I
What can I write that others hath not writ?
Why say I this, that others may not hear?
Why draw I thus, in falsely glowing script,
That shifts in shape and beckons eyes to wear?
Why write I thus, and why thus do you tread
Upon this path of spectral ‘whys’ and ‘hads’,
Questioning, ne’er clear viewing, yet well fed
Of thought on pensive, half-glimpsed myriads?
I write out thus, to call on thee to Read;
Come, share my heart, learn true thy mystery.
The only truth to fear is Truth to Heed,
And heeding thus, I cannot help but free
My mind from fear of Mind’s ferocity;
Nor resist bright-lured Curiosity.
* * * * *
II
I See; My tongue dead lies for lack of words,
While frozen, watching Life’s shadows, I See;
Why speak I not? Mine eyes are sharp blade swords,
Piercing confusion’s fog to slice Truth free.
Razor glances strip my world, Sight whisp’ring,
Order from chaos; Spectral wires slip taut
To guide, (Unseen), thought and word and State and King:
Beyond surfaces I See; Yet I speak not.
This voice, (My Voice), that chokes upon itself,
Would it be heard by thee, or any Soul?
Would it be heard were it to shout its wealth
In golden tongues of articulate role?
I See such Truth; Yet nothing dare I speak;
The words I fail to catch are far too weak.
* * * * *
III
O, were I not with mortal flesh confined
My whole spirit thy golden worth would sing;
Amber joy I’d spin, Love for thee entwined,
And wrap thee ‘bout with balmy touch of Spring;
Glowing light I’d shower forth, Affection
Pure and free, and silver sparks I’d fountain
O’er the world thy Soul to see; Perfection
Of Heart’s speech I thee whisper thru my Ken.
Soul to Soul and thought to thought, loving Truth
And Trust, dear friend; I speak to thee with all
Mine Heart, and hope you hear me soft; For proof
Of Love is not a common rain to fall.
Fear not this glowing Love thy Soul to net;
That thou art thee, for me is adequate.
* * * * *
IV
(Shakespeare’s 18th; Inverted)
Shall I compare thee to a Winter’s snow?
Thou art more tepid and less slippery;
Ice winds do frostbite ros’y cheeks and nose
And Winter’s grip hath far too dear a fee.
Sometime too wet the crystal snowflakes fall,
And often is the path slicked o’er with sleet;
And each postbox from post will go AWOL,
By plow, or Neighbor’s flailing shovel beat.
But thy eternal glacier shall not crack,
Nor win momentum of the flash Spring-melts;
Nor shall Life brag thou clingest to his back,
When down the sheerest mogul slopes thou pelts.
So long as Men do skate, or downhill ski,
So long lives snow, and snow sucks warmth from thee.
* * * * *
V
(Shakespeare’s 1st; Inverted)
From fairest goblets we desire to drink,
That thereby we might taste our mead with style,
And, to the tune of crystal Swarovski’s chink,
Our Waterford raise up in toast with smile:
But thou, contracted to thine own rude beer,
Chug’st thy hop’s brew from dented tankard’s lip,
Dribbling foam slobber, which lands everywhere!
Thy beer too low; Discerning palate jipp’d.
Thou who sits now with this grand table set,
Invited for this fairest meal to share,
Within thy base mug drown’st all respect,
And, uncouth churl, ignor’st thy silverware!
Pick up thy fork, or else this Viking be,
To eat with fingers, while sitting near me.
* * * * *
VI
(The Quickening: i)
The blinders of my Heart were crack’d with pitch,
But I knew not, for darkness thru them bled;
I starved on means, deceiving myself rich,
Whilst rueful steps on paths of ‘Should Do’ tread.
Then, soft, a stream of gold thru crack did gleam,
Pooling ‘neath my Heart, tempting muted Sight.
Quick-glanced, I turned, (short-breath’d), and dared to Dream,
And swung my tunnel’d Heart toward source of Light.
And Lo, the Dancing Singer scorched mine eye,
And ecstasy of purpose drown’d my Soul;
Crack’d pitch did melt, o’erwhelm’d by beck’ning cry,
Like moth to flame, I twirled in Shattered role;
The blinders on my Heart are torn away;
My Soul sings True, so on this path I’ll stay.
* * * * *
VII
(The Quickening: ii)
On new remembered wings I cast about,
And fluttered, frantic, lost for how to fly;
A world away, bright Dancer didst cavort,
Too far for Touch, yet how I longed to try;
My pinions spread, yet weak my feathers grew,
Too long forgot to safely bear my weight;
Eternity of darkness twixt us Two,
Infinite Void of striving Heart and Fate;
I banked and dove, True bent my Soul to toil,
And stretched my wings with Joy the Stars to greet;
A thousand times I crashed unto rich soil,
Yet welcome Earth; Well muddied hands and feet;
And slow, the warmth of Wind within me grows,
And worlds away much closer my Heart Knows.
* * * * *
VIII
(The Quickening: iii)
O, soon with Quicken’d wings I plunged and dove,
Ambitious with renewed Agility;
Yet wary to o’er stretch, I fell and strove;
With loving pains, each pinion Gilded be:
I dipped my brush in Craft to lend them strength,
Then linked them to my Heart to guide them True;
I set them firm with Dreams preened o’er their length,
Lest doubt or Fear attempt to eat them through.
And Lo, the firmament above me loomed,
And Bright my plumage spread ‘neath Stars sparkling;
Gaze fixed on Song, whose Light my Fate had Doomed,
I leapt, full breath’d, and loosed my Soul to Wing;
O, sweet within my feathers sighs the Wind,
Naught better, save to Journey with a Friend.
* * * * *
IX
My Lover does not know that I am his,
Neither is he aware his Heart is mine;
We’ve never met, nor shared a real kiss,
The ivy of our lives is yet to twine.
Yet, Him I called to wait within the Grove,
And laid him down on Nature’s fertile bed,
Whilst laughing bright, I shower’d Him o’er with Love,
And worshiped Him with welcome Soul-Gilded.
He asked with eager Voice of what I was,
As if revering a Divine creature,
Yet this was not, my Heart Knew, my right cause;
Smiling I, I asked if it did matter.
How strange are dreams, to bring two Souls to Touch?
We ne’er may meet, and yet we Love so much.
* * * * *
X
With feline Grace thou slips amongst my life,
Padding here and there, spreading thy soft light,
Ne’er alone am I, I with thee am rife,
Everywhere I turn, thou art in my Sight.
Thy gentle touch is all I need to cheer
When I am down; Thy quiet Love, pure white,
And true, with thee I mine surround; I hear
Thy Heart within me thrum, or day or night
Thou sings; Thy gracious song, contented Soul,
Such Peace thy presence brings; Thou lov’st me dear,
I see within thine eyes, Devoted Droll,
As with slow, stalking steps thou drawest near:
But soft, gracious Cat, know kindly thy place,
Remove thy prickly paws from off my face.
* * * * *
XI
Ask not the Why of this, which here I write,
No answer lies herein for eyes to find.
The quest to Know lies in the Journey’s sight,
And needy Why’s more like the eye to blind;
‘Tis not a crime to quest to know your Heart,
Though grasping times say, “That I cannot hold.
Why seek you air, when substance divvies Part?”
To say, “‘Tis right,” we dare to break the mold;
I won’t deny that walking blind is hard,
When all we’re taught says, “Know exactly where,”
But asking, “Why,” from safe within our yard,
Of things without, is like to stifle Care.
The need to know divorced from Knowing True
Does a disservice, both to truth and you.
* * * * *
XII
(Shakespeare’s 66th; Inverted)
Once saw we True, when first we ope’d our eyes,
Our Hearts looked bright within, our Souls to peer,
Yet Times do teach that our True sense belies,
And Science calls our intuition Mere:
And Commerce klaxons, “This,” to blind our Sight,
And Proper blazes, “Right,” to mute our Heart,
And Teaching nags us, “Measure thy Soul’s light,”
Whilst Worth heeds, ‘Sipid, “Value this one Part,”
And Art is judged by, “Mass produce to Sell,”
And Conform, tyrant-like, suppresses Style,
And Complex, “Why,” denounced by Shouted, “Tell,”
And Virtue’s Love passed o’er for Vulgar Bile;
Once saw we True, yet then we’re taught to Lie:
Thus walk we blind, while muted Hearts doth cry.
* * * * *
XIII: Coriolanus
The things we love, we want to Idolize
And place upon a pedestal of Brass,
Yet our dear Hearts, tricked by revering eyes,
Are blinded by the mirrors of our pasts;
We see naught like, save what we wish to see,
And with deaf ears deflect the pleas of Truth,
And when the sight of what we’d thought to be
Is shattered Right, we drown in miser’s Ruth,
Whilst all around us ruin hath been made,
And up above us Ash begins to fall,
Yet still we grieve for Tears that We pervade,
And not the Doom that we have brought to Call;
Thus so we cry for what was lost from Me,
And fail to see the Truer Tragedy.
* * * * *
XIV: O, Unexpected Task
Forty toilets, have I been tasked to find,
Porcelain Goddesses to grace a stage;
And forty sinks to compliment their kind
Have I been charged with all due speed to cage.
Yet how to catch so very large a herd
Of Water Closet fixtures in one week?
To ask for Johns by dozens is absurd,
And how to transport? O, my car shall reek.
Yet faith in me of greatest depth is shown
By tasking thus this burthen to acquire,
And I will strive my cleverness to hone
And find these loos ere seven days expire:
O Flickinger, to aid you I will strive,
That I within my chosen Art may thrive.
* * * * *
XV
Our silent Hearts know what we best should be,
Yet heeding them is not what we are taught;
Loud yells of, “Fact!” paint everything we see,
While quiet Listening fails to merit thought.
Yet heed we could if we but wished to Hear,
Our Hearts’ advice wants only to be asked,
If we but take a moment here and there
To Listen soft, we’ll Know our favored tasks;
For there’s a reason why this thing I love,
And that, out there, conversely I dislike,
My Heart Knows why, and holding that above
Societal ‘Must’ informs my cradled pike:
So write I War upon the status quo,
Placing my Heart within this metered bow.
* * * * *
XVI
Can there be better eyes with which to see
Than those thru which a Heart in Love doth view?
To see the best in every quality,
Despite of faults we’d otherwise eschew?
Can there be better ears with which to hear
Than those that Harken to a Lover’s Voice?
Noting their perfect’st harmony with cheer,
Despite of chords we’d never pick by Choice?
Can there be better words that we can Speak
Than words of Love to warm a crying Heart,
And lift our Spirits when we’re feeling weak,
O’erwhelmed by Life, quite fearing our small part?
O, Just to Hear and Speak our world as thus;
Seeing with Love, all minutes spent in Trust.
* * * * *
XVII
Shakespeare wrote sonnets, each one fourteen lines,
Within which he mortared fast his clever
Wit amidst a garden of flow’ring vines,
Which yet bear fruit, framing his name ever;
O’er the years Poets stretched to touch his fame,
Tracing leaves, and lifting stems to tally,
Yet vines grow thorns to prick confuséd shame:
Thus fall our fingers short eternally.
For Human Hearts are quite complex a thing;
Shakespeare knew this, and saw with True insight;
This Sight he placed within his Tale-telling,
Teaching his pen with Tears and Joy to write;
So if you chance to read or see a show,
Think of Shakespeare, and why his Vines still grow.
* * * * *
XVIII
Ne’er thought I now to find my Heart so cold,
Lacking in Hope and Vibrancy for Life,
A world of Grey around me to enfold,
Dulling the tune of my True Muse’s fife;
I’d thought myself above the conquered grief
Of tepid thought and well-intentioned care,
The shallow jest and quaintly-worded brief,
Which all Men use to sweeten empty air;
Yet quick the blade of accident did cut
And still my Heart, when I had felt most safe,
And back I fell within that drowning rut
Of silent Fool and mutely fading waif.
A colored world, I know, surrounds me still,
Yet so to See, I must muster my Will.
* * * * *
XIX
Excerpt: ‘A Dragon is Coming!’
Creature of Few Words, Act I, scene vii
When Darkness Comes we Look to Light
And Steel our Hearts against the Cloud,
Which Quick descends to Blind our Sight
And Deafen Ears with Cawing Loud;
When Dark Descends we Turn to Cheer
And Grip the Things we Cherish Most
Against the Pull of Dark Revere,
Which Festers Pride and Lingers Ghost;
When Darkness Comes, Look we to Light
Shielding our Hearts against the Noise,
Which Blocks our Sense while Teaching Sight
To Scorn the Things it Most Employs;
Look we to Light when Darkness Looms,
Ever the Light will Stave our Dooms!
* * * * *
XX
Excerpt: ‘A Dragon is Coming!’
Lead Crow, Act II, scene i
When Darkness Comes we Lift our Wings
And Welcome Shadows in our Hearts,
Which Beat for Death and Caw for Things
To Peck and Claw and Tear Apart;
When Dark Descends, we Rip our Hearts
Asunder from our Bloody Breasts
And Kill all Thought of Hope and Love
And Welcome Greed within our Chests;
When Darkness Calls, Look we to Light
To Feast upon its Shattered Dreams,
And Drown all Sense of Caring Sight
Within the Scorn that From Us Streams;
We Are the Dark and When we Call,
Ever the Light will Fear our Fall!
* * * * *
XXI
(Shakespeare Inverted; 46)
My Mind and Heart are at a mortal war
How to divide the toiling of my Life;
My Mind my Heart the Joys of Art would bar,
My Heart detests the yoke of Hourly strife;
My Heart doth plead that worth in Art doth lie,
A Calling never summed by miser’s Gold;
But the logical doth that plea deny
And claims a wage I must constantly hold;
To solve this problem is indenturéd
A flight of Quills, all ‘prenticed to the Heart,
And by their scribing ’tis endeavoréd
To bring Mind safety and give dear Heart Art,
By thus: My Mind’s toil is Career to chart,
And my Heart’s charge, our pursuit thus of Art.
* * * * *
XXII
Not for Love’s desperation do I cling
To that Bright Star, which is the Heart of you,
But for that Song, which so Brightly you Sing,
That touches Muse and bids my Soul be True;
Your every word Speaks libraries to me,
The slightest move adds Volumes to my shelf,
With but a glance, a Torrent loosens free
Within my Heart, Illuminating self;
I cannot help but Still to Feel your Song,
Reserving breath for clarity to Hear,
Mine Eye stays fixed, enraptured by the strong
Delicious sound that Dreams my Soul to Tear;
Stretch out your hand and Turn your Eyes to Mine,
Speak thus, my Love; Let our Muses entwine.
* * * * *
XXIII: Disparity
That Poverty should link its arm with Wealth
And bow beside, subsisting at the beck,
Defies right thought and brings to question health
Of right and deed, displaying culture’s wreck;
That ill squalor should turn cheek with false smile
Simply because strong affluence draws near,
That Human nature subjugates its bile
To seek out scraps, when plenty should be here;
The Great Divide, which we allow to grow,
Twixt those who have and idolize the ‘Me’
And those who lack, who carry on the show
Of worshiped brass: It is a Travesty.
Exploiting Men to sate a gorging Greed,
Or Enabling; Neither is worthy deed.
* * * * *
XXIV
If my dear Heart were free to choose its way,
Without the trappings of a mortal life,
Next to thy Soul, at thy side, would it stay,
Turning aside the slashings of Time’s knife;
Before thy breast it would erect a shield,
Deflecting all the hardships Life designs,
And at thy back it would a prism yield,
Reflecting all the green-eyed monster’s tines;
To aid thy breath, it would enlist the wind
And bolster fast the slightest fault in Voice,
To aid thy blood, it would each sickness mend,
Staving ’til last Death’s grasping claws of choice;
If it were so, that my Heart could be free
Of mine own breast, t’would always shelter thee.
* * * * *
XXV: High Rise
Within our minds we make our inward walls
As if without, our bodies we would jail
With constructs fair, enticing us to thralls
That inward twist and sanity impale;
Turning our eyes from what we once saw fair
To foul-faced Black, while painting it with white,
That we might think we see a Lily there,
And not the rot that festers in our sight;
For such a canker simply cannot be
In such a world of outward gilded gold,
Therefore the fault from outwards turns to Me:
Thus change our thoughts to fit what we behold;
For all the world can rot and fall to dust
When sweet Denial’s where we place our trust.
