A-walking through a burial ground
as autumn’s bleak winds buffet me,
I hear plainchant that makes no sound
come from a church behind bare trees.

As I wade through seas of fallen leaves
that blanket tombs of fallen folk,
the whitewashed church’s lichened eaves
are loosely draped like a priestly cope.

Behind the church’s wooden door
comes silence sounding out a song.
Its words unsaid, no rigid score,
to the whirlwind this primal hymn belongs.

Well fortified by thick stone walls
a-quarried from the craggy heart
of this carved earth’s basalt halls,
this house still plays its sacred harp.

For though someday the sun will rise
above this temple’s gaping ruin,
its oaken rafters open to the skies,
there will go on the formless tune

whose notes compose creation’s tale
that’s told unwritten in lettered fire.
In my lungs I breathe the words
to join someday the hidden choir.

With that, this door did not lead inside
that bastion built for worshipping.
Her song instead had opened wide
my spirit for all this life will bring.

From afar, it appeared so small,
So small, in fact, that I could not make out any details.
With every step, a new detail emerged,
With every breath, new energy converged.

A stone’s trip disrupted my journey
Towards the mountain.

Anger forced me to my knees,
My muscles atrophied,
The coming winds resisted my actions.
Lightning struck close to me,
The thick morning fog blinded me,
My nights were restless and full of terrors.

Time passed regardless of action
During the journey
Towards the mountain.

Failure was certain either way:
To fail while trying or to not move further.
Yet with every step, power returned.
The lightning illuminated the path,
The fog sharpened dull focus,
Restful nights restored lost intuition.

Certainty returned on the journey
Towards the mountain.

At the apex,
The starting point seemed so small—
So small, in fact, that I could not make out any details.
With a thought, every detail emerged.

Is there a solace for words?
A place to be, asides a page
A space to be, asides a line
Tell me, is there more for words?
Asides the guile of being spoken
Or is speech all there is,
For an art form so golden.

Is there a haven for thoughts?
Like souls, it seeks solace
A page, like flesh, holds it bound
And speech, like death, sets it free
is there more for words,
Asides that which eyes can see
is memory a grave,
And thoughts a curious dig.

Where do read poems go?
The heart, the ears or the soul?
If all there is for a poem is reading,
and all there is for a soul is living,
Where do dead poets go?
The hearth, the ether or a stow?

The village church was built to last.
It would stand until Judgement Day.
Its oak rafters would hold the roof fast
above the faithful who there prayed.

The grey stone is carved with inscriptions
of verses of scripture from Father God
who would grant the faithful benedictions
as they knelt on stone flagstones in awe.

The faithful had built for generations
and for generations still to exalt:
A gold, stone, and mortar salvation
rising up to a heavenward vault.

The stone walls were decorated, gilded,
lined with the lives of the saints
whose blessings had once gently lilted
out of the colorful daubs of paint.

The saints’ faces long faded away
and the statues have hair of green moss
while a few arches still try to stay
up like stone ribs of a body now lost.

The vault now lies open and broken
with a clear view to the old God above
and its grassy shell is now a mere token
of this cathedral built to love.

The broken flagstones are now a green mat
and the nave is barren. Its grey pall
belies the colors in abundance it once had.
There’s no more shine of gold at all.

Yet the grass that grows there is still blessed
by the faithful in ground hallowed below.
I’m touched by their hushed songs still sung, caressed
by soft breath of holy wind which there flows.

Cold walls rise up and ring around
and close in to keep at bay.
Blow off the roof with a thunderclap sound,
then soar off and fly away.

Salt in our wounds,
burning, bleeding

the pain’s not
not enough

but it’s hard to
believe

wounds can’t
heal until

we’re finally
set free.

refusing to believe
we’re still here

falling, tripping
into our own fears

ever-present but
not really here

only existing,
and living
in the afterlife.

reaching the light,
chemicals collide,

we’re one step
closer to the other side.

In you I find the ultimate expression of love In you I inhale the essence of life In you there is serenity In you there is solace In you there is a vision for beauty In you there is a resolution In you there is a rhythm In you there are more solutions than problems In you it is a dance on the edge that spans between faithful and faithless In you there is optimism In you there is conviction In you there is confidence In you there is only us In you there is the whole world and beyond In you it is everything and nothing at once In you there is the ideal harmony In you there is liberty In you there is love In you words are superfluous In you emotions In you evolution In you transcendence In you wholeness

Terror evolves in the pure open space
where sparked by the doubt of one who resents
the consequence of living and knowing
nothing of the terrible, terrible
confrontation, it propounds incessant
problems of being and ceasing until
entangled Reason entangles itself
in implications of implications,

confounding the space, conceiving a place
of refuge bounding Nowhere’s edge,
where ponderous dreams of life without care
augment the power and anger and dread
of Terror itself, thickening like air,
glutting the infinite heart of the head.