"triptych" poems
Western Sources
Mist, rain and snowmelt gather
And soak the Montana crests.
A trio of rivulets carves the slopes,
Grow to rivers that braid into a single course
And the Missouri is born at Three Forks.
Shoshone and Hidatsu rest from the hunt,
Kneel and cup their hands
To raise life giving liquid to their lips
While horses bow beside them
Bellies filled with the refreshing waters.
The river flows north dividing the tall grasslands,
Plunges over the cataracts at Great Falls,
Churns on the rocks below
And drives inexorably toward the sea.
Mandan and Sioux
Soft flute sounds drift from the Mandan village
Intertwining with the riffling music of the river.
By its banks a coarse French trapper roasts a rabbit
To share with his Shoshone child-bride.
Sacagawea sings softly beside him -
Charboneau's son stirring in her womb.
Sioux warriors on horseback
Stand guard by the shores.
How many travelers have passed?
How many are yet to come?
Beyond the rolling hills
A buffalo stumbles and falls
Pierced by Lakota arrows and spears.
Boats in the Water
At River du Bois where the Missouri
Collides with the Mississippi,
Forty men slip into boats and take to the oars
To interpret Jefferson’s continental dream -
Their keelboat laden with sustenance,
Herbs, weapons and powder.
They carry trinkets to dazzle the natives
And cast bronze medals to give them
Bearing images of their "Father in Washington"
That none had asked to have.
May, 2004
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:42 AM UTC
1.
A flower opens in the dawn.
Drink the dew,
dispel the night,
feel the warming of a new light.
We go under different names,
but only one sun warms us.
The rainbow is but the refraction
of pure white light.
2.
You are awash in me,
that singing sea
that gives me beauty without artifice,
forgiveness without guilt
and love without qualification.
3.
One day
while beachcombing
I will come upon a magnificent conch
and putting it to my ear
I will hear your voice
calling me through the honey of history.
Then an urge will seize me
and putting the conch to my lips
I will sound a single sad note
to carry the stream of my tears
across the ocean.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 3:49 AM UTC
I.
Mistletoe kisses
for the hordes of giddy folk
alcohol in blood
--------------------
II.
Presents covered up
just to be unwrapped again
a colourful waste
--------------------
III.
Evening skulks along
terrible television
Quality Street tin
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
I. Life was like alternating tides in your hands. I spent my time in crushed nausea between your currents, confused and longing, and calm waters slow and disappointed.
II. You seemed so delicate, almost like a girl with your shirt hanging off one bony shoulder, and I wanted to imagine it undone, but you were so easy to underestimate.
III. All your windows face to the east, and our evenings never saw you in direct sunlight, so tell me why the present seems so bright, and the future so dim.
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 11:12 PM UTC
i've weaponised words
this is just the overture
to a reckoning
how long can your past
remain buried and dormant
'neath the soil of lies?
little man, old man.
I have come to square the tide
your flowers will fade
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
I. Eventually we forgot your myth because I saw
nothing in it. An epic’s just opinion, and I couldn’t
find the rhythm, so I abandonned it. We all have
our own heroes, and it’s for you to write your own
ballads. You can’t count on me, I have so few
words for you.
II. You have a knack for the epic: everything
that comes out of your mouth is pure legend.
I jump right into your river Styx and know I’m
believing fairy tales again. What finally surprises
me is how far in I really am, neck deep and still
kicking. I have all this enthusiasm, only for
getting twisted up with you and your myth.
III. Tragedies are told for the tears at the
end, and I sing your song with guilt because
it doesn’t hurt enough. And when it does,
will I be satisfied? Take back your horses;
go tell Charon that Pluto and my pomegrante
are waiting.
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
the sky is keening
grief is heavy
and clings to me
i am humid and slow
my mother kisses me and there is desperation in her movements
i come up to the precipice
and cry a hymn
throwing it
against the vaster loneliness
that is pushing
its fingers
through my mouth
-
i bit
a hole in my
own skin
the walls and land
pilfer what leaks out
i cannot touch anything
for fear it will drag
too much from my body
at least
i will never forget
how i have travelled
-
i turn in the sunlight
blinded
arched against the warmth
joy glints sharp
draws as much blood
i am waiting
i am kept dull
barely open
the brush of a sound
will tear me from here
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
I. You know I resent you for a thousand things,
like how she and I don’t talk anymore. But most
of all because you didn’t love me. Like how you
made everything seem so simple when it wasn’t.
But most of all because you fooled me
completely. I resent you for a thousand things,
but I still don’t know what I’ll say when you decide
to come back. You’ll come back.
II. Twisting my thoughts around you has
become so simple to do, become a habit.
Twisting them around you, through you,
drilling into your skin. But it gets harder and
harder to hollow you out like I would before,
making you into an empty shell that I was much
less afraid of. I love this ball and chain; Stockholm
syndrome has never been this fun before.
III. And you’re an entity that doesn’t have a
name. A mix of so many spirits that excites me
in a way I didn’t know something could. You’re
a list of intoxications that renders me so
readable it’s dangerous. I slur my words and
you take my hand like I’d never been so
articulate and charming.
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 3:37 PM UTC
The painting at the head of my bed
on a single frame canvas
depicts a triptych,
a faux three pane view
of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
This tri panel composition
reminds me of the way some Christians,
fuse their three bodied god into a mythical
singularity of mystical much.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 10:44 PM UTC
I. In the past you were stale and sticky like old beer and I could not peel your hands from my hips. I know I couldn't look at you when you kissed me, but neither could I close my eyes.
II. Sometimes now you are a black hole that pulls me in at the top of the steps. Your shirt is two sizes too big and my hands pull it close around your waist, calming the air and closing a vacuum.
III. When you put your knuckles to your mouth to laugh, when your sleeves are rolled up just above your elbows, music is peeking out of your corners like light under a doorway and your eyes are a robin's egg on the sidewalk, cracked open to spill a feeling that has no name or ending.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC
This face adores you
and promises not to
and promises it will.
Sleep is not the promenade
of tonight's mystery.
Desire is the night's adventure
cradled in the triptych of cold air
and abandoned in the warm wool
of her hair.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
I. I am the reason I never had more than a minute’s chances with anything. Sitting on steps with you became the same thing as being in love, because we were together--you, me, and cigarettes. Strange became anything, holding court in a playground planetarium and I took closer to be a state of mind.
II. Nothing ever dies, and I have beautiful sore spots that flower like fields in blood and lymph and bruises. Your fingerprints were black on my neck and it was nothing short of spectacular that heavy silence and the same song on endless repeat even failed to slow you down.
III. My greatest love is the possibility and words that mean nothing to anybody except someone I used to be. I was the stranger and I shot myself four times to spend eternity in purgatory here with you.
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 11:14 PM UTC
{1}
Walking slowly into
LOVE
is better than
running into
HEARTBREAK
{2}
poetry
not only
moulds the mind
it sculpts the
SOUL
{3}
The
universal
icebreaker
for any
conversation
is always
the
WEATHER
10W
SoulSurvivor
(C) Catherine Jarvis
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
This one's on the house, Theresa.
The unifying symbol
you've failed in any way to muster.
Here he is, look -
chain mail and charger,
leonic triptych
boldly bronzed.
You stirred yet?
Heart skipping a beat?
He gave
not one ****
about England.
***** and pillaged his way
through foreign fields.
Beggared a nation
to maintain his position.
"I'd sell London,
if I could find a buyer!"
Is this guy
a patron saint
or what?
When Churchill falters
or the Queen quails,
Tie Richard to the mast
and whip him into use.
I'm sure
your old Etonians
will be happy to assist.
Nocht tae dae wi Scotia, like,
but we're good
at falling into line.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
I.
I'll rechristen you, probably something that
I'll later regret, even later forget.
I'd like to tape record everything you
say, to think about the symbolism
later. You know, if you talk for long
enough, you'll rhyme sometimes.
And I don't think that's anything
to be ashamed of, because good
accidents happen all the time.
II.
I always waste the happy accident,
afraid someone will try to tell me that I
did it on purpose. I think it was an
accident when you held my hand, but
I'm not sure if I could call it happy. You
always smell sort of smoky, and so do
your hands, and it gives you a sort of
accidental air, like you were falling
lightly through life, letting moments fall
and break, splitting open like flowers.
III.
I want to twist my hands over the rest of
your body to find the place where you
keep little hateful things that you pretend
you don't have. Press down hard on the
spot with fingers and maybe it'll hiss out
like sickly steam from a kettle. I'll cup
them in my hands and you'll refuse to taste
them, acting like you never knew they
were there. You pretend you're incapable
of a lot of things, but you know the tastes
too well.
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 3:11 PM UTC
Adrift I float
in an uncaring ocean
left, abandoned
all ties severed
solitude and emptiness
unwanted, unneeded
all traces of me
washed away with the tide
forgotten, alone
Aug 30, 2021
Aug 30, 2021 at 11:46 AM UTC
*Thee invoke Thee
The Lord God
to forge union with the Lord of Light and Darkness
Holy art Thou
The
Lord of the Universe...
the underlying emanation
animator of creation
formless, self effulgent
that i may fuse my Soul
with the Eternal Born-less One
my third eye a deafening blaze
transfixed on nuclear inner light
as my wife tries on a top at Macy's
i stand before a full length triptych mirror
entranced, scrying
staring at my reflection
an imminence white light figure
gossamer radiant expanse
emerges
and towers above my head
its feet planted
in my skull
my cranium its foot pillow
sight in its feet
my eyes its wires to the world
and the cold fields of ego
immobilized
disambiguous
thoughtless
its instrument subsumed
the voice of higher self
said unto me
*Let yourself enter the Path of Darkness
and peradventure
there shall you find the light
I am the only being in an Abyss of Darkness;
From an Abyss of Darkness came i forth
ere my birth
from the silence of a Primal Sleep*
And the voice of ages answered unto my Soul:
*I am he who formulates in Darkness
the Light that Shineth,
yet the Darkness comprehndeth it not*
as i heard my wife call out
"oh honey i like this one"
i whispered to my self
in breathlessness
*I invoke Thee,
the Terrible and Invisible God
who dwelleth in the void place of the Spirit
and in barbarous tongues of fire
i vibrated sonorous
the arcane names of The Infinite
that only initiates mouth like mad men
en-flamed
and called unto Him
make all Spirits of the firmament
and of the Ether
upon the Earth and under the Earth
on dry land and in Water,
and of Whirling Air
and of Rushing Fire
and every Spell and Scourge of God
obedient unto me*
my wife appeared
newly adorned
in a summer blouse
the color of Spanish walnut
asking hi honey
what do you think?
o yeah i nod
i love your new blouse
oh my god ,
on sale, you say
only $49. 95
such a deal.
Chinese for lunch ?
Moo goo *** pan
oh yes please
my favorite
she smiled*
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
We **** all night,
Stopping at a ridiculous Red Light
District engulfed in a klonopin haze
Of lust.
Full of raging disgust I wish
To ****** violently until bust.
But first lets gander hornily every
Toy evil ***** and vibrating pleasure
Contraption this seedy shop sells
To the permanently sexually soiled.
I get you everything you want baby,
I will devour thee, God of Chaos,
Mastodon master, lustful leviathan,
Tonight, I am the destroyer of Worlds.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
From the leaden sky
descends a dark winged lady —
Black sunbeams dawning.
Reddened night replies
and locks her blackened aerie —
Hunter’s moon is rising.
Morning herald cries
to summon sunburst faeries —
Sparks rise a-flaming.
Dec 10, 2024
Dec 10, 2024 at 1:40 PM UTC
It feels like I’m falling
When really I’m flying
which is why
my feet don’t feel like they’re touching the ground
(once lost, now found, I am soaring homeward bound)
Feels like I’m crying
When really I’m laughing
these tears
that fall crystalline clear from once
muddied dark and dying eyes
are from smiling all the time.
Early mornings and a reason to rise.
Small kisses, deep sighs,
Love denying conviction
A heart soul lust
triptych addiction
I’m drowning already
and yet only half submerged
Destiny converged
To bring time ever alluring into my open
Wanting, waiting palm.
You bring a calm to my daze
A serenity to the inner madness
That chews and claws within
You fill the void that had become my universe
Each dwelling sadness you reverse
With your tender touch
And deep blue cave water eyes.
I cannot deny
The passion you inspire
I cannot ignore the flame you ignite
So stow my fright
And onward sail
Ballast full
Heart pull
And happiness tugging
Serendipitous
At the blood red stitches
of my patched and tough tender
worn, now swelling heart.
Aug 18, 2010
Aug 18, 2010 at 12:21 AM UTC
Trouble
Troubled
Troubling
Which one are you today?
I am that unholy trinity
Three in one… a triptych of suffering
Curse my name… mutter it under your breath
I will merely continue until my repentance is full
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 5:29 PM UTC
Heretics lost their way in the glare of divided philosophy.
While soaking up the rays protruding from their diluted progeny.
Individuality cursed the lot, a painful conclusion hardly sought.
A triptych constructed from passing sand, blown across mid-western land.
Panel one, a fools thought. Panel two, elongated plot.
Panel three, an outstretched hand. Collectively composing an image banned.
Words for the flock corrupt the soul.
Removed thought perched along a grassy knoll.
Heaven revoked all notions of vanity,
While tenderly clouding the wonders of individual sanity.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
he chose the gardener, the myrrh
bearer, mother with child. it
was a lovely day, yesterday, i heard
they were to go to the chapel, in
exhibition there. i am glad
i did them, that i swept over hills, watching
trees turn. topped gold now, slate slants
in lowering light and wetness.
later i saw that you had taken photographs.
i was at the private viewing. sbm.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
A light breeze stirred by a ceiling fan
Rust colored grapes with unused wick
Black boxes making loud noise
Wood, steel, dust for ignoring
Seven books of circles, missing two
Eyeless snake, purple, blue, green, orange, yellow
A substitute for your tears
Glass wax filled cup extolling LOVE
Bars of buttons, black, silver and white
Metal cross that will never be pierced by nails
A portrait of Jesus Christ beneath red time
Dead motor starving for electricity
The smell of ***** stirred by the whirling spirit breeze
Flower time never passing five twenty three
Altar temporarily darkness shrouded
Rabbit, flowers, bear, O Happy day
Invisible God sings “Come back again”
Sound and vision categorized, rarely seen or heard
Small life, tiny breathes, hungry for ****
Magic metal cubes, alchemic circles
From thin air, manifested manufactured chaos
Messages, riddles, proclamations of love
A bedtime story about the Wild West
Slices of trees, glued together, given names
Shadows, mirrored lights, ceiling fan, triptych
The Great Emancipator looking under fingerprint stained glass, discarded
Evolved being denying the elements
Narcissist pools everywhere
Incredible miracle fed through lines and air
Cells with open doors, keys thrown away
Prisoners content, afraid of what’s outside
Poets fooling themselves believe in inspiration
All of this. All of this. All of this.
All of that. All of that. All of that.
It overwhelms, confuses and boggles
Try to take it all in---explode and disappear
A chain hangs from the ceiling
Pull it once, the ceiling fan turns
Pull it twice, the ceiling fan slows to a stoop
And if you pull it really hard
You will yank the ceiling fan from it’s moorings
If lights are part of the fixture
They will break into a thousand tiny fragments
If you step on one your foot will bleed
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC