This segment will serve as a new section of the blog which, hopefully, will be a place where expressive work will continually be added. If you are a lover of exploring the human condition through the direct-pointing of parables and poetry, page back to Parables and Poetics at any time.
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RIDING TO THE HEART
So many roads lead to the open heart
You may enter through the ventricle
of dead blood to be revived
by the breath of the great wide atmosphere
You may ride down the auricle
which will then send you out
to the very ends of the body
This road is the life-giver
The open heart draws in
the weary the tired the used and abused
and pours forth
the essence we call oxygen
Find that oxygen you bloody fool
The open heart is attached
to the small body
the great body
and the infinite body
and sends that good air
round and round
so the whole thing might thrive
7/1/2012
THE JONGLEUR
On the road I stop to light a fire
No other place is right to set up camp
And so I sit and so I play my lyre
And nestle by that heat from the dark and damp
No other place is right to set up camp
The morning far off yet and there’s time to think
I nestle by that heat far from the dark and damp
And arm myself by song and spilling ink
The morning far off yet with no time to think
A caravan comes rumbling up the hill
I arm myself by song and spilling ink
Actors leap from carts and drink their fill
A caravan comes rumbling up the hill
A zanni puts his patchwork costume on
Actors leap from carts and drink their fill
An audience with torches comes with song
A zanni puts his patchwork costume on
The children dressed in rags surround my fire
An audience with torches comes with song
And fantesca dances a fondarelle and expires
The children dressed in rags surround my fire
The authorities march in all wearing blue
A fantesca dances a fondarelle and expires
The cops prepare for knocking down the queue
The authorities all march in wearing blue
Protest absurd injustice if you can
The cops prepare for knocking down the queue
They gas the actors till they go down to a man
Protest absurd injustice if you can
Beware the gas but be a woman or man
Amid the fray I sit and so I play my lyre.
On that road I stop to light a fire
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HOUSE OF ANGLES
A small angular house with gables and add-ons
Made of wood in nineteenth century patterns
And railings lined up beneath its high windows
Built in the gap between the great wars
It has an air of a primitive vestry, with a small chapel
On one side and a gate within a small trellis
Windows face in every-which direction
With the rising sun their sheen is white
A gleaming rose against a field of dirt
Rocks and pebbles and sudden grass.
The angled house takes in light from one angle in twenty places
And gives out beams from yet twenty more
The house blooms outward like a rose
From many different angles
That cut up sun rays into beams
So they shine like living angels
This is the how all forms come to be
6/12/2012
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LOVE GETS LOST
Love makes mistakes Like the man who writes a letter
When his beloved is stricken with a terminal disease
And he signs off with the name of the dying one
Instead of his own
Love makes mistakes
Like the man who seeks a woman red in lights
In place of his true love
And embraces her pretending he’s found his way home
When his center and circumference
His fire and his light
Waits at home
Love makes mistakes
Firing its guns into the night of stars
Lighting the night with
Its inevitably crazed shots of light
The target is so hard to hit
But the target at its center
Draws the love fire to it without a trigger
So the shooter dies.
Love’s many errors meanwhile
Light up the sky day by day
They travel all around in search and in quest
Love’s many arrows are fire
Which sometimes go straight to the beyond
And are lost in the white glow of the sun
8/18/2011
THE EYE
The eye is there
The eye is real
a deep source sensing
comprehension
between a mind in formation
and a jaded brain
How can this understanding
be so profound
this seeing into each other
This eye this eye
is the heart
the eye of blood
the heart of sight
8/17/2011
MAGNETISM
The child on the other side of the city
pulls at me in my sleep
draws my inner compass needle
toward his magnetic field and points it
Awake, walking the autumn colored lanes
of the city hills I feel the pull
to that raft-sized bed
where he pulled my arm around him
to better read a book
“so I am protected”
At such moments one is perfected.
8/17/2011
