This summer I saw mountains
   Thrusting out of the sea,
   And mountains mellowed with age,
   Rounded, softer, quietly returning to the sea.

I saw Redwoods: massive
   Majestic, alive,
   And marveled as I held seeds
   From which they thrive.

I wondered at hands that could be so old
   As those that carved the living stone
  In rocks by the sea;

I stood in awe hundreds of feet
   Beneath blankets of branches
   Of ancient trees.

I listened as mountainous streams
   Sang songs of the sources
   Of life-giving waters.

I saw flowers too many to name
   Running up and down grassy hillsides,
   In and out of pine-scented forests,
   Along rivers,
   Through meadows,
   Etc.
   Etc.
   Etc.*

But why am I telling you this?
   Because, of course,
   I must prove I am free,
   That I can see beauty
   all around me.
But it seems
   The less I feel free,
   The less beauty I see, and
   The louder I shout, “I am free, I am free”,
   The more I scream, “I see, I see”.
It’s all a game,
   You see;
   you see.

I just try to follow the rules.

                                                        ­        August 1, 1970
                                                            ­  *(edited 10/11/2014)

Sonya posed
by the Eiffel Tower

I had my box
Brownie Cresta camera
I took a photo or two
trying to get her in focus
bring in the Tower
behind her

she smiled
and put her hands
on her hips
as dames do

her blonde hair
was bunched
behind her
in a ponytail
her face looked drawn

afterwards we went
for a coffee
at some bar
down by the Seine

and she sat there
with one leg
over the other
the foot dangling

I sat opposite
******* through
the French money
looking at the notes

you should read
Kierkegaard
she said
leave Nietzsche
to the Germans

I prefer Nietzsche
he's more realistic
I said

Kierkegaard
is more religious
and more positive
she said

the waiter came
and we ordered our coffees
and he went off

Kierkegaard
is Danish like me
she said

not so good looking though
I said
and he's been dead
sometime

she lit up a cigarette
and offered me one
I took and lit up
and inhaled

there's something
about Paris
I like
the atmosphere
the way these people
just live here
all this history
all the art
I said
as I exhaled smoke

cultural capital
of the world
she said

I listened
as she went on
about this artist
and that
and who did what
and when

as she spoke
the waiter returned
with our coffees
and went off again

I sipped mine
remembering her
coming out
of the bath
the night before
like some Venus
all stark and bare
shaking her head
letting loose
the water
from her long
blonde hair.

Daughter,
you are a cathedral.
Your ribs rise in vaulted grace,
the nave of your mouth stands open,
and cloister arms,
extend.
Your skin's stretch marks
are etched like stained glass,
Flame light flickers in your eyes.
Wonder of time and art,
made by divine hands,
You are more beautiful than Notre Dame
and all her souls.

When the men come to pray,
Do not let them
desecrate this house.
Stand unshaken,
as the bombs burst around you.
You will tremble.
But you will not fall.

Enfold the weary pilgrim
who comes to you by night.
Sanctuary
he will say.
And find it, in you.

Rainy days and Mondays
Piloting my car like a
river boat captain
on a shiny Mississippi
It is morning but still dark
an eye dropper of blue has
been added to the sky
and what was once black
has now slowly spread to purple
A purple macchiato in the atmosphere

I pass by a convenient store
It looks like an oasis in the dark rain
Soft blue lights reflecting on wet asphalt, illuminated marquee
an old cinematographer trick  

This is my time
This is where I live
This is me.
My true self
before,
I am stained by work

~~~


boxes of my poems

LOST

i still grieve.


♥ soulsurvivor