Here we
look
out
into
Mirrors
and view ourselves
And others
Only once our
self
but
Twice the image of one standing by
Who sees also double—
Reflections and original.
From that vantage
Standing near to both,
Able to discern
Apparition from Reality
Presentation from Truth
Choosing between mirrors
These gazing forms
Reach out through reflections
And embrace
Or else press upon the Image
Until all our Visions break away.
Is It Morning
or Breakfast of the Birds
I
Is it morning?
They must mourn that
Chilly sunrise—
Spring color on frosted branches,
I am warm
Behind the pane.
They are framed fitly—
By a window—
(Also once a tree)
I wonder.
Does it pain them—
Having no home to shelter in as I?
II
It is morning.
Does it mourn—
Hidden from our sunrise?
Pale, thin—feathers plucked?
Is it chill within—
Behind that hard air?
It seems trapped
In that mangle of dead limbs
(Also once a tree?)
We wonder.
Does it pain—
Having no branches as we?
Unspoken
When part of “True” Remains
Unspoken—and every
Passing day becomes the next—
Though lingering; All of
My known and what may be
Right—if only silent—then
Sadness.
When is the remedy for
“True”
now spoken partially?
Every day becomes a
Burden to damaged spirits
Then Sadness—“True”
Faith,
Now spoken—I’ll listen Lord.
Let someone speak “True”
And none become bitter
Through lingering
Between these days
Till the next—and
Ending.
So Near, My Love
So Near My Love
Too close again to see
That one—alone
May never know the
Touch
Of Trust
Or any closer
Than the Distance
Of most Kindred
Kindred Spirits be—
Closer still—
As God will allow—
Did He not make One?
But it is His choosing of
The two—
The same
That moves this
Spirit between us—
So near—
My love
So close that we may see
That each—Alone
Must know this Hand
Of trust—upon us
Before two may closer be.
Call to Forgetting
Every sentence, every thought,Every word a crafted moment.
Hard is the time for loss,
Harder still the time for memory.
I
A warrior roused for conflict
His weapons sleeping
And weary limbs draw him down.
Yet the ranks fall quickly about him
To a deeper sleep beyond marching
Or the call of any new battle.
II
All silence is an act within
A carried item of weightless luggage
Once forgotton, it is difficult to find again
In (alone) I sit
In (alone) I sit—As much of me is—
Is incomplete.
Nobody knows—
Ever comments on
A poem
Never seen—
And it’s alone,
As much as words
Of me
May be.
Complete? Ask it—
When it shows
A form to you.
When—you know—
As much as words
Of you may be.
Or you’ll never
Sit alone—and
Understand. Who
But God may
Cease both
Whispering alone
And Silence?
Among and
Becoming
One of these—
Though without
The spirit of
Sameness that joins
Any group lacking
faith
Or The Faith.
Complete? These are
Not—these will always
Be “other”—not the
“same” in words
Or on the winds
Of God’s Whispering.
Memorial Day
Who must bear this standard of decay?Broken tombstones—buried ready flames
Every act of hindsight burns away
The memory of a breathless final day.
All these spirits broken break our chains—
Who will bear our standard of decay
Across the muted battle under way,
Beyond the fear that life may not soon wain?
Though every act of hindsight burns away
The hope of pain through lifetimes of delay;
Without the option—quite—of going insane.
Who must bear this standard of decay
That fades as one will never truly say
The truth that may always half remain
Though every act of hindsight burns away.
Though never new will blooming flowers stay
Without the blood from dying—all the same,
Who must bear this standard of decay
While every act of hindsight turns away?
Darker Passage
Then the men into A Darker Passage rush, shouting,
“This is our Place of Light
In us may fall no Shadow!”
Then—into Man the darkness
Rushes—Shouting
“This is our Place of Passage!”
Dig down further into
chambers of imagery.
Why do none ask before Shadow?
Both speak gently to the
Soothsayer
In tones that pass for whispers—
But to one who stays
And listens—after
Some session is deaf.
He may pass by in manlike
Movement
But the Spirit and the Darkness
Don’t understand
Manhood–or Man
Only silence
Either of peace or stupor
After writing so long he is the scholar—
A cramped Professor
Prepare another lesson will you?
Till forever Bent
The World and words soon become a
Case—
Either Doctors or
Darkness
Prevail.
Wondering Lakeside with Beans and Beagle
After reading a bit too much of Walden Pond
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