Golden and Green

All golden and green
were the secret pond's pebbles,
glittering in sacred glory.
And we all ran down
where the rocks rose up,
splashed in divine white foam.
Our dirty feet
were surrounded by foam,
our eyes drinking in the light
as it sparkled untempered
on the secret pond's pebbles
all golden and green, golden and green.

Free stretched the sky
in unending blue,
unlimited by lazy clouds.
And the air was filled
with a sweet fresh roar:
the water pounded, dancing down
in a thunderous, delicate fall.
Years of forever here are captured
in rushing, unbroken waters.

Twixt Lowly Earth and Fiery Sky

Twixt lowly earth and fiery sky
runs the winding coarse of man.
From east to west the sun doth ride
over the shifting, changing land.

All the fires that burn to ash
and all the hills that falll to rubble
upon the decaying, drying earth,
all the trees that rot to stubble~

Death is all their end entails.
Death is all that comes of earth.
Not so for man, not so:
For him the Creator suffered birth.

Twixt lowly earth and fiery sky
till all was conquered and set right
ran the bounding coarse of Christ
that all the earth may be alight.

Changeless as the turning stars,
God's own love more changeless still
bides unto eternity,
each man's lonely heart to fill.

Drinking Song

To much wine, I think, my dear
is wrong, you know, is wrong.
But just a little more for cheer
cannot be wrong, oh no!
You'll forgive me, I'm sure, my dear.
I drink, you know, to you.
I drink to all who have no fear
on all their escapades;
To those with loves ones near
and those so far away;
To those who hope to steer
mankind to his right end.
So I pour once more, my dear
into my little cup.
And I drink to German bear,
that holds our wild minds sane;
To all that remains so pure
despite man's devilish work;
To all that is, and my dear,
to what never shall be.
And now at last, I am here,
having trecked the long way
From the pub to you, my dear,
along reeling wild roads
Under a spinning moon~ "Here
I am, my spotless bride,
I've made it back to thee. Hear
my shout, for here I stay.
So open the door, my dear."

Ode to Silence

What is that I hear~ running through the rushes?
...over the water and along the wind~
......what is that I hear? Hush now,
Lest you disturb the creature with your gushes
...of long and noisy speech. How will we find
......this unearthly thing? Hush n ow
And hear how the coldness of its step clutches
...at the brains of those who are not refined
......by hearing it pass. Hush now:
You begin to feel how it softly touches
...the listener; when it leaves, you have pined
......to breathe it once more. Hush now,
And listen~ How its magic sings and hushes!

Bit of Poetic Prose

Speaking of how a poet and philosopher are alike, here is a bit of poetic prose written by 'philosopher', yours truly, for my friend, about seeing the ocean last month:

The ocean was just how I had imagined it. It was grey-green, and everywhere slivers of land were running down and slipping away into it. It rippled and lapped like a music from a memory, as peaceful as if it were always like that and would be like that for ever and ever. Cold rain dripped down everywhere, and a chill wind shivered in the air, but the ocean remained calm,
melodious.















Photos are by my brother; is he good with a camera or what?

Year 'Round, Wonder, Winder

This is inspired by Lewis Carrol:

Little ideas skitter skatter
across the piano keys.
Notes, brokenly, clitter clatter.
And the snow
The snow is floating
past the window:
I'll go boating
In the spring, splitter, splatter;
in the rain my paddles
are dipping smoothly trishle, treshle.
There are fairies
thin as whispers
dancing on the reeds
in their fairy slippers.
Magic swirling the air, swirshle, swarshle
as I slip by in my canoe.
Water lilies white blooming, brundle, brindle
like little blooms
of promises to the autumn
that is fast nearing
With golden leaves fallin'.
The world spins round, wonder, winder,
and snow falls by the window
as I play the piano, wender, wainder.

Memory of You

Slowly forgetting as my memories drift away
far, far way into imagination's dream land;
flickering in the firelight, I see yesterdays merge;
voices blur and I can no longer understand.
Where have they gone- my days of childhood, my past?
Your face is softened to nothing; still I feel
you were smiling. I try to focus and blow away the dust;
your face becomes sickeningly polished and surreal.
But I remember the rain, as I hear it now.
And I know I was glad, and was unafraid,
for you cherished me though you never said it
all the time you were with me, all the time you stayed.
My heart remembers even if my eyes do not.
My promises I recall; each one I will fulfill.
You are never far from me, for you I will not forget:
You loved me then, and I love you still.

Aglow, Aglow, the Warm-Chilled Earth!

The earth is ablaze and alive:
Life steams up from the ground
in a thousand flashes of gold.
The leaves, they fall in golden ease
and rest in the folds of the golden ground
They roll and skitter, sparkles of glitter
and fall tumultuously down.

Splendor solemn, trees arising
in a sacred, solemn majesty.
A warmth, a world of golden bright.
The wind - the air - is soft and chilled
but warm the golden light
aflame with life.

See them dancing down the wind,
along the ground and down the wind?
rolling down the hill, sparkling in your hair?
Natural gold of our sacred God
falling here about our feet,
Aglow, aglow! the warm-chilled earth.

..........The flower and the raindrop
..........tender, cool and young they are
..........full of growth, and let us speculate on where
they might go. Little children are so
fascinating because you do not know if
..........or how their lives will unroll
..........or when they might fly or fall.
..........All is mystery unwheeling
..........a sunrise and the light of day is fresh upon
their amber cheeks. Their eyes are glassy, rounded and
blue and ~ a sunrise and the light of day
..........bloom on the flower and the
..........raindrop.

.....The ground is damp~
..........The air is muted
by chill ~ and
.....The sky, the sky!
..........Oh, the sky, is
heavy with gray.

Story of a Thought

Thoughts have lives of their own.
They show themselves to us in the secret dark corners of our minds.
Where did their life come from?
What is their soul?
Whatever they are, they are a fire that drives man
and makes a magician or a fool of him,
a painting or mud of his life.

Maybe they wake
when
something in us brakes.
And they all spill out,
embryos ready for our consciousness to nurture them.
And our emotions drive and whip
like the wind.
And our friends. . . we need not think on all the things they say,
Only that our thoughts are fragile and scared.
and Sacred.
And they are shattered and shattered again
until they are grown

and strong enough to stand on their own
and ripple unbroken in the winds of time
and chance.
For they have found their place
'mongst the threads
of all our other thoughts.
And they are stitch
sewing a soul,
shattering us
till we are who we have become.

Nothing to say

I have nothing to say.
I want to wrote something, something

beautiful and lovely, like
folds of green gossamer
that ripple like water,
but I have nothing to say.

day drifting and another
hour to go, and homework
and all that sort of rot.
But it's not much of anything
when you have nothing to say.

When all that you feel
is sound and dance
but all that you have is words
and repetition and a nice
reputation and you
are caught up in now,
a now not worth having

and you have nothing to say
to the lilting green day
as it whispers and passes
you by. You are mute
and alone in a land all a dream
of what could be- unworded
and you have nothing to say.

you are lovely

this is one of those poems when you find something really great to listen to and then just go with it- turn it into words. ( I know a certain person doesn't like poetry without meter, but whatever. I suppose there's probably really good music without a time signature.)

~The music is Waterfall by John Schmidt~


you are lovely
listen to the water
falling
as if it were
raining
strongly for you
you are lovely
and I
I know not what to think
only to hold you
not let you fall
away like the
water

White Music

Blank, soft sound, muted
by the sense of brighter.
No specific voice sings.
all voices melt and span
the breadth of the day.
Across the open, flat sky
the white flash of a seagull wing.
Rising, falling, open, flat,
filling the vastness,
creating the vastness.
Wide and untroubled
float these voices.

water lilies

Water lilies whisper wondering
in the lakes and wetlands.
These are hard times;
these are cold times.
These are times,
and time's a river.
Listen, listen!
Don't you hear it?
There are times:
All times are history
by the morning
aft the closing
of the night.
Water lilies, water lilies,
wild stagnant water lilies
in the blooming of the waves
and in the sparkle of the the sun.
Time goes; time goes, and it's lost.
Hard times down the water falls.
What is left? What is left?
Water lilies, Water lilies.
Wild, stagnant, still the same.
Heart unbending in the waving,
blooming and not wilting yet.
These are hard times, water lilies.
These are hard times yet.

and the garbage cans

The sky is gray
and it's raining.

I lie here
petting the cat.
I should be
doing school.
I was so
happy yesterday.
I thought I'd
found something,
a reason to
hope in today.
But the earth is
the same place,
Nothing
has changed.
We lie here,
and it's raining.
We want to know
the answers,
colors to our
gray questions,
and be able to lie
down and sleep.

The answers are there,
at the other end of it all,
So I must keep going.

The bicycles lie by the garbage cans.
I thought I had found my answer.
But only I asked the question.
And there are many more questions.
The bicycles lie by the garbage cans.
It seems as I gaze at the cat
like I'm ready to sleep and not ask.
And the bicycles and the garbage cans in the rain.

The cat's eyes slit open in sleep.
Even in dreams you cannot leave
the life holding you and the rain.
It seems like I'll be passing
while the bicycles, garbage cans, rain.
The earth is the same thing

And it's fading away.
Vague thoughts that I don't hold.
And the bicycles- the cat twitches-
the rain. The rain has gone.
And I lie here by the cat.
And the bicycles lie by the garbage cans.
My thoughts run on; they ask
and I'm tired. The cat is asleep.

And I'm fading away.
I thought I found something.
I'm fading while the bicycles
rust by the garbage cans cracked.
And I'm fading. The earth is the same.
And cat, in the dream, and the rain's gone.
I'm fading. The questions still ask.

stupid people

you are a fish in a glass bowl
your eyes are big
you cant break your confines
just swim in circles
in circles
in circles
your eyes are big
what do you see
locked yourself in a glass bowl
away in selfmade walls
selfmade walls
selfmade walls

stream of conciousness

Absurdity. I am. And I like that word. It sounds what it is. Uncanny balance. Rediculous parallels.

For the challenge of it all

Addicted to books like computer games

fractions (5/16) and fragments that come falling
like rain, and I don't know if I'm nuts, .......... or
maybe ..................(or maybe)
just/more of a
...............................(more of a . ' , ")

than them.
Than them. Than Them thanthem thanthemthanthemthanthemthanthe/m,
..............................................................and
wh/o is comparing? we're all just fractions (5/16) and
doomfully nothing is (quite)/new ..................only
maybe...................(maybe)
(more)thanthemthanthemthanmaybeI'mnutslikethem.

The Uninvisibles

Shimmering and glowing, they stand up and are seen.
They are the shimmering and glamorous,
and they force us to look and behold.
Their splendor dazzles us until out eyes are
too contracted to see anything else.
They are like rotten eggs that have been painted;
they have pretty shells.
They are the visibles.

They slip by peacefully, content in unpublicity. Simple.
Unwanted by the visibles except to be
their audience and source of loyal acclaim.
They're hardly noticed. They attract no attention
into their humbly lit world.
They are like plain surfaced rocks;
perhaps there are crystals inside.
They are the invisibles.

They're what both worlds bear alike
though not received alike by both.
They are the growing ones, too small to be seen,
too beautiful to be ignored.
They beg our attention, yet we hardly notice
with our contracted and dimmed eyes.
They are like delicate flower buds;
there is a promise if they are not killed.
They are the uninvisibles.

Are the trees purple in your dream? Tell me,
tell me, in your dream, is the water red?
What do you want or wish for- tell me,
tell me- that is not in part here?
Am I there? In your dream, tell me-
Tell me, In your dream. Are you there?