The Last November

“Therefore we thank Thee for our little Light That is dappled with Shadow.”

I think these thoughts are not my own; Except for lucid whispers From faint dreaming Or day-long nightmares tearing away. But we are all aware now; The Dreamers will awaken me Though we never sleep again.
I think these thoughts are not my own When memory comes without my bidding Or ability to forget. For endless moments listen Without attention to diction Or need to fear any consequences From the chance of any meaning.
I think these thoughts are not my own; Thought spoken and kept as True—sheltered from my own understanding I repeat what voices say Without pause or notation—Simplicity Is too Difficult to comprehend.

I think these words are not my own; Without description Symbol or History All message is rhythm—and The act is one of tragedy.
I think these words are not my own; A passage without subject Cannot edify even the most perceptive Or hold consequence to any departing hero.

These words –Without—
Are not –Meaning—
My own –or—
Voice –Voice— Beyond the Sound Of Paper burning; My own pages to the Last.

Mirrors

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?