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Human Jealousy in Stone
Human souls have slipped, but a man standing like a statue rarely gets trapped or trips, in soul-felt fits.
Somehow the stone-man must feel and hope a bit, so as not to be stumbled over by human wit.
Hopefully too, the stone statue will not be covered up by dirt, or be completely overthrown and
engulfed in hurt.
There is no need to throw out all medieval thoughts, because all the words written in stone are not
untrue, or tie us up in knots.
The ritual falling of stone, does not smash the bone, nor are the statues destroyed in lots, or noted also
just in brief jots, as if unknown, like discarded pots.
The streets that harbor these types of statues are picturesque, but are not painfully noted as crumbled,
or in disrepair on a desk.
But I must restate and add in vain, that these statues feel no pain.
God’s Cup of Tea
I see a crane standing in the bayou on one foot.
It is spiritually balanced, but its stance is weak, and is not well-put.
Its poise appears startlingly complete, but like man, is about life, effete.
When the crane gets old, it will have standing on one foot down cold.
The crane seems surrendered to the wind and sea, also the bird has a wildness that it won’t let be, and
is very bold.
Eventually the time will come, when the bird will feel it has everything down, and it will no longer be by
fate struck dumb.
Its soul shall show through its eyes, and they won’t be like two coals, or like alibis.
To life’s simple pleasures its spirit will be sold.
True belief, instead of imaginings, the bird will be doled.
The bird when it was young, used only its imagination… and the meaning of life was always only on the
tip of its tongue, but when the bird got old, it stopped imagining life as fleeting, and began believing that
each breathe of life is like pure gold.
Also, through grief it would stand stolid, and Godhead would be to it like a song or ballad, and in
addition to this, man would, about bayou, life agree, that to man, bird, and beast, the bayou would be,
to say the least, God’s cup of tea, and also a banquet or a feast.
The Key
The key to my soul I searched for, from when I was a child, ‘till when I was old.
bin of coals, because of sin that he had stole.
bin of coals, because of sin that he had stole.
He had lost his key to his mind’s eye, and in turn became a disassociated ghost of a man, who would
soon hang and die.
He would also miss most of life’s goals, since he had dropped his key as he walked through the
graveyard of those who had also lost their souls.
He had slipped through life’s cracks with its holes, and he foolishly had challenged the cold.
Because he had defied the law, he had no more, any key, and he couldn’t open the door, or see.
The unconscious haunted jester was he, soon, his soul in hock, he became like a ghost or a goblin, and
without any glee, his door latch was to Beelzebub sold, for a fee.
Key witness to life’s mystery I wasn’t, but the solution to this puzzle, I have pondered, very hesitant,
and have tried, to about it become concerned and discern, what the common mind doesn’t learn.
I wish my conscience about this man, had been awake, and, I, too, had in my memory, a reminder
burned, down into my soul, so I wouldn’t tell myself I’m a fake, and in life I would have a role, that for
evil, no one could mistake.
This way confusion to me would not be doled, and about true learning I would not fold.
I could become the locksmith that liberated the ghost of my apprehension, on my own behalf, so
ignorance would not be the key to my epitaph.
Freedom would make my person whole, and my sincerity bright, as I saw life’s danger, and opened
the door to the knowledge of wrong or right, and, even though at the same time derision I was doled,
what people contended as supposedly true, wasn’t really appropriate or trite.
I would still know the difference between wrong and right, because this would make the devil and my
conscience fight.
Jealousy and the Knight
In the night I think that I am a knight, because I have fought with darkness, even though I have sight,
and also, even though the sword can cut from first to last, it has never been my delight, in times past.
With my eyes I can define the purpose of God’s design, and when I pray, I am bringing my foe to his
knees, with my mind.
With prayers I will cause him to hear God’s word on the grapevine, instead of him sneaking up on me
from behind.
That is why I am a soldier, or knight of peace, who attacks warlike minds, and renders up their
bankruptcy, and pays their house’s lease, just as their battles cease, and through transcendence, their
souls find release.
Even though I would never involve myself in the violence of a knight, I still know that the mind’s
principles are dense and the stars that twinkle in the night, have probably heard of war and its might.
That is why I challenge the father of the son, as to whether he should believe that all war is right, and
can always be won, like a boxer’s fight.
To challenge the dark foe is as hard as seeing the world making sense, but to be a knight and God’s
pawn in a game, to me is a social pretense.
To me the defeat of deceit, can come about without violence, sweat, or heat, and a hero with a pen is
always neat, not like a pirate, effete.
I will be happy to go to war in a psychic battle, with the foes of peace, even though it would be easier
to charge my foe, and make my saber rattle.
The Lord and the Sword
Does wickedness nurture a child to believe in war?
Does destruction come when war and peace become bedfellows?
A wick can lighten a house, but the wicked will bring about darkness, with a war fought in injustice.
The poison of war, makes the ubiquitous household run, it destroys people’s hopes for peaceful
resolutions with visionary foresight, and the poison is the lye (lie) that possesses the world with its might.
A father can teach his child to walk and talk, but how can a father teach his child pure chatter and
double talk, like that of war? Is that why he watches his child like a hawk?
Most wars are bad, when soldiers are like puppets of a fad.
Mexico
Every step you take through the rising tide is followed by the lines of waves, which create new lines
across our two souls and across the unified universe, that is in us, and is made up of our genuine,
actualized bodies dancing in these lines and waves on the sand.
We merge with God, there at the rising tide, where your statue of an image comes and goes, but the
beauty of you by the tide will never disappear from my mind, no matter how fleeting life is.
We stole each other’s hearts, but just like thieves, we gladly took from each other.
You act like you are unconscious, but secretly you know the universe is below you, above you, and in
the rows and lines of waves, splashing at your feet, making your soul dance, giving you reasons to go
on.
You and your small figure do not disappear down this strange shore, but stay frozen in the actuality of
wind, sand, and wave-line, in the beating hot sun, where you learned God’s name, and felt him breath
as the wind.
Mummy Rap
The dummy mummy was shocked by the stupidity of the discoverer’s mock-up of being a mastermind.
He asked himself, “How could they still be so ineffectual and behind?”
The curse that he put on this youthful archeologist was to cause him to be mystified with undeducible
facts, that led him to think, while walking the passages of this tailor's dummy tomb, that he must come
to the obvious assumption that this Pharaoh had defended his civilization with computations based only
on self-righteous acts, and that he, the student of these artifacts, was sentenced to a similar doom.
Because of his performance of invented reason in these dark hallways, where the doubt of didactic
thoughts of persons before him loomed, he felt this chronologically analogous scientific pact was
complicity to ignorance, in the sense that he, like this zombie, made up for error with presumptuous
theories for what he, in actual real integrity, lacked.
The prejudice of this zombie Pharaoh proved to be constricted, just as this Pharaoh choked any hope
out of this discoverer, as he walked these pathways that were as limited as the mind was narrow.
The harassing judgments of this past clan killed the inquisitive believer’s faith in humanity… Those
believers who stalked these mummies, as they were struck with pompous arrows.
These backwards Kings were really like one-dimensional automatons who computed their curses.
With grudges they doled from their purses, they created judgments that produced new chips on
mankind’s shoulders, proving that a mummy truly is wrapped up in itself.
Cognition of currying favor serves to tighten the mummy’s wraps on itself, as these Kings seem to live
on unfathomable wealth.
The main parallel between Egypt and today is hard to tell, except that it seems to be based on
pretense, and both of our deviations make us both look like we are architects of hell.
This includes the skyscrapers and pyramids as well.
The mumbo-jumbo world of the Pharaoh/discoverer is constantly trying to compute what it only partly
knows, and most everyone is trying to refute.
Infirm
Man seems a mere nothing when weakened and infirmed, as when he is colorless and pallid, like the
worm, and is called by some a demeaning term.
It seems though if man can crawl, he ought to be able to stand up to his fate, instead of stall, and,
rather than swagger and speak contemptuously with a drawl, that all he knows is the calamity of
bankruptcy and the fall, ought to be able to heed some righteous call.
When the man, much like the worm, asks for a reward, for doing much work, he is, like the worm, not
paid for fostering symbolic flowers of inspiration in the garden of delights.
Although man and worm, though beleaguered, succeed in making fertile both the earth and the mind as
they mutually fight against failure, even though they still are only metaphorically struggling and groping.
Through this thrashing about, they both find meaning in humility, as if coming in contact with the ground
of being by connecting with the underpinning of the mind, coming from crawling and probing around in
the earth in mortification.
Man begins to, because of this evasion of honor, feel funny, and he finds this inflexible posture of
society unmanly, striking him as odd, strange, and uncanny.
Is it also that his boss looks at him impatiently when he moves at a snail's pace and can’t stand erect,
and because he has a small ego, the cold stare of his superior makes him feel like he has a personality
defect?
There is no pay for the forbearance of ill-will or disease, and if it wasn’t for the pill, the attendant man
to the ill would be totally unaccommodating as Caesar, not the layman, foots the bill.
He, sometimes being more ineffective than others, is still listless and feeble, and sometimes wishes that
he to could be more like the worm who struggles and squirms to progress, because he, even though he
fights, too, as if almost infirm, is never possessed by evil, and, with a very strong will, the worm tries to
be concerned about any earthlike upheaval, leaving “No stone unturned.”
There actually is much power in a worm, because it eats its way through humiliation, and even though
affected, prevails against the heartless as resilient and firm.
The Genealogy of the Sugar Magnolia Tree
You are a family tree, but you are like a shyster who is searing my branches of true meaning: you know
I have feeling, but you have no wishes to understand my philosophy or my leanings.
You stand in the cemetery where saints have been martyred, and, even though they are interconnected
to many families and souls, the saints have no more room for real emotions because they are
surrounded by the relatives who have sinful roles.
You are sweet, Sugar Magnolia, but your sweetness is of indulgence, and there is no willingness
underneath your bows to divulge one’s inner feelings or have any tender mortal vows beneath your
branches.
Your roots dig deep into my soul, making me feel apathetic, and, even though I sometimes play the
role of ascetic, I fail to find my companions in this family plot sympathetic.
The tree stands by a falling foundation, where there is no room to inhabit mankind’s indignation.
Those who pray or rest under this tree worship the deity of irresponsible desire: it makes me wonder
why this tree has not caught fire.
There is no tree for the forgotten ones, their stories are buried with the unconsummate widow, or the
sinful nun, and, yes, I know that you would say that I am disturbing the memories of such persons who
one should hold in high esteem, but when I turn around, I look for those pillars that should hold up my
world, but I see only specters who can’t hold anything up, it seems.
The Janus-Faced Pauper of Summer
Stop singing, pauper, and stop running riotous like the colors of summer.
Tooth and nail, you take down the summerhouse of pleasures and its innocent reach towards
controlled civility.
Stop tempting woman who have a free imagination, who long to lust quick, but in ignorance of ordered
elegance; like that found in well-ordered gardens that the pauper’s poverty of imagination doesn’t
know.
No structured design is he; no emblem of controlled beauty (The wicked Ahab built his house), the
louse!
The pauper of unrefined desire even makes the worm crawl, not giving him a spine, making it look ever
more cheap and tawdry.
The pauper spends his days enjoying the worm but at the bottom of a tequila bottle.
The worm would prefer to live, chewing on some dead fungus or mushroom, giving an antidepressant
affect to the worms life; Ah! To squirm psychotic!
Summer is hot and the lemonade is cold but the pauper likes the neutral netherworld that sullies up
contrary emotions which makes the pauper smile, because these hot and cold emotions are like a two
sided coin, echoing the two-faced Janus, and these emotions will give him a following, in the hot sun…
after all, the young ones will say, “He is only half a devil!”
Picking Clay
Did God grovel in the earth with the clay he made us from, just as we do at the end of the day, at the
setting of the sun?
As man was close to the mole in the ground, when he was changed to form without a sound, did he
learn, firsthand from God, what was going down?
Why did he, for instance, pick me from a thousand flowerings of life to rise up to him like Enoch, me
being the flower-child who struggled to know him, even in strife?
Nondescript rock was never predestined by fate, nor does it seem that the ingredients that made us
came from some special stock, or from some privileged state.
Sometimes I wonder whether we were nominated in passivity, and it was ostentatious for us to
consider ourselves anything more than a proclivity, when God used mind over matter to give us what
some think is only nominal divinity.
I hope that Godhead thinks us a good investment; many times I have wondered whether we shall ever
realize the greatness of our condition, or, in relation to our success, whether, to the truth of life, there
will be any positive attestment.
It takes us many years, living our lives in suspense, before we pick heaven instead of hell, as if we hang
high, suspended above derision, like a bell, and only time will tell when we will drink from the well.
Why do we choose survival, shouldn’t it be predetermined to live long on the day of our birth or
arrival?
Does God pick only his closest friends, only using egotism to comprehend?
Somehow, though, I prefer being God’s object than the subject of pure accident and chaotic
unpredictable trends.
| Please read my poetry text below from my mystic poetry book: Spirits of Bondage and Inherent Transcendence. Peace! |
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