By the Fire
Sit with me by a fire beneath the stars
Babble wild thoughts to me
Without pretense or purpose
Without yesterday or tomorrow
Speak words through the eyes of an infant who knows neither when or what, before or after
Drink thought like a parched drunkard gulps wine
Intoxicated
Stumble about in naked divinity
Seek not north or south, east or west
No
This ship heeds no compass rose
Upward drifting on a whisp of smoke
Twisting towards a point of blackness between the finite stars
To the place infinity calls home
Laugh like fools in fits and gasps
Cheeks running with streams of pure joy
Flowing into the cupped hands of a child
Plunge into the sweet bath
Dance wildly until the dust of philosophy and dirt of theology turn to mud between our toes
The child smiles
Mother to infant
She draws infinity into a single breath
Heaven bursts from her lips as she giggles with delight
Her name is Innocence
Me, My Journal, You
Cover torn open wide
Burst from darkness
Bright light
Cold, blinding intensity
Naked, lying in beings cold bath
Touch, warmth, comfort follows
Tender graceful pen strokes
Calligraphy purring softly to paper
Sweet milk pouring into pure purity
Pages of sinless perfection
Time moves in turn
Fresh pen strokes fall
With weight now, heavy hands deliver
Down pressing hard
Scratching strokes
Pushing deep
Thrusting into, onto pages within
Invisible as indelible
Dark becoming light
Cold comfort warmth
Enter now this ink walled maze
Etched by a thousand pens
Twisting this way, turning that
One atop another
Scratches deep
Disconnecting, disconcerting
Longing
Lost though found
Comfort
Calligraphy, sweet calligraphy
Time draws taught a moment to ask
Another page or peace profound
Ephemeral, Eternal
Passion, purpose tomorrow
Poison today
Times hand quivers
Page present, pages past, bellow and bawl
Calligraphy whispers a clarion call
Mine is yours
These pages deep
Those anew are those to keep
You, your voice
You, your voice
So familiar, though very distant
Speaking to, seldom from
Hear you, adrift in the fog
Rolling across the calm
Perfect calm
Echoes of essence whisper
Me, may you embrace me
Do I know you shouts me
Who might you be
Are you me
From where are you from
Where do you go when me is without you
You, your simple tongue delights me so
Enchants me
Are you a child
Child of me
Am I a child
Me of you
If me listens, if me follows you
Will you leave me lost
Or
Will you join me found
Duality
Mindfulness, mindlessness mired in self serving ignorance.
It’s within me, I don’t like it.
Births sin of innocence, born of lesser conception.
Babes boiled in its stew from birth.
Dabbed dry with star spangled bunting.
Pressed like paper cutouts between pages of verse contrived by prophets and saints.
It’s not me, though it clings to me.
Mine is a generation born in a box stamped postage paid to heaven.
Hand delivered by corpses over streets stained with blood.
It stinks.
Rot, rotting at heavens gate,
The stench perfumed by pious pretenders, pretending for whom?
I drank wine last night, broke bread, and then pissed on a parched thistle because I could.
The following morning the thistle thanked me by growing green with gratitude for my drops of dew.
That evening it flowered, full of grace.
I pissed on it once again for daring to grow green in my garden.
The following morning the thistle set seeds sailing, each a soldier to settle upon the soil, each green with gratitude, full of grace.
Contemplations' Crumbs
Crumbs for the hungry adrift in the heavens.
Each tethered to time on eternities strand.
Constellations clear light, contemplations’ candle to follow.
Light for the darkness of a practical stage.
Dimensions within, from without, from inside us?
Philosophies’ food grown in firmaments fields.
Astronomers gaze as math runs with numbers, connecting the crumbs with tethers unseen.
It’s a search for the real within reality’s closet with no compass or sexton before billowed sails.
Where contemplation dares dream, practicality must follow, towed by times tether along temptation’s trail.
© 2007 mus epod