|
DIALECT OF THE SOUL
Some – so indifferent to the world as to be faceless –
are content
merely to sit in apathy amidst the squalor of their lives.
I am not one of these.
If I were but to hear them, so the whispers go,
might I perhaps not hear,
deep in the cavernous throne of the heart,
some extract of hope untouched
by design? Nay,
Better still to believe in one’s own worth than
that unsullied dream.
The human breast resets itself
with each passing breath.
Sinew. Blood.
Through lips and ears and eyes
I drink freely from the earth
yet pray,
what element may boast dominance
over me? Air? Words? Feelings?
All things must pass by decree,
in and out again,
as befits a hollow man.
WANDERLUST
Home? A simple word of worship, indescribable in grief;
the hearth and pillar of mortal bonds.
Where I have searched - in all the high and low places -
only heroes have tread. No stone lies unturned,
my hands cleansed in grime and toil. Others seek solace in life;
not for me the hardship of that journey. I am betrothed
to nobody and everything.
Odysseus,
that master mariner, that maestro of death,
knew where his home lay;
and though Time fled his grasp
still he braved Poseidon’s wrath.
I wept then,
knowing his search had ended
where mine had never begun.
Yeats speaks also
of passionate intensity
in Innisfree, in Byzantium,
in Ireland. His home lays in the caress of the Word,
the Muse and the heart.
Succumb, ye of little faith,
to sweet belonging. Content yourself with
pittances,
with countries of the mortal realm. Though my name trembles
beneath the exploits of Beowulf and Gilgamesh,
their company spurs me to greater heights.
Caught in bold, shackled to the page,
their stories flow forever
in frozen drips.
I, who have never known home’s peace,
follow the beaten paths of warriors. Wanderlust
carries me hither and there,
trapped in the edifice of the imagination. My feet,
firmly planted above clouds,
sing upon the earth. My eye
roves past and future tense. No mundane rains
for me, no broken cities of violence! Through the blur of faces
I rush, laughing and weeping amidst Faeries,
caring little for worldly labels. Age may break this body
with season’s passing,
but my home lies in wanderlust
eternal.
HYMN TO HER
At cusp of dusk, the shadows long,
I walk the ebb of ocean shore.
In thoughts of you, a Love so strong -
my heart will never wander more.
On flaxen strands, my eyes did drink,
the whispery laugh, a hook in skin.
And for those charms, my soul did sink
from state of grace to fallen sin.
These dreams now sealed forever long
I walk the ebb of ocean lows.
In thoughts of you, a Love so strong -
This youthful body, to Death it goes.
PERSPECTIVE
It was just
him and me now.
But he didn't want to.
"I'm shy," he
muttered, and looked
at me. "Do you
do this often?" delivered
with a hopeful glance.
"No," came the lie. "And
you?"
"First time." That, at least,
was true. I slipped into my role
and played the part
perfectly.
For a moment
just a moment
it was real.
"Thank you," he said.
Real tears now.
And my time was up.
PICTURESQUE
I've walked the tracks of human sweat
whispered prayers
to banyan trees and rolling mists
I've staggered under an ocean's love
chuckled to myself
and bought my wonder at a heavy price
I've cut my teeth on the chains of oppression
fed opiate to the masses
lost myself in the shadows of a street
I've wondered over a single tear
helped it smooth
the furrows of a gladdened face
I've taught mannequins to reflect each other
asked their dance
and pirouetted over plastic smiles
I've clapped my hands
recognized myself
in the depression of my soul
I've watched the candle
become a flame
and its fire licks the pavement of my heart
HOURGLASS
With tribute to Sylvia Plath
I am ancient and fragile. I feed on the sands of time.
Whatever I feel runs swiftly into my belly
Just as it is, unrefined by man.
I am not human, merely human-turned -
the bible of Chronos, curved by his strength.
Mostly, I mediate on my surroundings.
It is fluid, in motion. I have looked upon it so long
I no longer see it change. Yet it does.
The burden of years separate us over and over.
Now I am a mirror. A woman bends over me,
searching my golden folds for the lie which will bring comfort.
Then she turns, unsatisfied, to the dying ashes.
I see her back, creased and worn.
She rewards me with fear and presses despair to my body.
I feel no pity for her. Her kind comes and goes.
The roar of the years have rushed her by.
In me she will find no compassion, only Death,
staring back from the sands like a terrible angel.
|
Get your own Free Home Page