Soil – A Poetic Notion

Image result for oak tree at night


Death is my Religion

Death is my sacred Mother

Death is the vehicle by which my soul traverses the heavens

She is no macabre fancy

But a perfumed blossom

When I was a boy

I dreamed of a rotting woman in an upper room

She would beckon with her will

And I’d enter first the parlor

Then ascend the stair

There she lay on her sick bed

Eyes fierce

Matronly

Nurture and discipline at once

All would fade to such black terror

Such abysmall emptiness

So complete

It sucked the heart from the breast

The heart from the heart

All chambers collapsed

But then in the charnel stench of decay

A bright light glimmers

And I become a raging fire

Her stygian embrace was but soil

From which my sappling oak would spring

So I do not fear

But worship

For when I go to ground

I enter through the womb again

To return to father’s house

For the sun is spread throughout

In billion upon billion glimmers

And there I go

To hang

Till again

The ground it calls to worship

And births a nation

I the man

Have but one rite

The worship

Of the mother

Night


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What’s Been Overcome

In my attempt to express how I think that we’ve forgotten all that we’ve overcome. An attempt spurred by the odd explosions of dumb passion from peasant to president. In this attempt I came away with something more like a poetic notion.  I rather like it.

I hope you like it too.

(A focused and sober consideration of our wilfully ungrateful amnesia regarding father history is soon to come. Among many other articles.)

Mad Crow’s Mirth

To become a bird aware of the folly of flight and the ludicrousness of its position.

That is in my opinion something approaching enlightenment.

Though as is evidenced by the play of what’s been said enlightenment is a farce and thus to laugh is wisdom.

But not always for at times one must laugh at laughter and become stern.

I think that mankind has forgotten what’s been overcome. Mankind is currently like a lazy teenager that has swept troubles under the rug.

Formerly there were bloody hangings, drawings and quarterings, myopic ideas and the death resultant of that myopia. Now we do not have these two. At least not here. We export them to China and its socioeconomic kin. This is not to mention the graveyard of empires.

In the latter musing I noted the folly of hovering wraith like above humanity as arbiter. It is a default style. Standard for observers. Especially objective ones who use the third person. The religious think they escape it by adopting Christ consciousness. Such a crown, unwieldy, sits oddly on their heads, oddly funny.

Thus the need for the bird analogy and my current…

Laughter.

Darling

Yes o sweet one

Pour the wine

the thing it must be done

The blooming of the line

Of dreams

Your hair is the wheat of the field

Fed by the waters of spirit sublime

Cisterns are your eyes

Drawing up the sustenance of time

There is a depth of dyes

Waxing of colors

Eternal tapestry

Hung in parlors

Of diverse eternity

Breaking evening

Through thrusting supernal light

Weave now the ring

Entwined we forge a novel sight

Settle now against my breast

Here against my rhythm

Take your rest

We are the first and last

Redly glimmers in the cup

The elixir

That makes down up

Laugh laugh here where it’s clear
Where it’s clear what’s been overcome

We are the first and the last

Take that wine and welcome

To the future and the past