In a quiet inn
         in an aching world
there was a boy with mind
body and strength
he had the talent
the unyielding bent
to wield his power
to unrelent
he was sometimes cruel
he was often sweet
he was sometimes gentle
his word carried heat
people loved him so
his poise and candor
his mind was a joy
his work was pure splendor

he was asked
         from time to time
if you could lead us
with your mind sublime
what would you do
where would we go?
         beyond, he'd say,
to the stars and depths
to the moons and mountains
to the planets and systems
how long,
         they'd say,
would you lead us, hence?
         "A thousand years and a thousand more
         a thousand thence and evermore."

his rise was swift
his patience deep
to the destitute, favor
to the broken, weep
his gifts were vast
his counsel practical
his word was bond
and ever magical
he trounced the greedy
imprisoned the malicious
righted all the wrongs
seldom vicious
and before long
his rule was secured
a man of justice and principle
tenets of cure
how long,
         they'd say,
will you lead us, hence?
         "A thousand years and a thousand more
         a thousand thence and evermore!"
we wish it so!


trouble gradually
like bubbles passively
breaking the surface
of his grand design
officials profited
underclass maligned
body for profit
"all are mine"
there was danger in the air
ripples in the well
poison in the minds
infirmity with no care
and sickness took hold
people lost their hope
they questioned Great Lord Marra,
how long,
          they'd say,
will you lead us, hence?
          "A thousand years and a thousand more
          don't ask me again
          or there will be
          more..."

Chaos in the streets
desenters rounded
deserters uprooted
populace cowered
education
to the masses
knowledge of rights and potential
traded for respect of rule and power
hour by hour
day by day
toil was spilt
for the grand design
the work of tyranny
is cruel and violent
so was Grand Lord Marra
never certain
never quiet
         he would ask of his subjects,
         how long shall I rule?
they'd say,
         "A thousand years! A thousand years!"
"Never forget it!"
         we shant, our lord

Whispers arose
of a new power rising
someone true
someone firm
someone compassionate
someone alight
he roused the dreams in the soul
he broke the chains in the heart
he walked the roads that were barred
he climbed the mountain forbade
and slowly people turned to him
away from Grand Lord Marra
and that tyrannical father felt it
he felt the waning of his power

Like a dragon in the bowels
of our precious, sacred, love
Marra tightened around that
which the people ever adored
the grand design of toil
the great work of tyranny
the state paid for with blood
that whose edifice was a crypt for the innocent
and that someone who was hero
stepped up to that edifice
with chisel, hammer, pen, and passion,
he carved away that
which held the malice within
he let out all
of the death and destruction
that Grand Lord Marra
had caged in the people
the world played with their shadows
that had been nailed to the edifice and its steeple
and in time they shook free
of Grand Lord Marra's tyranny
for when they learned their freedom once more
the old lord looked old and feeble
not a thousand years
       nor a thousand years more
               nor a thousand years hence
                        and nevermore
just 66 years
it took to break free
of Grand Lord Marra
and his projected
infirmities

The illness left them all
         breaths of relief swept the nation
and the hero who had come
         was crowned the king of freedom
and he taught all who followed
how to wield the power he knew
how to be free as well
and every dragon of delusion slew
        peace would not reign forever
        new chaos would come
stronger than the last
        strong as the world and its evolving sun
but in this age, there was peace
        joy like never before
                 and our hero's name was remembered
evermore
evermore
        he did not live a thousand years
but his stories certainly lived longer
in the hearts of the people
in the hearts that were won

Yet a strange thing occurred
       sure as night conquers day
Grand Marra's visions of the future
       did not decay
                 they became the bedrock
of future design
        for light rests on darkness
the grand design
        two sides of the coin
yours
and mine

darkness for foundation
        light for revealing its depth
pathway into the future
        left and right steps...

e com essa marra sua
eu faço nosso laço
e ajeito nosso passo
como quem se perpetua

e com esse teu jeitinho
eu nos desenho, sem pressa
te encho de carinho
e o delírio me atravessa

na tua cama
contorno as tuas linhas
que eu sei não serem minhas
mas trato como quem ama

e nesse paralelo criado
nesse universo só nosso
eu faço o que posso
pra ver o mundo atravessado

como quem ama
meu bem

Al campo, dove roggio nel filare
qualche pampano brilla, e dalle fratte
sembra la nebbia mattinal fumare,
arano: a lente grida, uno le lente
vacche spinge; altri semina; un ribatte
le porche con sua marra paziente;
ché il passero saputo in cor già gode,
e il tutto spia dai rami irti del moro;
e il pettirosso: nelle siepi s'ode
il suo sottil tintinnio come d'oro.

-------------_


Sobbing into palms on the front porch.
Is this our story?
Highways, rushing speeds, is this our story?

Little Marra's wide eyed opaqueness.
Is this our story?

There's a line in a song, it's Pink Floyd, not their best song, I'm sure a Tibetan monk words it better but I'm lazy. I do not wish to search the google gods to find a deeper way to say it.
The song is "I wish you were here"
The line goes:
"We're just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl, year after year, running over the same old ground what have we found? The same old fears"

So I'm sitting on a mountain facing new realities.

Is this our life,
Layed out over the back table
like the time **** played memory games with the cards, sprawled over white plastic,
That wooden deck,
winds blowing cards into ruffets of thin air.

Is this our lives,
As we try
to apply
Ourselves to these forces before us,
As we move our bodies to rhythms
Only to deeply aware of
The disposable landscapes

Is this our earth?
As ancient hands
Let sands
Slip
Through fingertips
Is this our story?
We ask
When death rips
At family
And we run away from the emotions
Streaming from our lips.

Who are we but souls in bodies
Living out picturesque moments,
Gritty unpleasant moments
All the moments

Is this us holding hands on swing sets at twilight?
Using all our might to hold on
When the rabbit hole has opened and we're slipping down
But even when we've hit the ground
What have we found?

A million moments before us, a million shapes we mold into
Running into open blue
Unwinding into
the only thing
true
This light behind the minds eye,
Looking into you
until you
is me
is you
is we
What do you see?

Is this our lives on a standstill
Ferocious oceans
Or just moving motions
Broken down to a cell,
Is it hell,
Or heaven as well?
Whose to tell?

We just orbit somewhere between
A gazillion worlds
Trying to place it,
Trying to hold on
But this molecular wind
Is moving strong
and
We're drifting
Along
May as well sing a song
Get lost, so, so, so lost
Get found
Get wound
Unbound
Round and round

I heard a Pink Floyd song "we're just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl year after year, what have we found?"
Nothing yet everything,
so just keep on living it
(whatever IT is)
For all its glory
You get the pen,
It's your story.

I don't wish you were here
I've let myself fall
Until I'm not me at all
How can I wish when
I go swish swish
At the speed of light
Your on your own flight
Diving off the deep end,
Somehow we're still in the fishbowl
No matter how many times we roll
Out of this moat
What's it all about ?
Trying to stay afloat
Or releasing
as this boat
Rocks us deeper
And deeper into
absolute nothingness.

This is our stories

Splayed before the minds eye

So cry all you can cry

And live it for all its glory

Feel all you can feel

You get the pen,

Now write your hearts story.
------

-

AS DEW IN APRYLLE

It is as if
he has fallen

from the end of
the 15th century

into this
present day.

A Friday as it
happens.

And falling from
century to century

he has lost weight
the flesh fallen from him

so that
Simon Sadd

(“Sadd by name…sadd by nature!”)

arrives at this
particular now

nothing but
a bag of bones

with a skin
that no longer fits him.

As if…as if
he had once been a fat man

and Time had
thinned him…tamed him.

And so it is
I bathe him

sing songs for him
recite for him

carols, poems, hymns
anything

that lets him escape
even for a moment

this nursing home.

My voice carries him
back to his Norfolk childhood

where his mother
bathes him

on some forgotten Friday
in the once upon a time.

Soap stings his eyes
then and now.

“Moder ‘ud give us
such a ding on the lug.”

He laughs as if
she were there.

“Cor blarst me...stop yer blarin!
Such a sharmin’!”

he scolds himself
with her voice.

Then she’d hush me with…
“I SYNG OF A MAYDEN”

“I syng of a mayden
þat is makeles,
kyng of alle kynges
to here sone che ches.”

I finish it for him.

“My heart alive…how does
a yung feller like you…no dat!”

  
“He came also stylle
þer his moder was
as dew in aprylle,
þat fallyt on þe gras.”

“You must have high learnin’
bor!”

He, for his part,
creates a world of words.

I enter entranced
into his voice

where a ladybird
transforms itself into

a bishy barneybee!

A woodlouse
becomes a Charley pig.

A jasper
is a wasp.

“Ahhh look a King Harry
by the Lady’s smock!”

And when I look
the goldfinch has

already flown away
into the lost years.

The Canterberry Bells
still…so still

“…as dew in Aprylle.”

His mind a “bishy bishy
barneybee…”

“When will yer weddin’ be?
he says softly to himself

“If it be a ‘marra day..."
I towel him dry.

“Tairk yer wings an’
floi away!”

Al campo, dove roggio nel filare
qualche pampano brilla, e dalle fratte
sembra la nebbia mattinal fumare,
arano: a lente grida, uno le lente
vacche spinge; altri semina; un ribatte
le porche con sua marra paziente;
ché il passero saputo in cor già gode,
e il tutto spia dai rami irti del moro;
e il pettirosso: nelle siepi s'ode
il suo sottil tintinnio come d'oro.

Al campo, dove roggio nel filare
qualche pampano brilla, e dalle fratte
sembra la nebbia mattinal fumare,
arano: a lente grida, uno le lente
vacche spinge; altri semina; un ribatte
le porche con sua marra paziente;
ché il passero saputo in cor già gode,
e il tutto spia dai rami irti del moro;
e il pettirosso: nelle siepi s'ode
il suo sottil tintinnio come d'oro.