If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant ones,
Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly
Because it dissolves in water. Mark these rounded slopes
With their surface fragrance of thyme and, beneath,
A secret system of caves and conduits; hear the springs
That spurt out everywhere with a chuckle,
Each filling a private pool for its fish and carving
Its own little ravine whose cliffs entertain
The butterfly and the lizard; examine this region
Of short distances and definite places:
What could be more like Mother or a fitter background
For her son, the flirtatious male who lounges
Against a rock in the sunlight, never doubting
That for all his faults he is loved; whose works are but
Extensions of his power to charm? From weathered outcrop
To hill-top temple, from appearing waters to
Conspicuous fountains, from a wild to a formal vineyard,
Are ingenious but short steps that a child's wish
To receive more attention than his brothers, whether
By pleasing or teasing, can easily take.
Watch, then, the band of rivals as they climb up and down
Their steep stone gennels in twos and threes, at times
Arm in arm, but never, thank God, in step; or engaged
On the shady side of a square at midday in
Voluble discourse, knowing each other too well to think
There are any important secrets, unable
To conceive a god whose temper-tantrums are moral
And not to be pacified by a clever line
Or a good lay: for accustomed to a stone that responds,
They have never had to veil their faces in awe
Of a crater whose blazing fury could not be fixed;
Adjusted to the local needs of valleys
Where everything can be touched or reached by walking,
Their eyes have never looked into infinite space
Through the lattice-work of a nomad's comb; born lucky,
Their legs have never encountered the fungi
And insects of the jungle, the monstrous forms and lives
With which we have nothing, we like to hope, in common.
So, when one of them goes to the bad, the way his mind works
Remains incomprehensible: to become a pimp
Or deal in fake jewellery or ruin a fine tenor voice
For effects that bring down the house, could happen to all
But the best and the worst of us...
That is why, I suppose,
The best and worst never stayed here long but sought
Immoderate soils where the beauty was not so external,
The light less public and the meaning of life
Something more than a mad camp. 'Come!' cried the granite wastes,
"How evasive is your humour, how accidental
Your kindest kiss, how permanent is death." (Saints-to-be
Slipped away sighing.) "Come!" purred the clays and gravels,
"On our plains there is room for armies to drill; rivers
Wait to be tamed and slaves to construct you a tomb
In the grand manner: soft as the earth is mankind and both
Need to be altered." (Intendant Caesars rose and
Left, slamming the door.) But the really reckless were fetched
By an older colder voice, the oceanic whisper:
"I am the solitude that asks and promises nothing;
That is how I shall set you free. There is no love;
There are only the various envies, all of them sad."
They were right, my dear, all those voices were right
And still are; this land is not the sweet home that it looks,
Nor its peace the historical calm of a site
Where something was settled once and for all: A back ward
And dilapidated province, connected
To the big busy world by a tunnel, with a certain
Seedy appeal, is that all it is now? Not quite:
It has a worldy duty which in spite of itself
It does not neglect, but calls into question
All the Great Powers assume; it disturbs our rights. The poet,
Admired for his earnest habit of calling
The sun the sun, his mind Puzzle, is made uneasy
By these marble statues which so obviously doubt
His antimythological myth; and these gamins,
Pursuing the scientist down the tiled colonnade
With such lively offers, rebuke his concern for Nature's
Remotest aspects: I, too, am reproached, for what
And how much you know. Not to lose time, not to get caught,
Not to be left behind, not, please! to resemble
The beasts who repeat themselves, or a thing like water
Or stone whose conduct can be predicted, these
Are our common prayer, whose greatest comfort is music
Which can be made anywhere, is invisible,
And does not smell. In so far as we have to look forward
To death as a fact, no doubt we are right: But if
Sins can be forgiven, if bodies rise from the dead,
These modifications of matter into
Innocent athletes and gesticulating fountains,
Made solely for pleasure, make a further point:
The blessed will not care what angle they are regarded from,
Having nothing to hide. Dear, I know nothing of
Either, but when I try to imagine a faultless love
Or the life to come, what I hear is the murmur
Of underground streams, what I see is a limestone landscape.
Took out on foot
For an adventure
Made my pathway
To the falls
The creek was a rambling
Beside the laurel
And barred owls calls
There was a gaping
In the hillside
Approached it's opening
Her mouth beckoned
Me to enter
The wind guided
Like steering gears
The ledge lifted
As I entered
The limestone slick
Blackened as night
It did continue
On to lift me
Like a kite
I then awakened
To a tapping
On the glass
Of my windshield
Wiped the sleep
From my eyelids
Was this flight
A truth revealed?
they would drag me over them rolling hills. the queasy, unease of my twisted body, so green and uncared for. searching for forgotten time, ajna calls and my frame, limp to each farm built upon strange dreams of marin. present the vine to child, for no harm comes the wrath of any year, a child all alone crying for play. appreciation and presentation, propagated through generations, to eat food of the land, now distorted and packaged to the poor to pretend. no holy cow would serve its time upon a plate and glowing fangs glare upon the child who is simply lost in all the rage. leave me be, for my malnourished body with sing with nature and attune to true love, as your fourth meal rots, stinks of limb, bloodied bones. sing no more of rolling hills of marin, windsor castle
constructed, move them in. i push my old self away, pick my long lost favorites tucked nicely away. part piedmontese i am, leave me to my porcelain throne, the hippies have cashed in at the expense of drunken americans. oh, save the land, it will burn like rome.
Beneath increasing layers of skin-
Sunsets flowing like water
Depositing decomposition over dog days
And children's feet,
Fire rings cradled by warm hands
Smoldering around cherished narrations
Molder into ambiguous landscapes-
The body becomes a fossil
Buried within itself,
Living as forest restarting
Existing in presence of extinction
In passing, you said, “I wish limestone tasted like lime.”
I laughed, and looked to you as if to ask why I was with you.
Later we were sitting in a booth together and I glanced over at your concentrated brow and the touch of light on your cheek and I asked myself,
how am I with him?
I am limestone,
made of old things and things long gone.
I will crumble and be smoothed again and again.
My fingers are brittle.
Still, they clutch at the things that make me.
Time is something I can only measure
by counting each wave that laps and recedes
against my waning shoulders.
That water is lukewarm and gently insistent;
using me up and comforting me as I dwindle.
the mist is cool on my sun bleached cheeks
and the stars are bright and patronizing.
These enduring beings and I,
we lock weary gazes until the sun comes
and they are forced to fade away
and I am forced to blink.
When I am overcome
by the whims of a stormy world,
I remember that I am only limestone,
the picture of humility,
and there is little for me to be but awash.
I will dwindle as always.
THEREFORE; Be Imitators of GOD as Dear Children.. And walk in Love, as CHRIST also has Loved Us and given Himself for us, an Offering And A Sacrifice to GOD for A Sweet Smelling Aroma... But, Fornication and All Uncleanness or Covetousness, let it not even be named among Thee, as is Fitting for Saints: Neither Filthiness, nor Moron talking, nor Coarse Jesting, which are not Fitting, but rather Giving of Thanks... For this Thou know, that no Fornicator, unclean Kind, nor Covetous Man, who is an Idolater, has any Inheritance in thy Kingdom Of Christ And GOD.. Let no One Deceive Thee with empty Words, for because of these things the Wrath Of GOD comes upon the Sons Of Disobedience. Therefore do not be Partakers with them.. For thy were once Darkness, but now You're Light In The LORD. Walk as Children Of Light.. For the Fruit of the SPIRIT is in All Goodness, Righteousness, And Truth) Finding out what is Acceptable to thy LORD. And have no Fellowship with the Unfruitful Works Of Darkness, but rather Expose them.. For it is Shameful even to Speak of those things which are done by them in Secret. But all things that are Exposed are made Manifested by the Light, for whatever makes Manifest Is Light.... Therefore He Says; Awake, thou who Sleep, Arise from the Dead, and Christ will give You Light'' See then that thou walk Circumspectly, not as fools but as Wise.. Redeeming the Time, because the Days are evil, Therefore do not be Unwise, but Understand what the Will of the LORD Is... And do not be Drunk with Wine, in which is Dissipation, but be Filled with the HOLY-SPIRIT. Speaking to One another in Psalms and Hymns and Spiritual Songs, Singing and Making Melody in Thy Heart to thou LORD.. Giving Thanks always for All things to GOD The Father In The Name Of Our Lord Jesus Christ... Submitting to One another in the Fear Of GOD. Wives, Submit to Your Own Husbands, as to the LORD.. For the Husband Is Head of the Wife, as also CHRIST Is Head Of The Church; and HE Is the Savior of The Body.. Therefore, Just as the Church Is Subject to Christ, so let the Wives be to their Own husbands in Everything... Husbands, Love thy Wives, just as Christ also Loved thy Church and gave Thyself for Her.. That He might Sanctify and Cleanse her with the Washing of Water by the Word.. That He might Present her to himself A Glorious Church, not having Spot Or Wrinkle or any Such thing, but that She should be Holy and without Blemish.... So, Husbands ought to Love their Own Wives as their Own Bodies; He who Loves his Wife Loves Himself.... For no One ever Hated his Own Flesh, but Nourished And Cherishes it, just as the LORD does the Church. For we are Members Of His Body, of his Flesh and Of His Bones.... For this Reason A Man shall Leave His Father and Mother and be Joined to his Wife, and the Two shall Become One Flesh'' This is S Great Mysteries, but I Speak Concerning Christ and the Church... Nevertheless, let each one Of Thee in Particular so Love his Own Wife as Himself, and let the Wife see that She Respects Her Husband... GOD Remain Our Strength... GOD Is Love... GOD With Us..!!! GOD Bless.... Peace And Love....!!!!
I've been called a wandering soul.
I visualize my care flowing away,
floating on a little river.
Everyday the river waits for your reflection.
The rain stopped and the sun shined.
Am I ready?
I can sense how close you are.
I think you know it.
I find a misty course of the river to follow.
I hit a roughly-mowed bank and bounce off.
Bobolinks and Grasshopper Sparrows.
They sit upon the overhanging branches,
watching my progress.
The old fields on both sides of the river converge.
And the ride is all over.
Nothing mattered anymore.
I only wish it lasted.
And things were going so well...
There sandy seems the golden sky
And golden seems the sandy plain.
No habitation meets the eye
Unless in the horizon rim,
Some halfway up the limestone wall,
That spot of black is not a stain
Or shadow, but a cavern hole,
Where someone used to climb and crawl
To rest from his besetting fears.
I see the callus on his soul
The disappearing last of him
And of his race starvation slim,
Oh years ago—ten thousand years.
ash in rainclouds dripping air
lilac perfume in her hair
clipped on limestone as a marker
parades of silence growing darker
in such delicate hours
when u breathe in whispers
and morninglit frosts
your ponytail neck
spill your time in glassine
fingers drowning moments
as nothing lingers