Fire walkers walk off the pain
Though each step draws the flames higher, Each breath be an act of will And your own heel the pyre. With tenacious tread I seek Early light like urban trees drink deep Of lake water and clear skies. I plant my feet, Only to stumble through The withering wasteland of my wound. I set my eye, with rigid strides Press on toward the gold. Maybe a fool: I am my own fuel, As forward motion consumes, I'm vaporized And my sparks skyward fly. Ashes To ashes, dust To dust. Each searing step I take alone, Then in the coals see marks Of other feet; upward look and meet Eyes ember bright, fingers tracing Filaments against the night. Fire walkers give off the light By which we find a way, A note or rhyme, a guiding flame, As forward motion consumes, refines, And our sparks skyward fly. Ashes To ashes, dust To dust, To gold.
Alone the third thing can't be known.
Alone, I am a cold dark stone In a universe yawning lusterless, Spinning void of aim. Then light shines In eyes and skies Of gray and blue And I am a new daymoon. Night leads the day As day ushers night; Light follows darkness As darkness the light. I follow you pull, Take my arm check my stride. You and I mark time and tide. We meet. We pass. We kiss. Eclipse. Heart quivers and the heavens shift. "Let us go then, you and I," Wend our way across the sky. The green beckons to Me and you Where green meets hues Of gray and blue. Infinite line: horizons new. Misty islands ships drift past Clouds cut by spires of stone, steel and glass Cities bright in alley pools Magic light on windswept moors. Prairie hills in gentle rain Northwood pines sun washed again Spring moss upon the forest floor Peeling paint on the unknown door. "Let us go then, you and I," Together take the road untried, Wend our way across the sky: A little sphere of green and blue Round which we dance, Me and you.
For my Love, on Valentine's Day 2019.
As pinched faces are eased and Flowers remembered
Hints of a thaw.
Even though I walked for an hour
In the snow melt mist Threading my boots Through the brown salt muck and flotsam Winter's junk food wrappers The city just stared vacantly At its own face in the lake ice Seemingly as uninspired as me
Not every day can be poetic, right?
Hangs overhead by a solitary thread
Pommel set with Lucifer's jewel Crossguard made of crescent moon The Blade a king's interminable doom
On January 31, 2019 in the darkness before dawn I witnessed the triple conjunction of Venus, Luna, and Jupiter in perfect alignment, creating the shape of a long sword in the southern sky. Venus (the "Light Bringer") adorned the pommel, the waning crescent moon formed the crossguard, and kingly Jupiter gleamed at the blade's point. The omen was revealed to me as the fabled Sword of Damocles (dam-uh-kleez) which hangs over all those in seats of power, suspended by a single strand of hair.
Blue sky over ice
And now water in my eyes Not just from cold wind
On a cold, beautiful January morning in Chicago.
Wellspring of blood and gold
In flame and glory ever Doest thou faithful rise Cast off thy vapor shrouds Radiance of ancient godhood Undimmed Magnified By singing ice as prophesied In the late darkness thy Hoped triumph heralded while Bearers chained on metalled rails Muttered hoary protest under Breath of polar air But lo! The brazen promise of thine Image graven in beholder's eye Rings hollow in the bitten ears And the stung flesh Feels thy boasted fire Not at all Above thee Stands the city's goddess proud So virile once thou smilest Upon her white clad shoulder now Ceres scorns thine impotence turns not But fixes her steeled gaze On the frozen north
Mythos of a -15˚F Chicago sunrise.