Posts Tagged ‘Sword’

Far Reaching Visions

Posted: December 20, 2002 in Poetry
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Inside, a glowing silver sliver
A secret, a blossom.
Hush now, stop grinning madly.
Cup it, feel it, close your eyes;
Potential beading like dew
On electric arms reaching.
Promises made to be kept
Keeping on, sparks flying,
We reforge the sword
With breath and sound,
Far reaching vision,
Laughter and love.
Wave aside the old firestorms.
Bless their sighs into heat mirages.
An invited return
To my rightful place
At the right hand of the Goddess.

Becoming

Posted: January 13, 2002 in Poetry
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A winter white sheet covers me
As I sit in this chair, unmoving.
My breaths are shallow and I can’t see
Whether to move or stay very still:
I am hung on that decision
Like a meathook.
The longer I wait, the more my weight tears me
To get off is still more painful
But there is no mistaking impalement
On the pike of indecision.
What to do? I don’t know;
I will never know unless I do
Something – anything is better,
But to throw off these veils
Is to see what I am afraid of:
That lonely vista of sunrise
Over faraway mountains from another mountaintop.
No road nor path presents itself
In the gloaming beyond this sheet;
Light-shadows shiver and mold to each other
Unknown consequences and results
Which my feeble calculations
Cannot fathom as I am staked here.
Nobody knows who I am anymore,
But if anyone can it must be me.
Count on a breathless ride for part,
Meandering, enjoyable inner tubing for another,
And yet other unpredictable situations.
These are all definition-grounds,
To file and hone the self-blade
And the mind-sword.
Be born and becoming.

St. Michael and I

Posted: December 8, 1994 in Poetry
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Scales and a sword and a pair of wings
Is not what I have —
I look at St. Michael,
My namesake Angel,
And I want to hug a bear in fear
Of being capable of such judgement:
Fair and exacting deeds.
I find I’m wrong or mistaken
Many times a day:
My own carelessness
Or oversight, usually.
St. Michael has no forethough to him,
Just perfect scales,
The means to weigh is science of judgement,
And a flaming sword to enforce the verdict.
Keeping the Garden of Eden
And throwing Lucifer from the vaults of Heaven:
St. Michael — it is he “who is like God”;
my tenuous relationship:
a shared name,
a Zodiac sign,
and a fascination with blades.

The Candlestick Maker

Posted: December 7, 1993 in Poetry
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Sometimes I come and I go
fall apart like a fool,
too cool to admit I’m wrong:
I’m no Annie Sprinkle
with a cervix to show –
I get stoned and believe in the Maker,
the butcher, the baker,
and I’m three men in a tub:
one with a sword,
one with a glove,
one with a half-cocked smile
and a shrug.

I used to roll spare tires
down alleys in Point Loma
to see how many streets they’d cross
before stopping:
against a trash can or a moving car,
a cinderblock wall or a pile of dirt.
Stupid things is what I thought.
Why’d they stop there; it could have kept going
after that.
Steering.
I’m rolling and I steer myself short all of the time
and it’s coming; I can feel it singing and surging to life
in a tide, a god, an angel looking for a sharp sword
in his tongue,
fiery-eyed and furious,
smoking and snake-bitten.
But I can’t be touched by the fire I create –
burning myself won’t work anymore
– there is nothing left to burn but everything else
and it is to be smelted into my sword,
my pen, my tongue, my eyes,
my breath, my words,
my blood, my thoughts.

a star winked out in the nighttime sky
and did not return my love
as I cast into the heavens;
a sword standing still
riding my mind like the hip of a warrior.
one oboe quietly mediates the tree’s disputes
about who is shading who
as I am walking through.
there is no medium for art
like the dreams dreamed when all alone
and happy with where you are in the world.
writing to be poetic, prolific
I sometimes wind myself soporific
scratching at the paper making nothing terrific,
just words that rhyme
a line at a time or three
cavorting in silent melodies
like those oboes, sleepy in the trees.

The Poet-Muncher

Posted: March 15, 1993 in Poetry
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what to think of the world anymore/is a serious question like a toothache/
or this sore throat/or the nagging love for someone who’s gone/I
don’t understand any better than the next person/they point to
me and say “poet” and nod their heads/at explanations that
I give them without numbers/no graphs, no statistics/poetry
is the science of one:/one person, one point, one opinion, one
truth/and if you ask me, of course I will answer/I am not nor
have a mouthpiece for any concept but me/my thoughts alone
are science/my dreams are mathematics/my rambling, philosophy
and rhetoric/my palms, hammers/my paper an anvil to forge
truth/my pen, the sword, dragonslayer/I am poet, hear me roar.