for LJ user ldy

The axis of the world will stay its course,
And with it our velocity remains
A constant, knowing time but not remorse.
The humming center holds to its refrain

And with its gentle song eases the pain
Of steady transformation, death and birth,
Of our pretensions, hesitance and vain
Attempts at isolating our true worth.

You'll find the serendipity of mirth
Between these notes that constantly erase
The past, and to the future, give a berth
For dreams that too will age and be replaced.

It moves toward the dawn with each new day,
Embracing all and turning none away.

08 DEC 2003

for Andrew J. Thomas

In this unspoken space where lovers, mute,
Imagine beyond thought a world to come
They come to rest upon the hardest truth:
Faced with a simple word they are struck dumb,

And know to speak of it and not to lie
Would tear apart their fragile acted sham;
Yet from this conflict, weakly, their souls they fly,
Where true love would not pause or give a damn.

To know the taste of love, and to refuse
The sweeter cup, accepting bitterness,
And denying passion its proper place

Is to play a sad game where all will lose;
Making all life dying, breeding weakness,
And lying to all with a stranger's face.

07 DEC 2003

for LJ user occipitaldruid

Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, from The Village Blacksmith

If you would have your horse's hooves re-shod
or plowshares rendered from your tools of war,
a barrel wrapped round with an iron rod
or brand new railing where your fence is poor

Just make your way out to the smithy's door,
his crucible will change your scrap to gold;
there on the anvil that he stands before
the future's formed by the great sledge he holds.

But you must work the bellows as he toils
and bring with you the raw goods to transform;
your eyes will burn and your tears turn to sweat

as the inferno brings your blood to boil.
And then, at last, your soul, in molten form
will break free of the mold of past regret.

04 DEC 2003

for LJ user gurdonark

A flash of gray against the sun and cloud,
then swift and sure he plummets to his prey;
Above the warp and woof he watches, proud,
examining the context of our way.

The puzzle is the sum of all its pieces,
he tells us, seeking balance with the whole;
And in the insignificant and tiny
are found the noble roots that form our soul.

Be cleansed of that which in the past bound you,
the message that he brings to set us free;
And reconnect to ancient ways around you
to recollect your sense of destiny.

The breadth of life within his field of sight,
this ally offers visions through his flight.

His eye a piercing shaft that splits the sky
which finds among the blades of grass his prey,
he flies above the world, a focused spy,
and sees only a fraction on his way.

He teaches us that ideals, however high,
if not tempered with vision, make us cruel,
and can breed arrogance and selfish pride
that lead us to deny the heart, as fools.

The justness of our cause, he bids us ask,
to balance, with humility, our role;
and warns that attention to just the task,
restricts our wider sense of the great whole.

One whose message is to consider more,
the hawk shows us the price we pay to soar.

from The Druid Animal Sonnets, 08 OCT 2001

for LJ user novapsyche

The clock will stop that human hands must wind;
its mechanized contrivances will fail,
and in those precious seconds between time
the boundary between the worlds is frail:

on one side, secret lands where shadows pale,
and on the other, bright and vibrant dreams
where words escape like mist, and leave no trail.
In neither place a thing is what it seems.

The universe is woven from both streams;
it winds its way through both darkness and light.
Truth in its currents swims and brightly gleams,
and foolish souls will try to grasp it tight.

To value just the gem you hold is tragic;
To see them all, and let them be, is magic.

03 DEC 2003

for LJ user i_dread

How delicate the web that occupies
us, spider-like, in our attempts to mend
and build this world before the binding dries.
We toil from waking to each day's end,

constructing fragile lanterns for our light
that sway unsteady in each tender breeze,
imagining a world beyond our sight
where lives some power that we seek to please.

Yet, at the close of all our labor's use,
just simple threads of gossamer remain;
and all the tidy ends of things unloose
in one short afternoon's soft, gentle rain.

Still, we build on, despite such evidence,
And cast our shadows, for experience.

03 DEC 2003

for LJ user dougs:

Each love, when new, burns with a lusty fire;
it feeds on what it finds without regret,
and warms the soul upon a glowing pyre,
not thinking on those things not happened yet.

Wrapped in the arms of amorous delight,
amazed as each discovery unfolds,
two lovers wait, expectant, for the night,
and in the embers nestle 'gainst the cold.

They fan the flames and wonder in the heat,
providing fuel with each excited breath;
and when at last they lay as one, complete,
their ashes, like the Phoenix, know no death.

Ah, new love, if it lives through this event
Will be a fire whose source is never spent.

02 DEC 2003

why can't i clean the palette with
a wide stroke of the pen, and then
when the tabla is inky black
use a beam of light to form new words
that leave their silver traces in the
fading mist of significance?