This human face,
This human form.
This human shape,
This human torn.
This human soul,
This human worn,
This one is wretched,
That one is forlorn.
This one is torn between
Two polarized beings
Between a monk and a sage,
The weakness of power,
And the power of weakness
Power, weakness, fragility, identity, human,
In my poetry,
I choose the perfectly wrong word.
Life conflicts and conflates over time,
So much that
Rivers masquerade as murderers,
Pilgrims as saints,
Songs ruin marriages and
That which acquaints,
Only distracts and baits.
Like an eye transfixed by a line of roses
That are subdued like a harlot's reclining poses,
He sees shapes, one illuminating the next
Of different layers of fullness,
Of hue and form
They all conflate and are completed with the eye.
art, floral, flowers, painting
If you meditate on one poem, you can learn more from that one poem than an entire book read carelessly
Is music more like women weeping,
Or giant glaciers melting
It is both, for through all speaks the One.
One is a human reaction, like light coursing through
The other Nature's blunt abandon.
What makes music pious,
And women chaste,
Is the straining for perfection,
In the name of God and his image
This force is distinguished from clockwork
As every adage can attest.
Within the straining Man is this mission,
And what is life without purpose?
Knowledge from the Lord
Is unknowable without effort
And we must distinguish
The clockwork of the good,
From the underlying mission.
Only the mountains stand together
As a choral refrain
Highlights nature alone and together.
The swells as low as nature's valley grasses.
The notes reach as high as tundra's barren fields
How we know with you, and without you
Know how you might appear,
As a ghost foreshadows
To the knowing soul
only the word of the Lord
Could ever match thee
For within its secret duality lies the temporal,
And in the temporal is the infinite.