"gide" poems
Dropped into perestroika events
and I don’t really know myself.
I talk differently than my driving desires
I’m a less apt projection of who I want to be.
I can honestly say sometimes I might be the original
but that’s a last resort in boring places.
Someone once had a quote
about how it’s foolish to know yourself.
But I get so **** scared.
Nothing to hold.
Not even a floor for my shoes.
Not even sure what shoes best suit me.
I’m free to make this soul go anywhere,
Yes, Mr. Voltaire, ****** too free.
Mr. Holy Roller says Jesus already came with his plow truck
and paved a way for me.
But which ways did he pave,
God, where will it all lead?
God, which way is best for me?
Still I might not be supposed to know myself,
But The Self
that we all share.
You and me babe.
and that dog and that deer
and that grass and that car
and that lamp post.
All the same.
All the universe’s
and all the other universes’ weight on my head
that keeps being ****** into a vortex
in between where everything’s all the same goop.
All the same stuff. What am I doing living with it?
******
“Whoever observes himself arrests his own development. A caterpillar who wanted to know itself would never become a butterfly.” -Andre Gide
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
Oh how the bitter chill arose from the night
Briskly it clings to my chest
Tight, my lungs fill with bitterness
Music that comes with the darkness
From the night owl that sings besides my window
Reminding of how cold the hour
That flies with the ever present issue
How I'd love to hear with clearity
The willows that lie with in the bank
Floods the memory of you
Like the outer lakes the river that flows
With the kiss of reason
Rushing through the waters of life
Making since of folly
Making fools of us all
Gide my feet from falling
And slipping on this soggy ground
The muddy mire sloshes between my toes
As I walk on
Past the fellows that came to fish
The beauty of the day brake
Seeps through the mountain peeks
Each drop of sun light warms my face
Shines on this face so weathered
The lines of the passing years line my brow
And into my heart
Oh, how I love to feel the fresh air
The calm of the wind passing
As if to say hello
The birds sing their morning tune
And I feel true to life again
But somewhere in the midst of wonder
Lies layers of question
With the passing moments
That can never be replaced
Slowly reality crashes into dream
The measure of timelessness
And the reality of the undiscovered
Lie within the reach of the person who is willing
And the people who are ready
To leave their doubt behind
And press on into the night
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 3:39 PM UTC
Sons of perdition speak to me
Carefully weaving, so you dont seem extraneous
Are you awake now?
This feared god burns our bridges
It leaves us dismal
Oh so we skip a few lines
Oh so we dont even mind
Whats the point
Yes we're not the only one
And yes we deem it so
Whats the point
Distant creeds
Speak to me
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 4:01 AM UTC
Stay true to you and thats all i ask.
Let your hart and ambitions gide your way and never look back. Do not let the way i feel get in the way of bigger more important things. Tho i trust you would tell me if i where a burden.
I want nothing more than for your soul and your life to feel compleat. You can change anything whichever way you choose. Go where want, speak your mind, love your self and others.
I may not allways be exspexting change but it will never change the way i feel. Tho i may love you, my love will not bind you.You are free to go if you pleas tho i wish for you to stay.
I want you to be all you wish to be, I want you to be happy and I want you to be you...... because that all my heart desires.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
Pine embellished by Cassiopeia arched over prone morning. Meadowlark laughed, cougars stalked shadows, crow deputies. Bent creek carried silt of spring, sigh of cedar. Cold mist, feathered cloak marked him of eagle and raven. He took part night, river’s depth in bent cedar boxes along grease trails over walls called cordillera. Distantly ships put into several bays. Raven gave up tricking salmon people, at Rose Spit called out first, men. Who had invented dance now demanded war. What speech there was was lament. Undone morning weeps bloodied. Anger-melted gold fills insatiable mouths, shames what night cannot hide. No more hand set to house front, no more ashlar of jasper. Night casts her spears, we have not even time to die. Flee hands which reach from river, children ghost small starving birds. Rejoice in crow’s carrion cruelty, Owl devour those we cannot smother in our desperate escape.
Look up beaten, complaining, supreme. Reconstruction begins in this torpor, a boredom purring heart cannot abolish. Inebriated with the impossible, go past mission outpost’s Gide and a Kempis to the lineage house of men. Hegel whispers I never did believe. Attar extend gender-inflected zero. In the wrong season glisten with sugary neoprene. Belong to at least two countries, Land of Goshen sours. Break into Quechua, haunt cruel Saturdays, look for amigo. Wheat field marries into lion’s eye. Ayacucho fanfares enclose the wind. White-breasted, black-winged, displace requiem. Recover lost chives, cottonwood’s inerrant perfume, shooting stars on the other side of the river. When mountain burns, Eyes-Are-In-Festival yields turquoise. Let him palmer drink iris dry. Sky falls, camas blooms, then this morning white tail flicker in low aspen, chickadee dee dee dee, chickadee dee dee dee.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC