~

his call to dew
lands on my list;
leaves these
hands a-wringin',
a most sweaty
palm encounter!
the shelves behind
my closet's door yields
not a single rament;
no festive threads
to adorn these
aching bones.
none to hide,
behind or 'neath,
my frail frame
unclothed and bare.
words that once
fell neatly from
these lips, and
prose that flowed
like notes of gold,
a tapestry of hues,
to wrap my soul within,
now lies still, silent.
****** river dammed,
no clothing formed
to dance upon this loom.
but taking the cake,
this lover leaves me
waiting, wanting,
at this counter.
only, just desserts
within my reach;
though none of
choicest choosing.
seems all my friends
are winning,
writers righting
wrongs alighting
alone, am i
the only losing!
my dew list but
a faint mirage.
to this mistress then
i bid adieu!
knowing vastly more
the notes of being,
to do's becoming
but a distant path!

~

post script.

as this feeble frame slowly ages, its output diminished with each passing year, it wants to believe it's only 20, but these bones and joints say otherwise. nowhere is this more evident than in the words that become stuck between synapses and pen.  so when a beloved fellow poet pitched a "call to arms," this was the best this mind was able to muster. here's to hoping it's just a momentary lapse in creativity!!  

cheers to all you aging poets!!  Steve

my heart you reeled in


         without even asking 


my permission

~

he is a stone...

one side
polished smoothly;
the tumbling years,
the pain of tears,
in currents swift
cannot resist them
water’s unyielding flow;
to pain the edges
falling,
yielding slow.

yet another side exists;
a side so deeply etched,
with thoughts contrived
for sole survival;
where words belie a depth
in soul's arrival;
made whole, a step removed
from hope bereft,
for in the naked light,
of bleating heart's
interrogation room,
a bottom lies
of darkest night...
here beginnings of
a ressurection,
a will to be
so long as there is
air to breathe!

which side they see
is of his choosing;
his composure rich
a brief exposure is,
just the smallest glimpse,
but for a moment
what he shares.
for he has learned
that rocks are not
so hard as he
once thought;
and fissures deep,
can be revealed,
as cracked and broken,
if to all in this
unfeeling world,
he bares his truest soul.
and so he hides
the other side,
unyielded to
outside control.

with certainty,
his stone has
two faces.

~

*post script.

if we are honest with ourselves, do we not all have two faces? and is not this honesty our impetus... become our empathy... for others?
for me,  it is this honesty that allows me to love what i would not otherwise love in others.

~

he knew the hour had come,
to keep a promise he had made.
the time to settle up,
and now a note that must be paid.
the price he’d never argued,
the terms... oh, these were clear;
but he’d not imagined this,
the cost of giving up
his freedom he held dear.
in retrospect he could have run,
he surely wouldn’t be the first;
but it was something in her eyes
that said, “boy, this ain't your worst
nightmare!  trust me hon,
to leave would be a downward slide.
best stay and walk this aisle, love,
it don't pay to leave behind your bride.
my brother’s worn his runnin’ boots,
and daddy brought his gun;
his hound dog knows your scent,
try runnin’ boy, you might be done.
if i were you i’d weigh the odds,
and besides...
is it me you fancy on your arm?
or would you wish instead
the jaws of daddy’s dog?”

~

*post script.

not my story, just my wild imagination running down the street. the thought of it made me smile and when i read it to my sweet wife she chuckled aloud. so if you did too, i will consider my work here to be done!  enjoy, my friends!!
(: Steve

~

do you believe?  

hold that thought!

what you are about to take is a journey.  my telling of this journey is brief; we poets are after all not well known for our long attention spans.  this is a tale of astronomic proportions, an epic years in the making, and now centuries old.

have you ever considered this?  the starry host above us cannot lie.  its movements are as sure as the movement of the clock; as predictable as the tide, a sunset's hour and as precise as a moon-rise's geo-placement at our horizon- precisely where it will rise and at precisely what time.  it is after all  precisely the study and understanding of such things that allowed us to place mankind on the surface of the moon, to know precisely where she would be before she got there, therefore permitting us to plan the journey well ahead of time, a journey that took three days of travelling once it began...  and then returning those men home to us.  but back to our larger journey.  

such things only require an understanding of relatively simple mathematics and a knowledge of each unique planetary orbit.  the only questions remaining then, ones that require acceptance of less proveable things, is do the events of the starry host above us reflect back or point to us, to humanity? are they a fortelling of earthly events and eventuallly a coinciding with earthly events? some have trouble believing such things.  for me, it is not a leap to accept that the visibly established order above me (what we call astronomy) is simply a mirror of the order below, here surrrounding me.  but then that takes us back to the first question... do...   you...   believe?  for this part... it requires acceptance ... acceptance that some things are true, though i cannot see them.  some call this "faith," though i think "acceptance" is more relateable, and therefore a far better word.

if i have not lost you yet, thank you for reading this far!! please continue the journey.

like me, have you ever wondered... what is (or what was) the Bethlehem Star?  according to some who research historically astronomic events, the “Bethlehem Star” was no star at all.  but more on that after the poem... for is that not the purpose of these walls?  

below is a poem birthed out of their research... the poem mine, the research compiled by smarter folks than i.

Virgo's child

~

oh, planetary royalty,
and mother of the sky,
your celestial stage of six,
a ballad echoing our hopeful cry;
pirouette the stars amidst,
sets a course for rising king,
closer with each night's descent,
hope, your brilliant union brings.
conjunctive encore heaven sent,
today our song in advent sings!

oh, wise men of the east,
following a westward star,
the king you sought
you found because,
discontent you were,
to be a distant onlooker
from your home afar.

hallelujahs here composing,
with stunning care the stars portending,
in universal magnitude,
oh fallen man your dirge is ending.
in retrograding motion,
encircled thrice your halo spun,
Virgo’s child in coronation,
the starry night foretells,
and with splendid sky’s array
the joyful birth of king pronounces

oh, wise men of the east,
following a beckoning star,
bearing gifts you came,
and on bended knee
you offered praise, for
empty-handed for a king,
is no fitting offering.

look to the sky, you men of earth;
behold your king in humble birth!
a stable for his sleeping head,
here rocks a mother’s babe;
what Adam lost, in him restored,
oh, Virgo’s child, and living Lord.

~

*post script.

~ Cast~
the six acclaimed celestial actors/actresses of this starry dance

Role ° Played By ° ​Meaning/Symbol

Moon ° ​the Moon ° life cycle symbolism
Star ° ​Regulus​ ° ​King of stars (regal king)
Planet 1​ ° ​Jupiter ° ​King of planets
Planet 2 ° ​Venus ° ​Mother of planets
Constellation 1​ ° ​Leo ° ​the Lion (heavenly kingship and tribal significance)
Constellation 2 ° ​Virgo ° ​the ****** (maidenly and earthly significance)

the basis for this write can be found here...
add: http://www.
to: bethlehemstar.com/setting-the-stage/what-was-the-star/

in summary --
whatever it was, the Star of Bethlehem needs meet nine qualifications to plausibly satisfy what is written in the Biblical accounts:
1. The first conjunction signified birth by its association to the day with Virgo “birthing” the new moon. Some might argue that the unusual triple conjunction by itself could be taken to indicate a new king.
2. The Planet of King’s coronation of the Star of Kings signified kingship.
3. The triple conjunction began with the Jewish New Year and took place within Leo, showing a connection with the Jewish tribe of Judah (and prophecies of the Jewish Messiah).
4. Jupiter rises in the east.
5. The conjunctions appeared at precise, identifiable times.
6. Herod, puppet King under Roman rule, was unaware of these things; they were astronomical events which had significance only when explained by experts.
7. The events took place over a span of time sufficient for the Magi to see them both from the East and upon their arrival in Jerusalem.
8. Jupiter was ahead of the Magi as they traveled south from Jerusalem to Bethlehem.
9. Jupiter “stops” as it enters retrograde motion “over Bethlehem.”  On December 25 of 2 BC it enters retrograde and reaches full stop in its travel through the fixed stars. The Magi viewing from Jerusalem would have seen it “stopped” in the sky above the town of Bethlehem.

according to astronomical research of historical events, the “Bethlehem Star” is, at least by this explanation, no star at all, but was instead Jupiter’s rendezvous (planetary conjunction) with Venus in 2 BC.  this is a tale of two planets normally radiant and distinguishable forming a single-looking, indistinguishable, and never-before-in -their-life-time-appearing large and radiantly brilliant “star”, which when coupled with each of the previous eight facets creates a most noteworthy series of events, all of which match words written centuries previous, and pointed their gaze to a pivotal and altering point in mankind’s history.  

now back to the beginning question...  do...  you...  believe?

(publication of this write is intended to coincide with the first of the four Sundays of Advent, 2015.  tis the season for Merry Christmas, my friends!)

~

rivlets form beneath his feet,
where sun-parched dust
begins to weep, as it has
ten-thousand times before;
water’s endless cycle courses,
to the valleys from the hills;
retracing paths from end to source.
how many lover’s bodies
have been washed anew,
in streams of cleansing flow,
in this flood that ever cleans?
how many runner’s skyward faces
turned to welcome cooling rain;
or young girl’s pretty dresses
river-laundered; or young lips
taste of heavenly wine?
how many farmers bent a knee,
to offer grateful homage
for a gentle early sign, of
this whispered blessing,
awak’ning slumbering seeds?
have you e’re considered this...
these refreshing drops so sweet,
distilled in heaven’s winery,
bear every moment sensory;
a show of nature’s finest.
drops and sprinkles carry
every tear of grief and joy,
humanity has every cried.
a cistern gath’ring mem’ries,
like the tide gathers shells;
awash in collected tears,
caught up in heavenly swell.
oh spring that ever cools,
oh well that ever quenches...
to water we are drawn to go;
our immersion deep,
in rainfall’s drenching flow.
to its sound we drift to sleep;
caress to calm and soothe the aches;
lakeside dip for tired feet;
it's thunderous roar the soul awakes.

~

*post script.

water... so many forms, all around us, yet none is really new... only renewed!

~

his ropes are worn but hold the strain;
they’ve seen far worse in wind, in rain.
his deck is bare, his winch is full,
his back and arms ache. yet again;
though soon his catch the hold will fill,
with hissing jaws and snapping claws;
reward of toil with traps of steel.
’neath cloud and sun, to dusk from dawn,
with weathered hand he works and sweats;
to bring to port ’fore sun has set,
there’s hungry mouths to feed at home;
a wife whose face his hands to hold.
in years still young, but days too old,
these seas have aged his weathered soul;
and eyes that peer neath bill-ed hat,
have wept as waves stole all he has;
not once, but twice they claimed his lot,
sunk to its bed like fallen stone;
but skill and luck his love has bought,
her prayers from home have brought him back.
of fable and of myth he’s made,
cup of saltiness with pinch of sin;
with baited traps he lays in wait,
yet knows he is the baited one;
for he’ll ne’er throw in these lines,
or trade his trusted trawler in.
a farmer’s life may suit his love,
but this she sees would be his end;
and so she lives each day in wait,
for his trawler's horn to sound.
this too she knows far too well,
one day his horn will sound no more.
no coffin nor a stone he’ll need;
the sea will bear him to that shore,
his lasting gift to her is them,
each child's face, his own imprint.
the sea his final resting place.
his voice to hear amidst the wind;

~

*post script.

an imagined crabber and lobsterman; with mouths to feed and a love he needs back home, owing much to prayer and good fortune, though even this has it limits as the sea's rigors daily tempt fate.  these lines mused from my own castings of traps and nets... of harvesting the sea’s bounty for a mere weekend, with my lover near at hand.  

https://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/05/magazine/a-speck-in-the-sea.html

pss.  i am many months away and life has changed; these changes are still a work in progress.  my goals too have been rearranged... death and hardship have that effect on us, though sometimes change that feels alarming actually takes us to a place of salvation; this being my constant hope!  i make no promises that i am back, only that for now i am here, and have missed you and the sacredness of these walls.

NEW YEAR INTROSPECTION PART ONE*

when is one grown up? 
a question, asked and answered,
in wise words already written, 
for tis when those gifts 
with which we are, 
have been, 
so imparted are 
returned, 
imparted,
used 
for selfless ways, 
gift received, 
becoming 
gift re-gifted,
not only shared 
but given away 
many-fold, 
imbued, 
without expectation of 
return in one's own coffers,
on those dear souls 
within one's reach...
tis then the measure 
is measured 
and the cycle complete, 
having ridden, 
rode, 
far enough down the road, 
for the rubber to have 
not only met the road, 
but even more, 
leaving for others 
who come behind, 
bits,
pieces, 
chunks, 
living, breathing matter 
that matters, 
the impartee becoming 
the imparter, 
each being 
its own proof,
proving that, 
yes indeed, 
in deed, 
gift and giver are one, 
and one is all grown up.

~

her stealthy cold awaits,
her legs are gathered ’neath,
and in bitter gusts she crouches,
waiting...
as innocent i venture out;
and as i step outside the door,
she pounces on my frame,
nearly knocks me to the ground.
she begins in subtle nibbles,
biting sharp at ears and cheeks;
and then deep her fangs sink in,
to draw my unsuspecting warmth.
my bones she chills;
my blood is curdled,
swiftly rising to the skin;
my eyes are robbed of any tears,
my gasping breath she steals,
to leave a burning in my throat;
my fingers and my toes slowly
lose their fight to feel,
and though around my neck,
is wrapped a scarf to shield
her bitter cutting wind,
my chest is filled
with winter’s frosty grip.
my hands begin to fumble,
my thighs and calves draw tight,
my feet begin to stumble,
to outrun her breath i try;
but fast in winter’s grasp,
this terror has an edge;
a sharpened knife she holds,
hard against unwitting skin.
no match for she am i,
her ruthless ways,
have all but won this round;
’til then my feet find footing,
and up the stair i fly,
my hand upon the latch,
i hurl my frame inside;
and as i slam the door behind,
her icy voice, i hear it rise,
high above her roar outside,
"next time, lover,
i will win;
i will make you mine!"

~

*post script.

brrrrrrr... few things i hate,
but this for sure,
her biting cold i do despise.