Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

he could play a frakkin' minuet
with his hands, this dude,
with perfect pitch and key --
and birdcalls of a timeless cult.
he'd hangglided in volcano rainbows,
had meathook *** from rafters.
reciting Shakespeare, conjured instant goosebumps, tears --
towering heartwise, intellect vast
whatever roles he played at night to model for our soul
we ripped the roof from off my fathers house, sublime,
wearing attic soot in all our pores,
asbestos grin contracting into mycophile hopes
flirting with the passing birds
in leaves and pizza parlors,
tanned and buff, shingle tar on shoulders, nails,
iron hard for her and her and her
the beating sun-breath coughing under mask
each tack an instant echo for the breeze
to take direction from a symbol core
no symbol ever truly held..
refreshing airs to bleed away the vanity,
yet halfway on the ladder there
an interrupting brag, my father's fascia beams
report card scores as if a better world they made
in money pitted recess taxing hidden filth- -
thank you,
Bach, to break up pride with existential high
new melodic rain to cover over thousands lost to sell,
settle dust,
handwind bard, aesthete
innovate human
you turn me on with tales of your amazing wife
bareshirt in your unfinished house, lusting eaves,
backyard grasshoppers on the counter,
****** as insect brains can be
to tilt their eyes with me at unreal fullness spectra-circle on a cloud
not possible the wholeness found
in wish fulfilling living roofs
of ecosystem awe and sunlamp bottles
here, and here,
under moss on backwoods skillion
or trussed on tree spread wide, open-hipped for skylove --
contentednesses missed the meaning now
of mother-art to birth anew the endless homes,
ecosophy's abundant cheer
laughter even in the nooks of dying nails
extemporaneous arcology of barefoot
ridgetop feardance raked in soffit shift
from gray to green
invulnerable vigor gained and gone
and grown again
from marginalia to universal veil
'happy evermore' no matter this or that
a swimming hole of naked sayings streamed,
inner wash of salt and sweat, an afterthought deluge
to challenge dormer crease-dive of a dogma drain
structured, learned pillage ivory still
though greensulated soon








.

Their verses are like
Exotic bird songs in a
Jungle of humans

Some call their words crass
But the way I see it, they
Are flamboyant calls

Just as the blue jay
Has mating and defense calls
So do us humans

The process of creation
Instant in a flash of light through the spoken Word
Or fertilized in the womb
Or sprouting underground
Maybe born of the heavens long ago
Before earth and sun
Born of the stars, exploding into the universe
Or within the volcano
Deep inside the earths core
Born of the waters, the streams and waterfalls
The rich colors of the untouched forest
Initiated in the sounds of night, birdcalls and the occasional howl in moonlight
Sons and daughters of thousand year old oak trees, acorns falling, scattering
Conceived in the deepest and darkest oceans, unaware and uncaring about the mythical surface world
Carried upon by the wind accross the world, currents and pathways charted by the birds and the monarchs
Dandelion child

That very quiet time, yet neither day nor longer night,
Just before those mighty steeds are yoked;
Not have they stretched their necks or shook their manes,
Nor struck the sky with either eager hoof,
A mild time when the saffron queen leaves her lovers bed,
When she kisses bye his grey bearded cheek,
Like every day to return soon to rest in his arms except once;
For that day, a command reached her pretty ears,
And the words humming carrying with it a gentle breeze,
Whispering her marriage bed may remain warm.
Oh! For that time to come again, when I may be blessed,
No reddening sky would appear on to my eyes,
Nor would I be adorned with the birdcalls of the morning,
And the stars would stay on their sighted paths,
And the bright torch, her white chariot may hover awhile.

Why I would want this, dear reader, you ask.
Why would a man ever not wish the land to bathe in colour?
To not feel warmth of Apollo's light on his face,
Shrouded by damp night and surrounded by her gloomy wings?
My answer comes from that little winged boy.
From a time when his divine mother herself rose out of the foam,
Gently squeezing the water from out her hair,
A time when with a soft white hand and her tender embrace,
Made her love eternal with her young hunter:
As of from that day and the span of ten lunar months lapsed,
This naked little boy, quiver and bow to match,
With ordained skill has taut his string many a time to his chest,
And his whistling arrow has never missed its target.

For it is with love then; I bid not the amber glow from the east,
Nor the oriental globe to ascend before me.
If the burning disc of heavenly light rises a new in the sky,
I for one can never hide on my face my sorrow.
My head droops and with added weight of woe my shoulders,
Like the heavy rains that cause leaf to slump;
Fall towards the ground, because it is at this time that I know,
That I must leave my utmost joy behind me again.
Oh **** me! Aye, for any of my prayers to be duly answered,
For earths eyelid to be closed and shut tight,
For me to hold her towards me and to hear her heart beat,
To give me this one prolonged night with my love.

What would I do? Many have laid curses on the pointed shaft,
That straight arrowhead which struck them pure,
And many have spat at the ground their accursed feet walk on;
Wild love has never been a very gentle creature.
She will savagely swim in your blood and make it boil red,
Cause war with death in heated misunderstanding,
Make women pull their hair and beat their chest with moans,
And make men stream tears down their cheeks.

What can I do? Even the greatest lovers are left with woe,
Do I content myself with her blush as I kiss her?
Leave unhappy and imprint a smile on my face that's dishonest,
And hug her falsely with lack of my true wants?
Oh **** me! Grant me this one night with my sweet delight,
Stay your golden chariot sire, as you did before,
So I may savour her not unlike you when you gazed your love,
Caressing your desire and sending her to the stars.
Oh! To have within me powers to control those three sisters;
Those talented three in which they create life's path,
With sped fast supple fingers, they do spin their wheel around.
The ability to weave and thread as if like they do,
I would entwine my thread with yours, fuse together our weave,
And with Fate forever cross mine with your own.

oh murderous morning
razorsharp sunbeams
illuminating the dusted air
why would i want them made visible
these things that smother me?

birdcalls like sirens
wailing waxing waning
an endless cycle and the fire
is breathing the stale air.

shirt half off eyes half open
pounding visions to let fade
from behind the lids
we both knew i'd forget.

i always do.

Lakeshores are so lonely during the winter and in turn make me lonely.
The light almond sand is still covered with the peace sign spokes of gulls’ feet.
The waves and tide are slower and groggy. Everything takes on a grayish tint and the cold air soaks through cotton layers, socks over socks, and deep into the skeleton. Bones take on a new meaning in the winter. They appear white but compared to snow they are filthy from their responsibilities to the living. They become ***** from living. Everything sounds different here. Voices are muffled. Words mix in with the push of water and become deconstructed into just noise. Speech becomes something of tone and inflection. Speech becomes human birdcalls. The sky is the same grayness as the water and there is always wind. Moving air pushes snowflakes into my dark eyes and black hair. It’s almost as if they are fighting to push me back. Creature of heat and light and breath. You do not belong here.

i think once you've wondered about stars and pondered determinism
and sat in a lake in the dark and the calm
and listened to loon calls that echo like rolling thunder
and seen the reflection of the moon in the water
i think maybe then you stop caring so much
about mosquitoes on your leg
or stitches in your side
(if maybe not about missed calls
or skated-over questions)
i think once you learn that nothing is a contract
that no one exists for you
and you exist for no one
once you've heard a thousand voices
and still find that you remember theirs
i think then maybe you can feel that the weight
the particles of existence lay forever on your skin
is not a weight
but a nod from the abyss
a kiss from the universe, whispering
goodnight sweet impermanent softness
goodnight wingless butterfly beauties
goodnight precious pointless seekers of the seekless
goodnight limited
goodnight limitless
goodnight home
if luck were a thing of flesh and blood
how lucky you'd be
to have nothing expected of you
in this patchwork of nothingness sewn from a thread
that never took your insecurity
your fear, your love
that never took your anything into account
when it drew speckled stars across darkened water
and bounced echoing birdcalls
haphazardly against your eardrums

In my house the men
wear breastplates for fun, and
the women race heavenly
on the speedway, the soles
of their feet caking with sand.
Yes, my house has a speedway.
If you close your eyes for a moment
it feels like a beach minus the tangerine
minus the birdcalls

minus the summer spit
frying old skin.

1:08 Meditation, #128


Scent to Find a Monk-


Sometimes the Monk is

not

Home.

     Check Anyway.


Sometimes the Monk is

not

aWay.

     Check Anyway.


Sniff Around,


  Wait.  Sit.  

Birdcalls, Thoughts...

Distractions, All.

Pay Mushin No Shin

at All.


  Wait.  Sit.

Stay Vigilant,

Stay Immanent.


  Wait.  Sit.

Sometimes the Monk is

a Chip Monk.


A Sneeze?!

Satori?


  Wait.  Sit.

I don’t care what the weatherman says
this is a promising morning

here and there
I see piercing birdcalls
making slits
long and short, wide and narrow
on the black sky
to let light in

What is this?
A memory? A dream?
A memory of a dream?
Early morning passes in serenity,
birdcalls slowly replacing the patter of precipitation
as hazy sunbeams drift lazily past the curtain.

Exhale a steady sigh out the cracked window. your breath,
an ephemeral cloud for just a moment,
is highlighted against the garden
and your shoulders fall.
The balloon of breath swells again in your chest, filling the cavity with peaceful Sorrow.

When did She first look your way, blonde locks falling into Cerulean eyes?
When did he brush past you and send waves of butterflies swarming your insides?

Maybe this is better.
Maybe it's better to see the world clearly, without the pretty impediment
of rose-colored glasses.
Maybe it's better to never bite the apple, for what might you lose
if it has turned?
Better to never taste crisp, cool fruits if you can
save your milk-teeth from being lost in ice-chilled flesh.

Where did it come from?  Where will it go?
I pose the questions, I listen for the answers,
and hear nothing but sibilance
in my defective auditory sense.
But answers there are . . . I know.

Nature has always given the response
That echoed in the nightfall of my soul.
It began in those excursions as a child
and gathered pace in wartime’s exodus,
‘midst shattering of peace and of belief.

‘Twas ever thus, to walk upon the Sussex Downs,
The Surrey Hills, the Essex flats,
To feel the wind upon my cheeks
The song of birdcalls in the air,
And life so full of radiance and joy.

‘Twas ever thus, the yearly trips
To Devon’s headlands and to Cornish beaches.
The voyages across the seas,
the sojourns in yet more distant lands.
Exultation with exheredation.

Decades of travelling, seeking the answers,
so much of the time forgetting the questions;
journeying hither and yon, tracing the clouds
following their dreams, and mine, on shimmering shores,
discovering the sweetness of life grown sour.

And through it all I have known love, excessively,
and never cautiously enough.  A spendthrift
wasting all the wealth of praise and acclamation
in luxuriant homage to his own dissipation,
sleeping with salvation and waking in confusion.

And now, the twilight of a life grown weary
in a constant yet inconstant search for answers,
at last gives way to calamitous acceptance
of the eternal verity.  Ex nihilo is nonsense;
we have no option but to embrace ex materia.

© Joseph Sinclair, May 25 2022

barges carrying coal and horses pulling a load,
it still seems much better than going by road.

The quiet mornings
are noisy with birdcalls,
the sleepy afternoons
watching how water falls
so easily off ducks backs

and the evenings with hot stew
made by ma
and da and me
sitting silently
watching the stars.