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The Truthful Lie

Don't bother looking behind,
irony is all you will find,
can't we stop and stand,
but that was never your choice,
let to bury my feelings inside,
staring at the night,
sitting by yourself in the light,
asking for assistance to stand,
expecting someone to give you a hand,
you can't make it right,
all you know how to do is hide,
cower at your thought,
of everything never thought you would get caught?
stand and whisper,
words you know are not true.

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Peace That Was Never Peace

Wars, famon, and hatred
That’s what our world’s full of today
Nothing but pain and suffering
That never goes away

We’re in a time of peace, ’ they say
But how can that be true
With news of war on every channel
The word peace just won’t do

People are being killed
By brothers, sisters, friends
People they thought cared about them
Are forcing their life to end

This is no time of peace
There are many who can prove it
There are baby’s dying, and children
And it’s all of us who do it

Where is our peace now
It’s gone, it is decieced
Our lives are filled with the lies
Of peace that was never peace

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Chasing You Into The Light

Lying next to you in the dark
Listening to your pounding heart
The sheets are tangled around your waist
I watch the dream moving on your face
Feel you shake, hear your cries
Running in the dark trying to open your eyes
Come on baby, wake up
Ive followed you across the days and years
Been there for the thrills and the tears
Chasing you from state to state
Waking, dreaming, I try to relate
Why should I be somebody you fear
When youre asleep and Im so near?
Dont even know why Im in your dreams
I got control over none of these things
Morning comes, hard and bright
And Im exhausted from running after you all night
Chasing you into the light
Yeah Ive been reaching for you baby
As if I could reach you when you dream at night
But I never can quite
I aint lying here awake by myself
You better wake up
Theres something I want to talk to you about
You better wake up
I love you girl, tell the world I do
Theres nothing I wouldnt do for you
I want to rescue you like you rescued me
From a life of doubt and uncertainty
Thats why Im chasing you
Chasing you into the light
Go for a walk on the pier with me baby
Now as the dawn comes over the night
Watching the stars in the sky disappear maybe
Youll find a way to let go of your fright
The sea is deep, the world is wide
Ships are leaving for the other side
This whole city will be waking soon
And in the east
Clouds are strung out behind the moon
Chasing her into the light
Wake up

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The Light And The Night

light of light night of night bind us in the dead of night. by lights bright light the deavil will fight. fight for the right to fight in the night. light will fight to end the night so all shall run and all shall fear for while the light and the night shall fight for all of time it is us in the mild that shall pay the price. not the light who thinks there right and not the night who wants to fight but the ones who are forever traped in the mild. with no way out we suffer like no othere in the night and in the light for all of time we watch the light and watch the night fight and fight untill we all turn to dust and are souls join the fight for the light or for the night one way or another we all shall join the fight.

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The Light on the Wreck

Out there by the rocks, at the end of the bank,
In the mouth of the river, the Wanderer sank.
She is resting where meet the blue water and green,
And only her masts and her funnel are seen;
And you see, when is fading the sunset’s last fleck,
On her foremast a lantern—a light on a wreck.
’Tis a light on a wreck, warning ships to beware
Of the drowned iron hull of the Wanderer there;
And the ships that come in and go out in the night
Keep a careful lookout for the Wanderer’s light.
There are rules for the harbour and rules for the wave;
But all captains steer clear of the Wanderer’s grave.

And the stories of strong lives that ended in wrecks
Might be likened to lights over derelict decks;
Like the light where, in sight of the streets of the town,
In the mouth of the channel the Wanderer went down.
Keep a watch from the desk, as they watch from the deck;
Keep a watch from your home for the light on the wreck.

But the lights on the wrecks since creation began
Have been shining in vain for the vagabond clan.
They will never take warning, they will not beware,
For they hold for their mottoes ‘What matter?’ ‘What care?’
And they sail without compass, they sail without check,
Till they steer to their grave ’neath a light on a wreck.

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Time To Turn Off The Light

Now it's time to turn off the light
Now it's time to - say goodbye
Planet colors is coming back
Once again - someday
Time was flying by, on silent wings
Now we have to say goodnight
Time was flying by, we gave our best
Now we're turning off the light
The love you gave - is our strength
We're now at the end - and soon we'll come back again
Time was flying by, the lights go off
The curtain has to fall again
Time was flying by, you gave us joy
We say goodbye and wave our hands
Now it's time to turn off the light
Now it's time to - say goodbye
Planet colors is coming back
Once again - someday
Hope you enjoyed the show
Now it's time to go
We thank you for a party we will never forget
Now it's time to turn off the light
Planet colors, say goodbye, say goodbye
Time to turn off the light
For saying good night
We thank you for coming
Time to turn off the light
For saying good night
We hope you enjoyed the show
Hope you enjoyed the show
Now it's time to go
We thank you for a party we will never forget
Now it's time to turn off the light
Planet colors, say goodbye, say goodbye
Being with you has been an important part of my life
To see your smiling faces ,to feel your energy
Knowing you've come a long way to be a part of the show
We will always come back, whenever you need us
From the bottom of my heart, I thank you

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Love In The First Degree

Words and music by jim hurt and tim dubois
I once thopught of love as a prison a place I didnt want to be.
So long ago I made a decision to be footloose and fancy free.
But you cam I was so tempted to gamble on love just one time.
I never thought I would get caught.
It seemed liek the perfect crime.
Chorus:
Baby, you left me defneseless.
Ive only got one plea.
Lock me away inside of your love and throw away the key.
Im guilty of love in the first degree.
I thought it would be so simple, like a thousand times before.
Id take what I wanted and just walk away, but I never made it to the door.
Now babe, Im not beggin for mercy.
Go ahead and throw the book at me.
If lovin yous a crime, I know that Im as guilty as a man can be.
Chorus
Oh yeah. oh yeah.
Chorus
Oh yeah. love in the first degree.
Love in the first degree.
Love in the first degree.

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The Other Side for M Lady Tara

Two little ghosts out walking at night
When one little Ghost cried out in fright
Oh Dear I think I see a man.
He’s over there I’m sure I can
The other ghost says you cannot do
there are no men they are not true
Just old Ghosts tales to frighten you
and if they were what could they do
There are no men there never was
I know that’s true because.
My old professor told me so
and he was clever he should know.
The whole idea amuses me
A living man you’ll never see


(Apr 04)

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The Morning Poem Did Not Come

THE MORNING POEM DID NOT COME

The morning poem did not come-
So this is the effort of an afternoon poem,
Warm and sun- filled and relaxing and deep and waiting.
This is a poem between times more interesting than itself.
The light is so great now.

But this too is a poem of little or nothing to say
Of afternoon emptiness after morning emptiness
On a tired tired day.

Once I thought I would write poems which would make immortal
Those I love.
Now I write poems to keep myself going.

This afternoon I am extremely tired
But if this is poem
Or even if I only think it is
I can have a rest
Before I face the evening.

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Insisting On A Relationship That Was Never There...

in the first place i know
it was never there
never for once
but i am testing it today with
a conversation something nonsense really
like: what will do you for your
birthday tomorrow? and the answer
was, there is never any preparation
and if ever there is
it will be only for vampires and i still insist
that for the sake of said party
i can be a vampire too
but he quits
the nonsensical and gets out to the blue
i am left
with the full realization

get lost! i can manage talking to myself
alone
i can manage this void
fill it with words
that never rhyme
but just the same
this serves the purpose
something that relies upon itself
very existential
my friend once says
but he is dead
he smashed his car at the wall of the university
he smashed his head at the stirring wheel
and the rest
is regretful and here i am again
very existential
stony, scaled, rough, and
insistent for any talk
though no one wants to listen
but i am strong now
i can be myself
without anybody else
so what? get lost! i finally said
in the last
episode.

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I Went To the Soul Of My Sadness And Said

I WENT TO THE SOUL OF MY SADNESS AND SAID

I went to the soul of my sadness and said
‘Why are you? ’
And it said
The world does not need you
And I asked again, ’ Why’
And my soul said,
‘Because you in all you do are not very good’
And I continued writing a poem
Even I must try to believe in.

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A Truely Norwegian Poem

The Suitor


Uphill I walked it was still dark, had to be at
the farm a five, milking time. Hard westerly
wind makes the climb tough soon the cattle will
be mooing in their pens, the boss grumpy, I’m
hungry and no time to eat; milking eight cows
by hand is no joke. End of the last hill I see
the farm, there is light in the kitchen,

Emma, my dog, barks, stops when she hears my
steps, ten to five, morning light I stop and catch
my breath, they are not going to think that I was
hasting for them I’ll have a quick mug of coffee
a slice of ham, just like any other day, they will
wonder and the maids whisper, but not ask where
and with whom, I spent the night.

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Ideals Rusting From Distrustful Deeds

We're on the edge of a bottomless pit.
Those conflicted in transit opposition to this...
Can not be consciously aware,
Of the seriousness there!

The one selected and picked to lead,
Now seems overwhelmed by those wishing...
Actions he has taken does not succeed.

With arguments and ignorance intact...
Those accustomed to feeding their greed,
Insist they've come with prerequisites...
To have their selfish ideals succeed.
Even though economically,
Their pockets are being systematically emptied!

And many stand firm,
To have their interests proceed.
With ideals rusting from distrustful deeds.

But the one elected to prevent their demise...
Has warned them all witnessing,
They must now open their eyes.
And if they choose not to see reality...
He will use his influence,
To allow them all to experience the breeze...
Of a downward spiral coming to them quickly.
And he,
Will disregard their screams!

Since he and others who do believe...
Are not about to partake,
In the welcoming of their embraced failures.
Nor desires they wish to keep...
A blinding feast created by their deceit.

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People everywhere enjoy believing things that they know are not true. It spares them the ordeal of thinking for themselves and taking responsibility for what they know.

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Into the Light Your Brightness Comes

Come.
And close out the darkness behind you.
Don't be frightened by the light.
None of it shines on you to bite.
Or sever from you a wish...
To live your life with more happiness.

Come.
And strip from delusions and myths.
Dismiss those restrictions,
You had doubted you can live without.
You can if you so desire for this.

If you come,
To undo your fear.
We are absent of that here.
Your lingering sadness will from you disappear.
If you come...
Into the light!
Into the light your brightness comes.

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The Light at Killintringan (song)

The mouth of the harbour here quietly kissed
blue waves that waltzed from Kilkeel home to us
The springtime sun faded to "love's old sweet song"
And the light at Killintringan shone on

But your fingertips on my lips couldn't still
The secret fears of a working class kid
That you were too good was my very first thought
As the light at Killintringan came on

(chorus)
The beams from the lighthouse turned through the night
Lighting the perils hidden from sight

And we were the summer that never would fade
Our love like the doeskin bound for the blade
You turned seventeen and I turned from your heart
With Killintringan light lost in the dark

The autumn was passing, and snow would soon fall
Time didn't fix us, and it just kept on
Then, tears on your letter, we fell once again
As Killintringan light shone through the rain

The beams from the lighthouse turned through the night
Lighting the perils hidden from sight

And now looking back love, it all seems so plain
But I couldn't find a way to explain
The simplest of words wouldn't ever fly free
As Killintringan light searched o'er the sea

And down on his knees in the Queen Marg'ret Hall
underneath your photograph on the wall
A guy who still saw what he saw in your eyes
when Killintringan light scanned the night skies

The beams from the lighthouse turned through the night
Lighting the pearls there in plain sight


05 10 07

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Walk To The Light

(walt aldridge)
Ive never been one to believe much in ghosts,
But to tell you the truth now, my mind is not closed.
Ive heard there are souls that are lost in between
Somewhere theyre goin, and the places theyve been.
That sounds a lot like a woman I know,
Her love is long gone, but she will not let go.
Somebody oughtta take her by the hand and tell her,
dont be afraid, just walk to the light.
Let go of the past and get on with your life.
Somebodys waiting out in the night,
Ashes to ashes, walk to the light.
Now I understand that some things can take time,
Especially those of the heart grievin kind.
But there comes a point youve got to move on ahead,
Read the last rites and bury the dead.
Said she cant make the journey to get past the pain.
She moans in the night and she rattles her chains.
Somebody oughtta take her in their arms and tell her,
dont be afraid, just walk to the light.
Let go of the past and get on with your life.
Somebodys waitin out in the night,
Ashes to ashes, walk to the light.
Oh, dont be afraid of the choices that you made,
The choices are behind you.
When you give in, the healin can begin,
Love is gonna find you.
Dont be afraid, just walk to the light.
Let go of the past and get on with your life.
Somebodys waitin out in the night,
Ashes to ashes,
Oh, oh, dont be afraid just walk to the light,
Let go of the past and get on with your life.
Someone is waiting out in the night,
Ashes to ashes, walk to the light.
Walk to the light.
Walk to the light.

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Rudyard Kipling

The Last of the Light Brigade

There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an, we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made-"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

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Patrick White

I Don't Think The Wind Sings For Me Alone

I don't think the wind sings for me alone
even in this isolated space where it
silvers the leaves of the Russian olives
like musical scales. Or every thought and emotion,
every image, symbol, or insight
shares the same myth of origin that I do.
Nor all the words that I call my native language
weren't rooted first in someone else's garden.
As the air I breathe was, as the light that has entered
through many more eyes than mine. What I hear
doesn't belong to me, nor what I see,
my private vision. But when I don't grasp
at clouds and water, everything is my reflection
looking back at me as if there were no one there.

I disappear. And I feel my presence everywhere
as real as the sceptres of Queen Anne's Lace
growing old in the moonlight, or the blue fury
of the wild irises burning in their own fires
like the Pleiades. Who can understand
the circuitous wanderings of the mindstream
white water rafting its own axons in an empty lifeboat
when even the questions you raise about it are not your own?
I may well be that, but tonight, I'm not personally involved.
Things occur like spiritual events. The rat snake
strikes the frog, the shadow flash of a bird
transits the moon. Arcturus descends
before the Summer Triangle with the easy grace
of a light that doesn't realize it's being observed intensely.

And I wonder if we're actualizing each other
in some interdependently original way
that it knows as little about as I do.
Or the dead birch tree that's standing by both of us,
naked in its bones as a fan of coral.
Silly man, now you know how a fly
up against a window feels. Or how a mirror
that's deeper than either your eyes
or the light can see into, keeps its appeal.
Been wondering most of my life
in an aloof but wary mode of gratitude
about the great symphony of love and light and light,
like someone who's been hurt by someone they cherish
without knowing why. And whether to laugh or weep
at the absurd tragicomedies that keep appearing
like vulnerable mushrooms in my sleep.

But tonight, tonight, all I want to hear
is the whisper of a dropp of water running down the sluice
of a blade of stargrass. The eerie rustling of the leaves
as if the trees had something to say to me
about my presence among them that leaves me
half again as estranged as when I first came here
to enjoy a freedom that isn't just a matter of changing gates.

Sad man, but tonight I dance with thousands of waterlilies
under the chandeliers of the stars, in three four time,
as if I just remembered how to waltz with the bride
and bow to a flower like a lunar violin. My heart
doesn't look for its reflection in the fire pit
where I burnt all my life masks like straw dogs
when the sacred ritual was over. I denuded myself
basking in the clear light of the void, until
there was no one left, not even me, to notice.

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Patrick White

By The Light I Have Been Given To Go By

By the light I have been given to go by,
I can see how homeless the journey truly is.
How provisional the shrines along the way like milestones
we stop to paint like the inside of our skulls
or the caves we first dwelled in with our dead
buried under fire and the numinosity of our picture music
impregnating the womb walls of a space made sacred by fear.
The darkness bears my secrets, and in the torchlight,
in carbon and red ochre, a diary of shamans
gored by defecating rhinos speared to death.

I have imagined my way into an understanding
that is a rite of passage into a space that is
a vast abyss of intelligence, a nothingness
that speaks through an intuitive grammar of things
as if a galaxy, a star, stone, tree, raindropp were each a thought,
a sign, a word, the syntax of a growing paradigm
of creative awareness that we're completely alone
and lost at sea like fish on the moon crawling out of its tides
as if nothing bound us, not even detachment,
nor a god that exists as a confession of the way we do,
nor any medium we work in as reflection of our presence
labouring away at an unattainable world that won't exist
until we do, and it's 7 to 5 against anyone making it that far.

But what a joy to emerge out of our own nothingness
like a secret we're letting ourselves in on,
making it up as we go along like a deportable myth of origin
we can adapt to our infinite beginnings
because for starters, it has none of its own.
We were born to express ourselves like apple trees.
We were born to see and be happy marvelling at the event.
To enjoy longing for things we were never missing
and be guided by wise men we never listen to
back to a silence that has nothing to say for itself
that we didn't already know in the first place.
Everywhere is the threshold of the return journey.
Life is either an exile, or it stays at home like a follower.
Bless the enlightened apostates of the dangerous religion
that desecrates the mind by worshipping it.
Why make a chain out of your umbilical cord
and get your head wrapped around it like a noose
because you forgot meaning was an art
and not a way to take yourself way too seriously to heart?
Why go to war with your own mind
just to administer to the needs of the suffering
when you can paint a god in blood and ashes
and decultify yourself with the creative freedom
of your imagination deconstructing the fable of your belief
that it's the being, not the becoming, that endures.
And you can do this without even knowing how to draw.
A starmap doesn't shine. A blue print doesn't open a door.
If you ask a crutch to do your walking for you,
it's going to throw you away like a miracle
at the top of the stairs of Notre Dame de Coeur.
Better to be the sacred whore of a thousand profligate gods
than the unrepentant nun of one who shuts the world out,
like art for art's sake, to revel in her own extinction
in a mystical connubium with an unregenerate imagination.

You can burn your gates and cages in a wild field if you like
for not being able to keep the flowers in, or keep the wind
from rioting with the leaves way past curfew,
but there was never any risk of being granted what you ask
because life is the unpredictable moon rise
that deepens the calendars with a renewed humility
towards the extraordinary mutability of time.
What have you ever been that baffled your imagination?
It isn't reason that inspires us to become a stranger tomorrow
to the self we knew today. Genuine faith isn't
an artificial life support system to keep something alive
that should have been allowed to die quietly away yesterday.
Millions upon millions of facts like a graveyard of skeleton keys
to a door we can't find open within ourselves
as if we'd just stepped through it to be here where we live
deciphering the shapes of the clouds as if we lived in code.

Hide your secret deep enough if you want it to be known.
Walk alone as far as you can until you can't
if you want the world to walk the rest of the way with you.
The white demon that knows heaven and hell experientially
mentors the senses in the spiritual subtleties of the black angel
that comes like the new moon of a third eye
to help the exegetes of light see further into the dark
by blowing their candles out like flowers.
All seekers are roads looking for a map to follow.
Preludes after the fact, that set out to look for their own endings.
Be a star. And keep your afterlife behind you
like the shadow of the last form you cast upon the earth.
Be an eye that doesn't leave any room between the moon
and it's reflection so that the substance of life is seeing
not that you're a distinct and separate entity
that cosmically identifies with your exclusion
but that you're wholly within easy reach of everything
that depends upon you for its existence. Just as every leaf
you let fall in the autumn like an adage of wisdom
about how you can know the world by its fruits
first came to the tree like a smile to your face
when you realized your imagination was
the inconceivable dynamic of a creative state of grace.

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Patrick White

Not Even The Light

Not even the light of the stars
shining like the keys to the ancient love-letters
bound among the secret jewels
of the queen of heaven
penetrates me as deeply as you do.

The planet wheels into the night
bearing its burden of humans
murdering each other
to enforce one state of ignorance
upon another
as the rabid bees
strafe the demented flowers
on the far side of the world
for enriching their radioactive pollen,
convinced in their madness
more honey than blood will flow from the wound.

I walk by myself
along the brittle banks of a frozen stream
among the detonations of the cattails
waiting like Napoleonic cannoneers
to stoke the charge of the next volley.

The snow in the sunset
is stained a spectral apricot
that disappears like breath on a cold window
and the sky is vast with my insignificance.
Two or three decades of life left,
if I'm lucky,
and though I have tried to use my time
to leave a gift for someone I will never meet,
long ago I realized
there is no way of assessing
what they will find
after the coffin closes like an eyelid
on this long, dark, radiant brevity
that once shone like the moon
in the ores of my blood.

Like the wandering of this rivulet
my heart has always been
a pilgrim without a shrine
and the direction of prayer has encompassed all
like a man getting up off his knees
and walking through an open door
to drink from the cup of his lover
in the shadows of the autumn willow
that sways like kite-tails
from the flights of fire
she ignites among the stars
that gather in the dark like strangers
before their own ghosts.

What the wind
has torn away from me like apple-bloom,
like poems, like smoke and leaf, like skies,
like tears and blood and faith
it has replaced
with these deeper revelations of you
that hang like a windfall of scarlet bells
from the branch of a dead tree in winter.

The wine of your life and light
has matured in the ferocious crucibles of the sun
and you have been poured out
like the passion of a sword
to cleave the stone of my heart
with these truant rivers of wounded silver
that flow through me like blood.

A young breeze
tries to hone the edge of its blade
on the rising moon
as a black ribbon of water
runs like a snake of oil
between the enclosing jaws
and cataracts of ice,
tiny wavelets scaling its skin
scintillant with the small commotions of stars overhead.
The bush wolves
have been nosing for muskrat
and you can almost taste the steam
rising from hot meat on the air.

I squeak like a pulley through the virgin snow,
following the banks of my own meandering,
owing nothing of myself to anyone,
wholly my own solitude,
as I pass through the gates
of the enclosing darkness
trying to enter the abyss and the mystery
of what I have lived so precariously
over the last sixty-three years,
what it means, if anything,
to be a human among these paper birches
on an island in the stream,
looking up at the intimate unattainability
of the stars,
knowing you are growing old,
that death is more populous with friends
than life, that love
has sloughed you so many times
like a viper's skin,
like the phases of the moon,
like a shrine of smoke and ashes,
that the phoenix hesitates
to robe itself in the full glory
of its former plumes of fire.

My mother will die soon.
I must say it,
voice it in my blood
to be able to bear it
and my children are clouds in the world
that no longer look for their reflections
in the eyes of the lake they arose from
as if they were merely breathed out.

And how in any god's name
can a man define the absence
he has grown to be,
except he standardize his own spinal cord
as the only measure of loss
he has to go by?
And even after
all the millennia of my walking,
standing up,
I'm still only six feet closer to the stars
though my mind can embody all of space
in a solitary thought.

And the deep, inner silence
in the empty throne-room of my heart
where even the most profound events of my life
are seen to be ultimately no more
than the antics of a jester
playing with shadows,
turns out after all to be
just another mode of weeping.

It takes a lifetime
for a dropp of water
to gather the courage to fall
from the tip of a blade of stargrass,
and the tongue has tears
the eyes know nothing of.
I admire the cool crimson
on the brushes of the ground willow
as they try to catch my likeness
on the ice-primed canvas of the snow,
but suggest
to portray me as I lived
they need to be loaded with blood not paint.

Like the moon
I have worn the same blossom
as a face
for years now
and I still don't know the fruit
that ripens beneath it;
whether my life has sweetened
in orchards of light,
or black dwarf of the forbidden apple
on a dead tree,
I taste like a full eclipse.

And what could it change even if I did know?
When the diaspora of my starseed
breaks bread
at a harvest of thorns;
who is the host
and who is the guest
and who asks for a menu?

And no matter how far from home
the journey takes him,
whether down a dead-end alley
or further than the stars
was there ever a man
who didn't walk to his own funeral
like a bell
looking for any beginning
that might not be lost in the end?
Or does the snake
that takes its tail in its mouth
as a gesture of eternity
eventually end up swallowing
its own head
like this stream before me
making its way to the sea?

I stepped across a star sill
through a vertical door into life
and in the leaving of it
I shall knock from the inside
on a door that's horizontal
to continue my descent toward earth
down a ladder of thresholds;
and what began so earnestly
among family and friends and lovers
will be concluded by a stranger
who will wear my name like a gravestone.

But here among the tangle
of these fallen trees, their roots
fleshed out
and washed like a corpse
by the water and the snow,
Venus peers through the fingers
of the branches above
where two crows have paired
like quotation marks
around the hearsay of the night
though I am left speechless
by the random beauty of the scene,
as if my voice had been released like a bird
into its own most intimate, inward vision
and that vision were everywhere you like the sky
it disappears into like I do
everytime my heart is opened
like one of the lockets of time
and I stare into your eyes
and the universe stares back
as you breathe out the night with all of its stars
and then I breathe you in
just as a golden feather of the moon
lands without a ripple
or unravelling wake
on the mirror of these lonely, black waters
I have followed deep into the darkness
like the urgent secret of my own lifestream,
and I know it's you. I know it's you.

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