I've been missing out on something
for a really long time now
it's starting to (finally) to make sense
and I'm beginning to (finally) understand our fascination
with each other
Maybe my past has been preventing me from experiencing it
Or perhaps it's my current state of body and mind
the two are so closely linked that I can't properly pry them apart.
Maybe that's why I love children
so nonthreatening and uncaring
so small and close, without a care of convention
Maybe that's why I don't know a whole lot of vital information
about myself- that apparently I SHOULD know
that apparently everybody else on this fucking planet knows
But last night I saw it
in that old hole in the wall
I saw the way she looked at him and how he looked back
I saw how couples were holding hands, getting closer
I saw friends all dancing together
and I realized that I am really bad at all this connection
I can connect to you with words, not touches
I realized that when he put his arm around my waist
and I froze and pulled away
I just couldn't, even though it might have been nice
Maybe it will be someday- maybe I will be able to let go
but for now I am aware, and that's enough
she welcomes my energy inside and gives me tea
calms my busy light without a single word
smiles at my bright aura
a tabby ginger cat purrs on a gingham cloth
blue Delft plates in a row
this was a time with no fuzzy
dimming of all goodness
a woman’s head rolls on the fine sifting sand
dry and warm
a rapier juts forward, pierces the guts of an old man
who carries a child on his back
there’s a red blanket what flies on the line
soggy and now, it’s hard to tell whose blood drips so
an elongated horn is blown from a desert hill
nobody lives in the mountains of Miranda anymore
her ghost has found voice in the echo of the brambles
her secrets still buzz in heavy hives of long ago
discovered and ravaged by trusted traitors
now hanging in clusters, newly unfound
dried corpses also hang (unmolested) in bloodwood trees
where every trace of gall is let flow in kino
the blood of Miranda flows on
she of terminalis
lives on eternal
in brook and vale and bush
in veins of progeny bee
in the crickets of the field
your always on my mind
there is never a time where i find
some absence of you
oh how i wish to unbind
these thoughts to you that are so kind
the happiness id have
if our hands intertwined
do you have me spellbind
i want moments together to be on rewind
around you i act so purblind
to the bad, I'm blind
as long as your on my mind.
i never want you off my mind
If I could move on tapered wing
By feathered flight my mind would soar
To see this world through minted eye.
The social walls that kept me out
Those haughty souls, cigars alight
I’d see behind their curtains drawn
And share the fear that fills the glass
The pompous sound from marbled hall
That drowns out noise from shantied town
I’d fly a thread so fine and strong
Connecting all from shore to shore
Gossamer winged this sound would go
The sound of love transmitted long
From soul to soul, be young or old
To resonate within us all
And each would clasp the filament bright
And feeling strong from each to each
We’d all embrace as cheek to cheek
Yes, if I could fly on tapered wing,
I’d glide through clouds of inner self
And find the light that waits within.
oh, rising sun on east horizon.
shine your light through purple hues.
sunbeam fingers reaching long
spreading warmth ‘cross mountains blue.
awake, oh towering pine majestic
for deep below your roots flows pure
crystal liquid falls in dance
to fill each pool with nature's mirror
this my Oregon, i call her home
where skies of grey and winter long
chills milder souls to the bone
yet hardy stock from which I come
know her best, still to be sung.
her rocky crags where eagles soar
her mountain lakes, her breaking shores
her rapid’s ripple, current strong
her open skies and painted rocks
from each she springs alive with flame
a floral tapestry, her fields ablaze.
here streams cascade through canyons tall
tumbling long in waterfall
through rock and mountain, a gorge cut deep
a bridge to history, the gods they speak (1
a people weary, a journey long
struggling forward they sang their song.
first the solo, small band of men
discovery's song, a brave brethren (2
an orchestra growing, families joined in
they came for land, they stayed for joy
smitten by beauty, they wrote our lore (3
today her wonder, her majesty
calls to her young, “come, walk with me,
come taste my bounty from forests green
from lakes, from streams, from ocean deep
from waving fields of amber grains
abundant yields, endure my rains
come sip my wines, my vineyards flow
come drink my waters, fresh winter’s snow
drawn deep from wells, my streams below
my plains and valleys, my hills and dales
i offer richness within my veil
when journey’s burden becomes too great
find respite in my sunset’s slate
my star-kissed skies they offer thee
my arms, my breast, thy comfort be."
i am hardly an expert on this subject, projecting here only my viewpoint and perspective garnered since my arrival in my late teens. hidden meanings tied to Oregon history abound here. for some reference i invite you to join me on a quick journey:
with the force
of a calamity
the clashing of
bare skin the
as if each
other is the
A captive of geography
Wings of freedom lacerated by circumstance
Choking on quicksand that engulfed him long ago
The lifeless land he inhabits
With no promise of tomorrow
No hope for today
Determination laced with desperation
He is quite the cute pile of misery and regret
Paralysed by fear of what he knows is coming
The mockery that will be him
"Kick the chair from underneath you and be done with it nate"
The voices swirl inside his head like an endless chorus haunting and guiding him to his end
He walks this earth with a dark and somber string quartet as the soundtrack to his life
That which troubles his soul conquers it
Still he won't surrender.
The bags under my eyes tell stories,
just like the rings of a tree trunk.
One ring holds stories of a night spent with too much drinking.
Another holds a long night of loving someone who didn’t love me back.
But the deepest ones are from staying up all night,
waiting for a call
or a text
or a visit.
Just so i know you cared.
But these will never go away,
because you never really did care anyway.
In us all there is a Song to be sung
A medley of our failures and battles won
Where we begin
Where we end
Where our songs all blend
A chorus of memories each note written through time
Creating ones masterpiece of rhythm and rhyme
Some are short
Some are long
Forever in our hearts we sing our own Song..
The song of the ney blends
with the dunes:
as ancient paths
follow footsteps out,
into the wilderness of the desert,
seeking a truth greater
than constricted life settled allows;
The percussion of the drum,
stopping at wells
dotting the scape, where,
the earth pours her agony forth
from her sorrowing depths,
the prophet's sons wept for God.
The grieving oases mourn
wound, of long
a heart searching the
sands, for one who gave his life
for the love of his Lord
here and his humble fellow man.
The allusion is to the Holy Land, where long ago, patriarchs wandered into the desert, seeking a greater Truth. Where by many wells, they settled seeking God. And where, an illustrious descendant transcended kin and race, to preach a universal gospel of love: 'Before Abraham was, I am' ...
Context and commentary here: http://sineinverse.wordpress.com/2013/12/06/the-thirst-for-redemption/
The ney is a middle eastern reed flute, long associated with spiritual traditions of the region.