky,
Thunderous knocks that masquerade
As soft ambience to the call of bells.
With much vexation brooding deep within the self,
The foil of every thought is parsed and looped,
There erect thick bars and crosses to the south,
To be unmoved and hence to rail against,
Yet with a step the rage is past: it was a foolish game.
Though in it's passing I have found a meager grip,
The hem of strength in calloused hands.
Familiar voices from so far afield,
Greet my ears through speckled waves,
Cast upon the rocks and turned to foam,
Though flashes clarify to spear the ebb,
Onwards I press for this I know:
The waves do march from far afield,
And I hear friends though hold them not.
Inducing all these little proofs,
Scattered constellations self-imposing,
On my mind. Powerfully aloof,
Winks into light at every closing,
Of my eyes. Drawing up a varied booth,
Projecting on its walls the myriads:
Dinner drinks and friendship webs,
Network maps and river beds,
All tumbled out and hung to dry,
'Till underlying threads lay flat.
Too many pigeons and other such nods -
Such colour to an abstract thought,
The subtle smile that hangs upon a face,
Unannounced at its coming yet lingering as the furniture of the mind,
Funny pictures that we care to draw,
Place fingerprints on the edifice of wisdom,
Nestled in the grooves from ancient hands,
Bearing forth from before time's dawn.
Deeper nights sink into sandstone dips,
The kisses of the moon laid starkly,
On their weathered edge. To graft,
A piece of starlight into ancient arches,
Flourishes that linger- pretty permanence.
Returning home, adventures had,
Oh how the evening is to every day,
A lover at the journey's end,
A warm hearth familiar and its scent,
A bed to fall upon and sleep.
Making ways down cryptic streets,
Hard market stools, bare faces worn,
The shutters closed in sync with eyes,
A stranger's country this I take,
Carve firmly out my lot and stake
My legs on walking through defeats,
I stagger 'fore a friendly hearth so warm,
A guide and keeper without lies,
To teach the ropes and dwelling make.
In every trial I see you there,
My Lord in agony and shame,
At the picture of you lifted up,
Just looking I am cured again,
What news is this, this blessed God,
Submit Himself to pain?
The prince for whom all stars daren't stop,
For whom oceans daren't the same,
For whom all the riches fall unworthy,
Drew near to us, in meekness came.
You encourage me with veterans,
Of the way. Still sprinting on,
Encrowned in white and humble patience,
Which seems too scarce in me each day,
You call me on with beautiful bells,
Up to the ornate palaces of your love,
To ancient bells and wisdom's tune,
To where the fount of beauty lies in truth,
And there the Faithful call me too.
Along the road through country fields,
Farmers scarce but marking every inch,
The sun rolls dreamy through the cloud,
It breaks over the sheaves of air to grace,
The green with muted highlights meek,
Clinging dearly to the ground - the fog
Hangs durable to waning day yet parts,
To frame the world in vibrant bleeding edges.
Draw near to me for I am weak,
Undisciplined I fall astray, but You!
You lift me up from where I slip,
For on the hills You wait in care,
You, tender, seek my fear and love,
For Yours is greater than all strength,
You give Yourself so I won't lack,
Undisciplined I fall astray, but You,
Draw near to me for I am weak.
If I were a squire,
Upon the tails of olden days,
If I were a journalist,
Enthralled in all the city and its thrust,
If I were a humble monk,
Thinking on the mysteries of all:
I'd have a different page to mark,
My words would veer through countries far,
I'd have a plot to chase through streets of glass,
Yet here I sit at the end of whimsy,
I'd see the world remains as bright as always was,
I have my words to write.
Like dancing phantoms in a melting pane,
These insights seem to come and fall away,
At once I smelt within the furnace of forgetting,
The world unfolds beneath my lidded eyes,
All steps to where the path lies scattered,
The road leads further on yet turns to glass,
At once I see a face anew: rolling waves in polished jasper.
An ordered scattering of cards,
To madness heralding the end,
When all the jig is up votes descend,
And through cracked lips pronounce us merry fools,
Flocking in their every feather,
Perching, leaning close together,
Gathered while the night is young and sleep too hard.
Walking in cold winter spells,
The world to silence fell.
Rustles in the mid-morn breeze,
Were scarcely met with chiming bell,
To every eye a glance and step,
A time for each I haven't kept,
But now I see at every breath,
There ever is a time by grace to turn -
From where I prior rashely I leaped.
My form is burrowed in vestigial cloak,
Their shadowed arms lean to and fro,
Each setting here in different chairs,
Their time dispersed upon the sturdy oak,
Of all the scholars stretching to the deep,
I stand in line upon a subject young,
Informed more deeply than I know,
By toil which wettened brows in thought so long ago,
In time the fancy of man begins to rhyme,
Into Preceding Light he's drawn to dine,
Upon the mechanistic worlds beneath,
Charting abstract lands and fashioning them new.
Splayed hands in biting cold,
Gesture to the deepened night,
Half-finished tales are told,
Weaving through the banter light,
So soon the round devolved,
To spattered words at every sight,
And blinking you step out the fold,
To some lesser silence in warm company.
You're the colour on a rainy day,
The bismuth lining every drop,
The strength for weary eyes,
So I can rest my heart and finally stop,
In striving and in solitude,
My confident, my friend,
My intercessor, advocate,
Draw me always back to mend.
Condescension from the highest peak,
The lofty mount that pats the head of distant space,
Transcending all of time and every whisper of decay,
Our Lord from there descends.
And folding every pristine robe,
Firmly placing down eternal jewels,
Collapsing glory into feeble frame,
To sit in dust with us!
A march through many lands,
Sight seeing in the up-tilt breaths,
Which punctuate long dips into the abstract realm,
Where all is meddling with notes - a striving to conceptualise,
At times berated with sematic walks,
In others lonely witnessing long prose,
Yet others in an open discourse of ascent,
What a pilgrimage this is!
The golden silk upon the air,
Streams endless through a painted glass,
The world in sight is muffled in a breath,
Tired evening purged of raving farce,
The work is done.
The world in focus stirs the heart,
Each crystal edge fitted with the rays,
It gleans and litters on the street,
They light the tumbling colours of the crowds,
That bob along sandstone canals,
To see the morning light on ancient bricks,
To race the birds to fragrant soil and work the earth.
Estranged from myself when looking in my face,
I hardly see a boy now his memory is faint,
Perhaps he came much of... whatever looks like me,
But I cant seem to find the continuity,
For memory turns faint when gazing in my face,
Perhaps I'll see one day when I've finished this long race:
My Lord and all my ways within His eyes.
In calling out I find my feet,
On precious rock to ground -
All chaos and despair falls weak,
Such mysteries profound,
Tug at my heart to steer my fleet,
To where great wisdom's found,
And at the root the potent brew,
To fear the Lord and turn anew.
The gentle shakes of sunlight,
Land impotent on a sleepy cobble,
Tinting blue within a breeze,
At once laid thickly golden on the lamp posts,
The path draws starkly by the trees,
Embellishing a history with passers-by upon their roots.
Grim-golden gates embroider hems of shadow,
The cavity laid slick upon the grass,
Receding up queer mottled stairs,
To hide from every fury of the stars.
Running out of words,
I find myself in open meadows,
Spacious in the fallen chatter's echo,
The air is richer with sole babbling streams.
How one longs for friendship without words,
Yet prattles on in fear and harsh forgetting,
That good company not chatter is a blessing,
That to be known - to walk beside,
Continues where mere words can hardly dream.
Confronted with a lofty ray,
Tugging out all nascent life,
From buds and verdant fields afresh,
The air is elevated at its coming,
The golden hues so tender pull
The truest colours of the reeds,
And dance in robes of white on gentle streams.
Distant moon laid starkly on the blue,
Turning back its ever bearing forth,
Impotent strides fall deaf to pull it through,
The canvas of the sky with hollow mirth,
Turning back the same, running to the same,
It eludes thought to trounce upon the day.
Beanbags lounging in the lazy sun,
Mundanely cascade into a misplaced cheer,
Too valiant, maddened for this sleepy sky,
Pulling tight the eyes to joyful little creases.
A little drizzle on the sandstone streets,
Stark amber yellow befriends a navy crease,
Pillars standing taciturn at its spurious spite,
Wade out of shadows, contemplate the span of night,
The noble faces of the streets in rows,
Grand titans dancing to the tunes of mortals here below,
Our history upon their weathered heads.
Our names are ever on them read.
So they shall sit to pass the time,
In thought that barely drips in rain,
To maybe light the newer day with our old lines,
To maybe crystallise our rushing joys and pains.
Cresting a familiar hill,
A land far drawn away from waning time,
An outpost in a churning sea of change,
The stones peak slightly more into a toothy smile,
The grass retreating like a parting beard,
Rolling underneath a sky reshuffled,
Molding to a slightly warbled shape,
Here when big and small, when cold and hot,
When sprinting and when hobbling.
Sum to perfect square,
Laid bare to great attack,
My seigeworks and grand escalade,
Up to the mount of time and back,
To crown it with a silly sum, of course!
Facing all our frailties,
Our strength comes frivolous and spent,
Our minds unbearably slow,
And footing inches from the empty air,
Where shall we turn but to Him still?
Our grounding and severest bet,
Our wager on eternity:
On goodness, peace and hope,
On our strong terror and assured ransom,
On divine reason that mutes the dragon.
Adventures north from sleepy fields,
Drew out a smile upon the sun,
The breeze met with a bed of hair to wield,
Beholding all the trees persuading company in shade,
The river writes a fine riddle:
Bottomless but capped with riverbed,
Winding never truly wound instead,
Penniless but bejeweled on every head,
What fine company in shade and sun,
To march upon the gates of sister spires.
The world I'd love to share,
Gives tactile form to fantom gears,
Like clockwork rendered with a pen,
All its life is both so you and yet transcends,
You're ever facing reason in so grand a match:
The folly and the wisdom,
The roadblock and eureka,
The apprehension and abandon,
It seems too strange and yet rings true,
That I am just myself but so estranged in these deep games.
Radiant Luna established at the foot,
Of Sol's unmoving throne. Dressed in,
His fallen robes, the glory shared,
Pale Lady holding watch of night:
Ambassador and precious child,
Pulled up into the fragrance of the stars.
Because of you I am so rich a man,
The sainthood ever mine a gift to be,
As I am samely sent from Christ to you,
To me your voice and chorus I can't sing,
Your wisdom, smiles and golden hearts I love,
To you my feet, my words, all I don't see,
We walk apart yet to the same true home,
Where all things rightly march else err to death.
The glory of the highest God supreme,
Uniting every fractured good we chased,
First place of Man to which he must return,
Drenched in the blood of God forever free.
The year ticks on a discrete mark of the,
Unending slip of time, each moment gone,
A smear its place in time to 'ternity,
When does the wrinkle dress an eye with glee?
When do hairs cling to shadows of a jaw?
When does one wake up full of years for more?
To vast eternal shores all slip away,
The fullness of the thing marked out by God alone.
I wonder if we'll look on books when there,
When every lamp is snuffed and all is bright,
When brought beyond unapproachable light,
When pulled into the deepest cosmic care:
Then we will know the One who truly knows,
Perhaps He'll use a book or lengthy tale,
Or tapestries and symphonies, the awe!
Or quiet whispers for which every lan-
guage was devised, but more like honey and,
Resplendent dew, like babbling brooks and velvet sand.
The new life born in victory,
What cost and broken tragedy,
Alight with glory burns etern',
The mustard seed of grace but kern',
Which in its sprout puts green to shame,
The flowers stand abashed lame,
Man pulled in his weak mortal seat,
To splendor of immortal feat,
Up to the zoe grande and true,
Our Lord the dazzling firstfruit grew,
The life of God that became light,
To us the hope, the way, our sight!
So glory be and ever be!
To Him the Slain King risen free.
Returning to our symbols,
At the jest and wit of such orators,
They open up the wisdom of their time:
Dishevelled hair and awkward smiles,
That hide a fierce humanity spent,
In pure pursuit of abstract riddles,
In boyish sprints and sagelike seats,
With friends and walking far alone,
With books that make the monuments of the past.
Ever the strange pictures beside the views,
The tremors of the past made mute in death,
An iconography of old disused,
Becomes bewildered to comedic dread,
Why so many wings, why?
Scales, winding robes for what?
What proverbs did apply,
Within these jovial eyes and solemn lips?
Your blatant words are kept,
Your characters find few,
But who can know the depths,
I find the veil of time is truly shrewd.
Wilting petals strewn among the slabs,
Swiftly on, the world in marching green,
Turns away, shreds charred-purpled tears,
Breaks the silence for the laughter of birds.
The shards of fallen sky avail themselves,
Raving beasts to dine upon the tumult,
With roars and bursts of light are torn in rage,
Fall upon the napes of trembling trees,
Clatter to the unmoved earth -
Impotent, they are subsumed.
A carefree day in many words,
Much speaking turns into hearing,
Much hearing to a short reply,
A short reply to lengthy trails:
Out through the misty hills,
Among stark streams and evergreens,
Besides the clamour of the birds,
By falling petals and young shoots,
To fig and empty court. My prayer -
That it would be a seed by grace.
The evening sun does lazy glance - a side
Glance dragging all the outside world through the
Old sagging glass, which through it brushes wide,
Into acrylic peaks and dimples painterly.
The world is washed in veiled light's malaise,
The shadows of a broad humanity,
Find archetypes so deep within a phrase,
An integrated loss beside a triumph lofty.
The spatter of a dying amber lines
The gold. And starkly in the setting sun,
A play, a dance of melody, the games,
Too dear to be confined to meagre words.
The flight to quiet hills,
A haste that is no haste,
The place that ever fills,
The heart with sweeter taste,
When adventure's call is small,
When weary ears subordinated,
Must recoup and so recall
the shire.
Donning now the fools sharp head,
His sparking eyes and cheeky smile,
Forgetting all the self for just a while,
To laugh and be a laugh.
The full moon in withered beauty,
Upon the evening pales,
Becomes the sweetest anemone,
Drawn weakly from its flight,
The day remains in blue.
Cobbled walls made much in time,
A violet ring inscribes,
Laid still beside the grazing harts,
Which drift to long shadows,
The counterpoint to her white radiance.
Droplets on the glass descend,
Tell a tired tale too told,
But perhaps it is for good?
Their transience is spent in wealth,
Prismatic they do taste each hue,
Put on the storied melodrama,
Of cozy days and soulful tunes.
Heavensent they fall, earthen pull the skies,
Entwined in shiny reveries they make,
The feuding brothers meet.
Abstract armies flagged in white,
Contending with dark vestiges,
Advance and posture break into,
A fearless march to someone's death.
Colour fails in this stark game,
Played out in agonising thought:
In every blink ten million years,
In every year ten million blinks.
There is no blood in this foul war,
No mortal men or fiend-stung troops,
No blades or cries beneath fanfare,
But humble stones and empty space.
A hollow world untamed and deathly sparse,
An illquiped will untamed and deathly sparse.
The unkempt self, a swirl and
Dangerous wisp that plays pretend,
Sits nicely in neat clothes,
Talks nicely in neat words,
Until displeased with its own thought,
Displeased with its poor joke, it churns.
A veil that seethes upon the inward face,
Close breaking storm within the skull,
Less violent though more tense and still,
Like dull aches sparking upon pain,
Long weary sighs which hollowing,
Leave long pauses for an anti-self,
Oh what need I have for Thee!
Firm rock to break upon and mend anew,
To come with rage and leave with grace,
Know comfort and the very hope which spurred my Lord to death,
That I would become His and not my own,
My self would deeply hidden in His life,
Unshaken stand to follow Him to death,
Then through its belly to eternal joy.
O birdsong on the morning wind, how I
missed you. You gracious bells, and pleasant chimes,
You stage of love and strife and wittering,
When times were no less simple still, but I
a simpler man, a boy in homely fields,
You come to me again when without sleep,
I come to you again when strange dreams writhe,
Afresh, I'm human in His light and song.
The hidden way by dusty trees and gates,
Encumbered seas of wafting leaves it waits,
Gently, the patter of the rain falls dear,
Drawn heavy on the branches rings out clear,
The time becomes so delicate and faint,
A pale sky and a hazy afternoon,
Without much doing it comes calm and quaint.
Now sharing in His death,
To welcome in His life:
The water is far deeper,
Than shallows would so plead,
Behind the meager pool,
Lies weighty tragic sleep,
Truly the old self is entombed,
Much more the new unshackeled then!
The golden eye's descent in awe,
To watch the swallowed world in black,
Becomes exalted tiger quieting,
The haze. Setting the limit of shadows,
Who will hold it fast? Who will stay its sight?
Who will draw the limit on its awe,
Blunt claws to make of it a watchman?
Surely there descends a greater gaze,
Commanding the deep hidden awe,
Subsuming every cosmic dance,
Transcending every light until it dwells in each.
In passing moments of the day,
All manner of those homely hums,
Intrude upon the fabric of the mind,
Becoming all the static of its wires,
Decaying into shattered thoughts,
They are too fast, too low, too wide,
Too sad but through them is a sort,
Of tempering the heart.
The violet and the rose,
Play lazy checkers on the evening air,
Slur moves into great lunging arcs,
'Tween peaks of stalwart slate,
The belly of the rolling hills,
Lies flat to frame the setting sun behind,
What glory in a scene,
What majesty at play.
Each corner of this human condition,
All mysteries of strength and servitude,
Of lowliness and rumbling renown,
Find final glory in one glorious life,
Our Lord perfecting this limped gait of ours,
Swept up from womb to roman cross and grave,
Through laughter and great sorrows' claws,
He took the depths of us and set them true.
Violent winds and smokey skies,
Become a fated audience above,
The unmoved hills which fix themselves,
A sliver of the starlight for a coat.
At moment ceaseless drops take pause,
In time for all the whispers of the trees,
The sky too stills like unpolished marble,
I find in it a simple peace.
Departing from The Lakes I leave enrapt,
These gentle monarchs in heather fitted,
So kissing every blushing sky they fall,
Upon the napes of clouds with deepest care.
Free-diving headlong into books,
A studied act of co-creation,
So seeing through the other's eyes,
Placing their tongue upon your breath,
You build the worlds they sketch.
You greet their take on man.
You see a glimpse of them:
Their hope their faith and wanderings
Through this same puzzled life.
What wondrous kindling does make,
A contrite heart and budding love,
A muttered and exalted prayer,
On weary and impassioned lips,
With weak men You, Lord, level hills,
With killers You make merry saints,
With paupers You do shepherd kings,
We long to see what You will do with us!
Steady over sun-kissed fields,
The Lord deals mightily with me,
Firm seat of all the fears I yield,
What heights to which He cares for me!
Again I fall so stricken weak,
So full of little weariness,
But here a brother! This I seek,
Who tells me that the Lord's done more with less,
Who speaks to me the grace that we do share.
Such varied and beloved saints,
Walk with me in haphazard rise,
Pearly bared teeth and joyous bounds,
Upturned lips, wise wrinkled eyes,
That swallow me in faithful love,
That mark a kinship cutting through,
The deepest differences to find,
A wounded king that bridges to,
Such varied and beloved saints.
How nice to share a wrap with you,
In this chaotic life.
It needn't be so easy though,
Need not be so sorted.
Need not be so thinly pleasant,
Our lives run deeper still,
To hidden sites eternal and unbreachable.
I'm finding fun with you my kin and friends,
Deep at the bottom of all childhood dreams,
All pools and safe-depths conquered to each inch,
Perhaps we'll try some cards down here in the,
Unfriendly unders - we'll bask in cyan rays,
Such speckled lights upon our frozen glares,
Deep in the balance of the air and careful hands.
We're in at last, the tiny world unfurled,
My machinations lie at its true root,
The buzz and clinks, the quieted chatter,
The story told in scarcely alphabets,
I'll donne the builders hat and climb in bricks,
I'll make an edifice to show the world.
I call You Great Comforter, friend,
The standing rock in splashing seas,
All else is deathly deep but you,
On you I find my feet. My feet,
Shall never falter this I know,
For you are firm though all else moves,
And even time finds pause in you.
And even stars find night in you.
And even stones find songs in you!
And even I'll find peace in you.
It's been a while since I have mused,
On writing all this poetry,
But feeling dry, somewhat confused,
I turn to such a trusty tree,
"I've carved so many pages from you now,
Old oak of my prolonging ponderance,
We've seen the flowers and their fields in blue,
The far flung hills and precious starlight coats,
We've looked upon all manners of the race,
Those close and far perfected strangers, such,
Joyed saints in silver crowns and rosy cheeks,
I've seen myself become so changed, old oak,
And you so riddled now with words, my words."
The quiet of an open field,
Is no quiet quite at all,
But something more, something fuller,
It's the carried chatter of the birds,
The sliding of the wilding grass,
The transient wind which always seems to hang about such places -
I wonder why I ever filled it when I ought participate.
Severed shadows mastered masterless,
Splitting shades taste each opacity,
They come to six though truly one,
They move in sync though follow none,
More mute than rocks more deaf than trees,
And at the dimming lights I wonder if they're any less.
Open streets so ragged in their years,
The scent of culture and the fading time,
A waft of old books is ever overwhelmed
By the smell of fresh bread.
Or at least such tales in all their rhymes,
Ever cling to this city like musty spells,
It is becoming and so old, so sacred yet unclean,
The halls ascend in green and pale,
The gold to kiss the hallowed heads of many saints,
But there a turn and all is freshly new,
That man would clothe himself in splendour yet remain unchanged,
He is the same beneath unless so humbly touched.
A wizened call on dusty winds,
Something of the soot of day falls heavily,
And all is silver roads and obsidian walls,
Dressed up in nocturne melodies, what grace!
It is a mystical thing to hear such songs,
Yet hardly parse their regal countenance.
There's much more beauty in each inch,
All stars that hide behind each wistful cloud,
All birds that nest amidst the emerald leaves,
All blades that fill the sight with far more detail that it knows,
The time is too wonderfully slow.
The afternoon just barely drawing breath,
What a time to remake friends.
To be devoured in the sound of rain,
All cracks and squeaks fall deafly by,
A peace in ruling ruined noise,
The harrowed king of such a world shot through,
With pieces of the sky turned crystal tears.
O elevated sky - the dazzle and the brilliance,
The lilting lilac to the sunflower spills,
All cast on steely teal of brooding cloud,
What fine descent as though a crown on weary heads below,
Such light to fascinate falls on a cross,
A quiet field 'neath spire embodied praise,
The grave is still as on all fine autumnal eves tonight,
The beauty harrows in the death. O man,
O man, o finite child, go on, go on,
Remember that your time falls weakly on the earthen stage,
That you are dust and yet so saved,
That you are fleeting yet so clothed,
In robes imperished sewn from liquid gold and strength etern',
O man, take heart, the light shines even on the quiet fields.
Another day so spent on tinkering with bliss,
On forming from the edge of sight,
Forms unmeasured rising into light,
Such things inspiring - being inspired,
My very colours call to me to act,
This is some wonky part of art,
This is some muddled way of play,
This is quite something to be deep within.
Oh the crystal grass and more outside blue,
So round and full impress upon the mind,
And so in drops of preformed ink,
Crushed down into a heady-scented page,
A brilliant man makes busy the inner sight,
He talks long and sideways in so real a speech,
Down through the winding ducts of culture,
Through a shelf and hands and heady-scented page,
Reaching one who walks gingerly upon his dreams.
Oh the misty way, begotten of stars,
Like some ephemeral silver, dancing.
The moon is hung somewhere obscure,
The peering stars are few between the clouds,
And the shadows lie still in deep ditches.
The air is so heavy that it's light,
Caught up in all this fuzzy floating,
Falls down to butterfly kisses on the ground,
It seems to hardly greet the grass.
The moon in sheepish yellows,
Like a button pokes half through,
The swirling cloud become a garb,
The shadows drawing wisps into a hem,
I see the evening air is clothed,
That's good. The eves grow chilly as we slip,
Into the colder months.
You tell me of the songs,
The tales and epics of the age,
Far gone, speaking through passing throngs,
The budding romance of the page,
What language must I rhyme?
To hear again the old refrains,
How I long the vantage of a time,
Far gone, it's precepts and it's pains,
A puddle for a mirror,
A dusty way to meekly gain,
A glimpse of sweet humanity,
Far gone in all her ways but one remain.
The shallows of the shade,
Swim circles underfoot,
By root and jumbled sage,
Play mimes if cared to look,
Oh imitate the day,
By wake of bubbling brook,
And image as we pray,
A life in faithful foot.
We talk the talk of dreams,
The sky is soft and dim and we to watch,
So full on time in merry passing by,
And as this moment meets the next,
I hope it lasts a fossil in its time,
Though it falls liminal like pleasant dreams.
Somedays I seem just passenger of this,
Great rush through every person like a mist,
Which wets my face but soon is on the breeze,
I look and there I held too long a breathe,
But misty puffs were always for the breeze.
The cold is hungry out,
So starved on empty skies,
And as the clarity of bitten glass,
We see the open realms of blue.
Now here we are my friend,
To gaze upon the spires,
To sip and talk our fill of all the world,
To find our fitting place while here.
I forgot how much rain feels like my tears,
A little pools in melancholy on,
My lip and dreads to line my beard though stays.
It is a hazy tear on dreamy eves,
Caught in a flash of headlights Perlan tear,
All movement and so coming mist in brief,
Like iron wool and shards of glass at once.