~
nothing and everything
arrives unexpected
~
listen listen
~
and I hear the rising of my own story
surfacing for protection
who am I then?
the sum of my parts
or who I am becoming?
~
this aching is an intention
radiating in waves
the energy
a voluntary take over
I can feel it everywhere
my sex, my stomach, my bottom lip
inundated I feel I am sinking
~
drenched in the running colors
I wade to shore
~
the more I surrender
the more transparent I’m becoming
~
sentient
I hear
~
the earth is weeping
Poetry of Light 
bouncing questions …
~
maybe
our memories
create
our personal, social
identities ?
~
maybe
our bodies are merely
the house, shell
temple ?
~
maybe
we’re just packages
holding
the content ?
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mentally encompassing perception as physical seems to be one thing
emotionally embracing perception as physical another
physically being sentient…
a fragile balance
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continuously
~
reflecting
projecting
peace
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hey poetfriend….you know Jane Mead. This poem, especially that “listen listen” part struck me as very jane mead. especially the mead poem here…great balance here between visible and invisible:
Concerning That Prayer I Cannot Make
by Jane Mead
Jesus, I am cruelly lonely
and I do not know what I have done
not do I suspect that you will answer me
and, what is more, I have spent
these bare months bargaining
with my soul as if I could make her
promise to love me when now it seems
that what I meant when I said ‘soul’
was that the river reflects
the railway bridge just as the sky
says it should – it speaks that language.
I do not know who you are.
I come here every day
to be beneath this bridge,
to sit beside this river,
so I must have seen the way
the clouds just slide
under the rusty arch –
without snagging on the bolts,
how they are borne along on the dark water –
I must have noticed their fluent speed
and also how that tattered blue T-shirt
remains snagged on the crown
of the mostly sunk dead tree
despite the current’s constant pulling.
Yes somewhere in my mind there must
be the image of a sky blue T-shirt, caught,
and the white islands of ice flying by
and the light clouds flying slowly
under the bridge, though today the river’s
fully melted. I must have seen.
But I did not see.
I am not equal to my longing.
Somewhere there should be a place
the exact shape of my emptiness –
there should be a place
responsible for taking one back.
The river, of course, has no mercy –
it just lifts the dead fish
toward the sea.
Of course, of course.
What I meant when I said ‘soul’
was that there should be a place.
On the far bank the warehouse lights
blink red, then green, and all the yellow
machines with their rusted scoops and lifts
sit under a thin layer of sunny frost.
And look –
my own palm –
there, slowly rocking.
It is my pale palm –
palm where a black pebble
is turning and turning.
Listen –
all you bare trees
burrs
brambles
piles of twigs
red and green lights flashing
muddy bottle shards
shoe half buried – listen
listen, I am holy.
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Thank you so much for the introduction, RD. I had to walk outside after reading her poem. Her words sink me in deeper…the only direction to go
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what an elegant and ardent poem this is. another lyrical testament to your supremely supple and cultivated imagination. tony
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Thank you Tony….you are always so generous. It means a lot.
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Agree with Things & Flesh’s eloquent comment. Thank you…as always, JH.
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As we grow, my friend, so do the challenges. xxoo
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we are all unfinished stories…lovely poetry, J.
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Thank you Virgilio….and I love the idea of being an unfinished story.
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— Everything written symbols can say has already passed by. They are like tracks left by animals. That is why the masters of meditation refused to accept that writings are final. The aim is to reach true being by means of those tracks, those letters, those signs – but reality itself is not a sign, and it leaves no tracks. It doesn’t come to us by way of letters or words. We can go toward “it”, by following those words and letters back to what they came from. But so long as we are preoccupied with symbols, theories and opinions, we will fail to reach the principle.
— But when we give up symbols and opinions, aren’t we left in the utter nothingness of being?
— Yes.
KIMURA KYUHO, Kenjutsu Fushigi Hen
[On the Mysteries of Swordsmanship],
1768
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momentary wind storm on the high plateau
the air is clearing as we look over the edge
to see the flames of a dry grass fire
exploding seeds in the valley below
no smoke reaches us
only gathering clouds
we all stand there in
the potential of rain
Thank you Geo. I enjoyed the above passage immensely. I’ve been considering something similar, in my own way, in my next post.
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We stand on holy ground,
listen to the earth breathing,
and everything is sacred.
There is only love.
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Thank you Teri, we do stand on sacred ground…being obscured by too much “knowing”. Sometimes I find this journey overwhelming. I’m glad and grateful to be able to express this amongst friends. xxoo
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Hello JH, I have seen you commenting on blogs I follow so I thought I would drop by, glad I did. May I ask you how long you have been writing poetry? Thank you, Forty.
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Hello Forty…interesting question. Poetry is literally an easier way to express myself. Both speech and prose have been frustrating for me since my thinking tends to be in layers (?) that superimpose on each other. I revert to poetic speech like a person who stutters, finally getting it out. Oddly, since starting this blog and having more practice, both my speech and prose abilities are improving. I’m not sure why, but perhaps the desire to communicate with focus is the greatest contributor to the process. Glad to meet you!
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Oh, your reply has sparked a thought for me. Something I read some time ago about stuttering. It said that the speech centres of the brain are the only areas that are not fixed in one spot in all people at birth, they can be in differing areas and on different sides of the brain! The theory was that for stutterers, the speech area settled on both sides of the brain so it’s literally like two sides of the brain arguing over who is in control. You have an amazing awareness of how you work so what a wonderful thing to have come out of your blog for you. Glad to meet you too!
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I enjoy your writing, But so far, it’s hard for me to say anything. After hearing or reading a good poem, I withdraw into myself… The poem still reverberates. If I’ve found it on a blog, it is always good if I can just press the button ‘like’. When I first came to WordPress, I didn’t like the ‘like’ button. It seemed so artificial… to press a button to show you liked something… but I’ve learned that sometimes, it works better than trying to say anything.
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I have my own learning curve with the virtual world as well, Shimon. At times I suspect it s a new frontier and I wonder about my part in it.
With me as well, there are blogs I follow with respect for what the authors contribute and their words resonate with me…but I find I haven’t the language to say anything. I have no idea why because I also find I can comment immediately on others. I enjoy the mystery of it. It is what it is.
I do know that it makes me happy when you show up on these pages…!
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“drenched in the running colors
I wade to shore”
…these lines encapsulate the entire poem for me…the nuances of life come together in the “running colors”…
thank you for sharing such lovely hope…
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Hope…. yes Johann, it is my hope to be cognizant while remaining hopeful. It is a delicate balancing for all of us. But a blessing to be in the company of others on this fine line. xxoo
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