We wait like raindrops, contemplating drought We wait, for what? The end that might begin? To turn perceptions into certain doubt We wait for changes, much to our chagrin It doesn’t pay to wait for certain change It doesn’t pay to change when we must wait Dichotomies are nothing if not strange It’s strange to think of all we contemplate Then back to being raindrops in the drought We contemplate perceptions which will change Is this what dried up life is all about? Is waiting thus the way the gods derange? Deranged in waiting, everyone is god A metaphor perceived as simply odd.
I watched her disappear in songs of smoke I thought she’d be the one to prove them wrong But breath is only life until you choke And brilliance fell to shadow in her song She moved through rooms like rumor, half-believed A trailing laugh, a shadow at the door I’d turn to speak, but find myself deceived Her voice remained; her motive was impure She danced on coals and called it poetry Mistook the glow for grace of ashen youth Her exit staged in careful tragedy A burned out lie she passed off as the truth Let smoke recall her, beautiful, unwise A flash that sang of air and smoky lies
The quiet roar of stillness in my dream Invites the little songs to find a voice Like fabric finds a bordered stitch, a seam Or finds it never really had a choice The way that stark precarity ascends To other worlds above the damaged plain I like the definition it defends The etymology of tender pain When little songs awaken in my heart Then find their little way to where I write I wonder if they end up where they start They may not be true gods, and yet they might They might proclaim divinity with grace And dwell forever in a holy place.
A kilt is how we show the world we're free From all the world's conventions, which would bind The Highland soul and strength we seek to be Through freeing both the body and the mind
A kilt is freedom's comfort, worn with pride The pride of independence, bought with strength It shows the strength of freedom born inside That liberates the soul, at any length
The man that wears the kilt is strong and proud Of heritage that bears his clan, his name He speaks his words in silence, and aloud! He knows his life is more than just a game.
And yet he knows when games are meant to be A kilt is how he shows the world he's free!
I walk on faith, a splinted, golden crutch, Where once I flew in knowing’s native air; The wound is old—no memory of the touch, Just phantom wings and ache I cannot bear. The veil was stitched before my birth, they say, By archons blind, who rule the things that rot; They named it “truth,” and taught my lips to pray— A borrowed speech for what my soul forgot. But still I limp toward light I do not see, My balance held by hymns I cannot feel, Each creed a cast around the mystery, Each sacrament a brace that makes me kneel. Yet in this bracing faith, some ghost remains— The shape of knowing pulsing through the veins.
To find the truth of poetry within One knows the word of god must be revealed To hide the word is thus poetic sin And wounded poets know they must be healed
And so we seek the words by which we feel True knowledge is the poem we become Beyond the tombs that others seek to seal We rise and wait for Magdala to come
Thus gnosis sets us free beyond this world In which we have been trapped to just perceive Material perceptions, flags unfurled And simply sit and wait and weep and grieve
Our knowledge of the trap won’t set us free But we will know the place we need to be.
The millstone wights look just like rocks That tumble down the brook. They always work; they never play, Don’t even stop to look. Their backs are bowed, their fingers numb, Their faces smeared with silt. They grind the streambed day and night And never dream or wilt. No song disturbs their labored hush, No whistle splits the air. The moss grows thick upon their arms, The weeds root in their hair. Yet if you speak, they'll lift dead eyes— And turn to stone before replies.
I like to play with words; the Word is God They say, “You play with God? That’s fucking cool!” I guess you’d say by words at times I’m awed At times I’m awed and odd. At times, a fool
The fool is wise when words ae more than true What’s more than true, you ask? I’ll tell you this The Word is like the Monkey in a zoo The Poem is the cage where It finds bliss
So God’s a Word and poetry’s a cage? The poet can be odd and awed at once? I’ve also heard it said, the world’s a stage At least it isn’t school. I’m not a dunce!
Reality is often most absurd And Fantasy’s fantastic! There’s a Word.
