paul-a-moon - Hello Poetry

Which is my church with its green leaves, brown grass and pine’s bark, all foresting in one motion. I shall forest rituals of sacrifice, but without Catholicizing faces drawn from dark Crusading and my exiling. Annaling to mark the sun’s solstice for Eastering and holying days, the dew coalescing upon the darkening and browning grass at midnight and cooling air arching constellations and the mooning of the night: the cue to lying for rest by the small pool in this placing or to strike, savaging at prey. Owling as it does, darting as it does, from a bed of branches, crying, soundlessly shooting at a forest mouse, leaves rustling for this night’s Nativity, this one lifts its butterflying wings like the soul’s silhouette taken by an angeling force to heaven. After owling, angeling, butterflying, one must create Jesus as a verb. Having witnessing these things, limits are paining, as are knowings and doings. The mouse must have been distracting this owl from its offspring, thus it was Christing: sacrificing itself for its children, thus fathering. Seeing angels fluttering under the moonlight, Hairshirting is my Church after living here, after travelling through East of Eden in daylight. Simplifying the Word---so heartwrenching---near dawn or dusk, being as a penumbra’s cusp I am Giotto’s halo in human form, keeper of the haze, smoke, storm, and most of all, cup from my own despairing. Always there more to God than pain. Churching myself is my work, thus by expressing this foresting, owling, angeling, butterflying, I narrate my life’s kingdom. Only beautiful words for my Beatrice, Florence, and re-Edening.

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Jul 5, 2016

Jul 5, 2016 at 7:33 PM UTC

paul-a-moon

Dante's Journal

Which is my church with its green leaves, brown grass and pine’s bark, all foresting in one motion. I shall forest rituals of sacrifice, but without Catholicizing faces drawn from dark Crusading and my exiling. Annaling to mark the sun’s solstice for Eastering and holying days, the dew coalescing upon the darkening and browning grass at midnight and cooling air arching constellations and the mooning of the night: the cue to lying for rest by the small pool in this placing or to strike, savaging at prey. Owling as it does, darting as it does, from a bed of branches, crying, soundlessly shooting at a forest mouse, leaves rustling for this night’s Nativity, this one lifts its butterflying wings like the soul’s silhouette taken by an angeling force to heaven. After owling, angeling, butterflying, one must create Jesus as a verb. Having witnessing these things, limits are paining, as are knowings and doings. The mouse must have been distracting this owl from its offspring, thus it was Christing: sacrificing itself for its children, thus fathering. Seeing angels fluttering under the moonlight, Hairshirting is my Church after living here, after travelling through East of Eden in daylight. Simplifying the Word---so heartwrenching---near dawn or dusk, being as a penumbra’s cusp I am Giotto’s halo in human form, keeper of the haze, smoke, storm, and most of all, cup from my own despairing. Always there more to God than pain. Churching myself is my work, thus by expressing this foresting, owling, angeling, butterflying, I narrate my life’s kingdom. Only beautiful words for my Beatrice, Florence, and re-Edening.

43

Though you lose, thus becoming an intimate as a lover or friend, brother or sister, parent, you will always lose through attrition or accident. We know that 9/11’s are attrition and love is always an accident, because we reap what we sow, and never choose whom we love. Attrition is the rain, forming from pressure within the skies, high and low temperatures at Armageddon: yin and yang becoming earth’s tears. Accident is the rain, vilifying the evil of being from these two lessers of the skies, love is sought but never found or found at odd places: yin and yang becomes earth’s joy. Thus, rain is a lie, liar, lying, saying joy and love at the same time. But love is not from this world. It is not recognized, but named… “No” to the world’s belligerence. We know love is expressed by this action, yes… Thus, it’s not a lie. Love cannot be otherwise or we would’ve never crucified the Savior or our true loves for the world… Love cannot exist naked. It is always ready to be whipped, strangled, maimed as Jesus or a twice victimed Iraqui, the third world or as Salvadore Allende.* But I love the rain despite my self. It is within the reach of definitions but not confirmations. So, love like rain cannot be held hostage by human view nor divine postage. I love as it rains, I rain as I love. From here, in my prayer, let my love of rain be love. *Found in Voices of a People’s History of the United States, by Howard Zinn and Anthony Arnove, and the now canonical historical work of the United States by the same Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States: “Watergate had made both the FBI and the CIA look bad---breaking the laws they were sworn to uphold, cooperating with Nixon in his burglary jobs and illegal wiretapping. In 1975, congressional committees in the House [of Representatives] and Senate began investigations of both the FBI and CIA…It was also learned from the investigation that the CIA---with the collusion of a secret Committee of Forty headed by Henry Kissinger—had worked to ”destabilize” the Chilean government headed by Salvadore Allende , a Marxist who had been elected president in one of the rare free elections in Latin America.” (pp.554). For a more balanced view on the complicity of Kissinger and his role in U.S foreign policy, moreover his role in the death of Allende, see or read the acclaimed movie or book: The Trials Henry Kissinger.

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Jul 5, 2016

Jul 5, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC

paul-a-moon

From Here

Though you lose, thus becoming an intimate as a lover or friend, brother or sister, parent, you will always lose through attrition or accident. We know that 9/11’s are attrition and love is always an accident, because we reap what we sow, and never choose whom we love. Attrition is the rain, forming from pressure within the skies, high and low temperatures at Armageddon: yin and yang becoming earth’s tears. Accident is the rain, vilifying the evil of being from these two lessers of the skies, love is sought but never found or found at odd places: yin and yang becomes earth’s joy. Thus, rain is a lie, liar, lying, saying joy and love at the same time. But love is not from this world. It is not recognized, but named… “No” to the world’s belligerence. We know love is expressed by this action, yes… Thus, it’s not a lie. Love cannot be otherwise or we would’ve never crucified the Savior or our true loves for the world… Love cannot exist naked. It is always ready to be whipped, strangled, maimed as Jesus or a twice victimed Iraqui, the third world or as Salvadore Allende.* But I love the rain despite my self. It is within the reach of definitions but not confirmations. So, love like rain cannot be held hostage by human view nor divine postage. I love as it rains, I rain as I love. From here, in my prayer, let my love of rain be love. *Found in Voices of a People’s History of the United States, by Howard Zinn and Anthony Arnove, and the now canonical historical work of the United States by the same Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States: “Watergate had made both the FBI and the CIA look bad---breaking the laws they were sworn to uphold, cooperating with Nixon in his burglary jobs and illegal wiretapping. In 1975, congressional committees in the House [of Representatives] and Senate began investigations of both the FBI and CIA…It was also learned from the investigation that the CIA---with the collusion of a secret Committee of Forty headed by Henry Kissinger—had worked to ”destabilize” the Chilean government headed by Salvadore Allende , a Marxist who had been elected president in one of the rare free elections in Latin America.” (pp.554). For a more balanced view on the complicity of Kissinger and his role in U.S foreign policy, moreover his role in the death of Allende, see or read the acclaimed movie or book: The Trials Henry Kissinger.

33

I. Double edged swords Every evening, spring keeps its marriage to winter. Twilight is crazily quilt in orange as purple with scattering grays, sage stars calmly coalescing and being built into constellations… The twilight air imposed winter’s silence. People slit these pavements as capricious walkers. There is a squirrel within and out of trees, or cat eating a rat in a squeaking swallow. Are the homeless equal to BlackWater’s scrounging what state alms exists? No…Night’s misery is never silent, so unseen more---that is civilization…Whores of industry are its captains. Blood subsidies, **** ravage and revile Eve and Mary: our Mothers in regret over humanity. Keep Palestine’s Olive Tree in heart… Eastern Star, and Western Constellations, weep for the nameless and defenseless ramparts of refugees: Moses again… Here in Queens, Manhattan’s gaudy skyline rapports a look of 11th Avenue’s Rahab’s face. Scenes of red and blue, white broken teeth buildings from too many ******** and pained spleens of her here and there, everywhere, “It’s a living…” Ugliness has a pretty face, it progresses… Winter’s chill will soon be here, not forgiving those who are homeless from God, homeless from being brethren’s keepers. We are quick winter. Death is us, and we are death, endless because of our need for a monied physique . Poems are for poets, sing. As you were silenced, your song was written in winters oblique in their endings, its prayers against the NKVD KGB and un-repenting CIA, a spoken covenant to the people, and the words rhymed against the powerful from Stalin to Reagan… We’re blessed for the verbal and intellectual knife of verse. We must sing against state’s sin. As you did scrawling on soap bars habitual, writing, with burnt matches, ritual. II. Your Legend Called ***** and nun, there’s a price for being a poet: never sequestered in black and white terms, clerk or captain king or peasant, Christian or pagan: our stamps earned in civilization. By seeing things in gray, a poet intuits monsters we knew as children are real as warheads once aimed at one another. Our hands, their lingering fingers and palms, can either be nailed on a martyr’s arms, or holding a scythe or Wesson. Your wishes were fists wounding your heart---your anguishes. Why did subtle music bloom from your lips? Why hadn’t your tongue expressed bitterness from the Muses of lonely Siberia or **** bombs---destroying statues of Maria in Saint Petersburg? Why did your voice remain? There are only questions about you, for your pain and joy seemed the same: you cried. It surely seemed both should have died. Drinking ***** was surcease from bureaucrats, to your son’s exile to Siberia, these cruel cascades of the state. Watch the platoons, and see their eyes in long ceremonial parades for the state’s saints: dying from heart attacks before your mourned demise. Did one shed a tear? Only posterity knows. As the present can infer, veterans are always “was” and “were”, never now here… In here, where the written word was a noose, and sentences were genocide, thus a paragraph, a stanza, or even an essay was inconceivable horror people receiving an order’s end. In here, where order promulgates, where time is counted by snowflakes where space is counted by snowflakes, why is never asked, it’s just struck with, “Do.” But, it was when despair was thick withered winter branches, without hint of leaves or spring, love needed anguish to show its strength love needed this psaltery against death. III. The seen and unseen Thinking of you Anna, ah this world. Then, as the world lives and does as just bearing witness, the guts to live and bear pain is in the poet’s voice, in the saint the seemingly graceless soldier ****** Matthew, Saul, Romero. Song found, song lost Song of Songs, the poet names the names of all to give monsters and empires a voice to be seen and unseen, with a cold lunar heart, and to let prayer come as souls decapitated from this Palestine, this Armenia, this Navajo nation, with a left-handed signature, tear written.

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Jun 8, 2016

Jun 8, 2016 at 9:14 AM UTC

paul-a-moon

In Memory of Anna Akhmatova

I. Double edged swords Every evening, spring keeps its marriage to winter. Twilight is crazily quilt in orange as purple with scattering grays, sage stars calmly coalescing and being built into constellations… The twilight air imposed winter’s silence. People slit these pavements as capricious walkers. There is a squirrel within and out of trees, or cat eating a rat in a squeaking swallow. Are the homeless equal to BlackWater’s scrounging what state alms exists? No…Night’s misery is never silent, so unseen more---that is civilization…Whores of industry are its captains. Blood subsidies, **** ravage and revile Eve and Mary: our Mothers in regret over humanity. Keep Palestine’s Olive Tree in heart… Eastern Star, and Western Constellations, weep for the nameless and defenseless ramparts of refugees: Moses again… Here in Queens, Manhattan’s gaudy skyline rapports a look of 11th Avenue’s Rahab’s face. Scenes of red and blue, white broken teeth buildings from too many ******** and pained spleens of her here and there, everywhere, “It’s a living…” Ugliness has a pretty face, it progresses… Winter’s chill will soon be here, not forgiving those who are homeless from God, homeless from being brethren’s keepers. We are quick winter. Death is us, and we are death, endless because of our need for a monied physique . Poems are for poets, sing. As you were silenced, your song was written in winters oblique in their endings, its prayers against the NKVD KGB and un-repenting CIA, a spoken covenant to the people, and the words rhymed against the powerful from Stalin to Reagan… We’re blessed for the verbal and intellectual knife of verse. We must sing against state’s sin. As you did scrawling on soap bars habitual, writing, with burnt matches, ritual. II. Your Legend Called ***** and nun, there’s a price for being a poet: never sequestered in black and white terms, clerk or captain king or peasant, Christian or pagan: our stamps earned in civilization. By seeing things in gray, a poet intuits monsters we knew as children are real as warheads once aimed at one another. Our hands, their lingering fingers and palms, can either be nailed on a martyr’s arms, or holding a scythe or Wesson. Your wishes were fists wounding your heart---your anguishes. Why did subtle music bloom from your lips? Why hadn’t your tongue expressed bitterness from the Muses of lonely Siberia or **** bombs---destroying statues of Maria in Saint Petersburg? Why did your voice remain? There are only questions about you, for your pain and joy seemed the same: you cried. It surely seemed both should have died. Drinking ***** was surcease from bureaucrats, to your son’s exile to Siberia, these cruel cascades of the state. Watch the platoons, and see their eyes in long ceremonial parades for the state’s saints: dying from heart attacks before your mourned demise. Did one shed a tear? Only posterity knows. As the present can infer, veterans are always “was” and “were”, never now here… In here, where the written word was a noose, and sentences were genocide, thus a paragraph, a stanza, or even an essay was inconceivable horror people receiving an order’s end. In here, where order promulgates, where time is counted by snowflakes where space is counted by snowflakes, why is never asked, it’s just struck with, “Do.” But, it was when despair was thick withered winter branches, without hint of leaves or spring, love needed anguish to show its strength love needed this psaltery against death. III. The seen and unseen Thinking of you Anna, ah this world. Then, as the world lives and does as just bearing witness, the guts to live and bear pain is in the poet’s voice, in the saint the seemingly graceless soldier ****** Matthew, Saul, Romero. Song found, song lost Song of Songs, the poet names the names of all to give monsters and empires a voice to be seen and unseen, with a cold lunar heart, and to let prayer come as souls decapitated from this Palestine, this Armenia, this Navajo nation, with a left-handed signature, tear written.

103

(In commemoration of August 9, 1945) The tree will follow Hiroshima and Nagasaki* winds by its hearts. “Yes” if winds wade up and down “No” if winds whip across and crosswind. The tree’s will is in the leaves… All leaves are hearts by having ventricles and atriums in their own ways--- even in the cactus and pines--- just watch carefully and listen astutely to their bristly rustling… All leaves sway, sigh, and sometimes, sing because they are the tree’s hearts: open to sunshine and rain pour; blight and moonlight---- the true meaning of love! Here, my love, I’m just a servant of your branches, bark, and most of all your lovely and deep roots. *Nagasaki was the center of Japanese Catholicism by early Jesuit missions

0

Jun 8, 2016

Jun 8, 2016 at 9:07 AM UTC

paul-a-moon

Tree's Valentine

(In commemoration of August 9, 1945) The tree will follow Hiroshima and Nagasaki* winds by its hearts. “Yes” if winds wade up and down “No” if winds whip across and crosswind. The tree’s will is in the leaves… All leaves are hearts by having ventricles and atriums in their own ways--- even in the cactus and pines--- just watch carefully and listen astutely to their bristly rustling… All leaves sway, sigh, and sometimes, sing because they are the tree’s hearts: open to sunshine and rain pour; blight and moonlight---- the true meaning of love! Here, my love, I’m just a servant of your branches, bark, and most of all your lovely and deep roots. *Nagasaki was the center of Japanese Catholicism by early Jesuit missions

22

Alien and unwanted, my smile always singed my lips. Platitudes polite and civilization vile… Many times, I longed to prelude my burdens to him, my husband. But, love is no longer the case… What a woman gives up for an end to live happily ever after… An access to be one with another’s world… I felt a freedom in slitting my brother’s throat as seasons ebbed and eddied with each part of him was discarded for my love’s need for an empire. I felt the moment, the freedom of Fatherland. Lived within this foreign land of endless lies, Amen. A wife-time of anguish for a man… I’m resplendent Eve: noting wishes beyond Adam’s and God’s assignments. Jason: husband, an end, has been… I’m slitting our children’s throats on this dark continent as me, an alien for one thing you to see: making my own exile’s scene…

0

Jun 3, 2016

Jun 3, 2016 at 4:40 AM UTC

paul-a-moon

Medea

Alien and unwanted, my smile always singed my lips. Platitudes polite and civilization vile… Many times, I longed to prelude my burdens to him, my husband. But, love is no longer the case… What a woman gives up for an end to live happily ever after… An access to be one with another’s world… I felt a freedom in slitting my brother’s throat as seasons ebbed and eddied with each part of him was discarded for my love’s need for an empire. I felt the moment, the freedom of Fatherland. Lived within this foreign land of endless lies, Amen. A wife-time of anguish for a man… I’m resplendent Eve: noting wishes beyond Adam’s and God’s assignments. Jason: husband, an end, has been… I’m slitting our children’s throats on this dark continent as me, an alien for one thing you to see: making my own exile’s scene…

26

I’ve learned to love a blade’s edge… I am nobody and somebody with nowhere to go: the border between Manhattan’s East and West Streets ground and stone reason and faith mother and father, the Father and the Son. I’m the Holy Spirit, the shadow always mediating between phrases “Serve me” and “Agape”… I am this sentence. I want you, for this moment; this sliver between life and death, this Mississippi cutting through a continent. I was in Adam, after his expulsion: Let the green apple be lodged in my throat while washed in the image of Eden before I leave, so in cursing my fate and love what is… Sharp and dangerous, always ready to use conscience and **** according to judgment, the thrill, the second where happiness and sadness is satisfaction, I am there. Nothing ever gets done without me. I am a peninsula, imparting land to waters and seas divinity to mortality: Pentecostal. The blade’s edge ready to cut and be cut. In the name of the Father and the Son and me Amen… Go to heaven if you cannot accept hell. Go to hell if you cannot accept heaven. As any mediator, I am a nation unto myself, my fate, my exile.

0

Jun 3, 2016

Jun 3, 2016 at 4:37 AM UTC

paul-a-moon

Holy Spirit

I’ve learned to love a blade’s edge… I am nobody and somebody with nowhere to go: the border between Manhattan’s East and West Streets ground and stone reason and faith mother and father, the Father and the Son. I’m the Holy Spirit, the shadow always mediating between phrases “Serve me” and “Agape”… I am this sentence. I want you, for this moment; this sliver between life and death, this Mississippi cutting through a continent. I was in Adam, after his expulsion: Let the green apple be lodged in my throat while washed in the image of Eden before I leave, so in cursing my fate and love what is… Sharp and dangerous, always ready to use conscience and **** according to judgment, the thrill, the second where happiness and sadness is satisfaction, I am there. Nothing ever gets done without me. I am a peninsula, imparting land to waters and seas divinity to mortality: Pentecostal. The blade’s edge ready to cut and be cut. In the name of the Father and the Son and me Amen… Go to heaven if you cannot accept hell. Go to hell if you cannot accept heaven. As any mediator, I am a nation unto myself, my fate, my exile.

35