Category Archives: #aching

MY DREAMS TAKE ME HOME

Wave to me and say, “only one single tear as a symbol of the price I pay for loving.”

Why do I search for that shining Soul I love and search the page for that name
written in the most elegant hand?

And why do I know that one look will last forever
but if I give up this hope it will destroy me?

Why can’t I sleep with my heart in my mouth, like a bell
that rings only for the grave?

The crickets are at peace and there is a choir singing
so now there is no room for thoughts to speak …
and love stops
and love falls
on everything that’s not.

The rain is turning and the water glistens
at my feet with tears mixed with raindrops.

Now the sky’s too bright and my eyes are saying,
“I can’t see through the mist for I am too tall and
too dark.”

O my dreams.
Take me home.
Take me home.
My dream take
me home.

:: 07.21.2021 ::


THE SILVER AXE

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


LITTLE BOY

Hath fed the common purpose That draws the very heart of man, to the sacrificial hero!
Dangerous and promising are these dreams which seem to come from the heart’s deep recesses,
as have cast a spell of melancholy that leaves one dim.

Only by speaking about them in former times, has the world appreciated these voices from the skies.
There are no age limits, neither to the quest for spiritual growth, nor to its testing.

Beneath each of these mysteries, some preface and others express the grandeur of a true meaning;
some have shed new lights, some, disturbing.

The grandest have revealed new truths, no matter how strong the prose, the content has to be true.
To reach a mystical insight the words which the thoughts themselves preface, express;to understand the concrete problems the language must have been created by the body of man’s brain to reach it, the mind must have been perfected.

No matter what subject has been investigated it has in common three fundamental elements.

They are reason, the senses, and a grandeur: and when they interact with each other in perfect harmony the knowledge of truth is attained; the deepest, most true meaning is comprehended. We learn what is true
when our instincts are the tools to do what we know to be so; we lose ourselves when we do not know what we are; and we should know our own nature when we have used our minds to understand ourselves.

Reaching the depths of the unknown, understanding the whole nature of things, you attain an ascent to light:
like the body in a dream defeated by the weight of the body, the body in an inner form makes its way up from depths of darkness: and when one experiences this one is reborn; and when one sees this one is changed: ‘Twas in this way the poet was reborn upon this earth; and all he could atone for his human failures.

This is a melody about a man on a mountain who hears the voice of the moon and, unknown to himself, alighted with the noble heart. But the mystic of the moon was an empty moon: ‘Twas of the body of man the moon had no heart; only that of his body could he love. In his despair he sought to sacrifice his flesh. But the voice of the heart and the words from it frightened him. Then he walked on the world through the nights of the year and dwelt in deep oblivion. But what could be said to him, in his darkness, when, suddenly, a light shone through the darkness? That was his awakening, it was a vision of an inner light which drew him towards the universe. He went back to his own child, and he passed along the familiar path but what was the purpose? He sought a hidden light to brighten his way: but when he reached the end of the firmament, there was no light. How could it come from below when there was no light above?

This is a story of a mother in her humble home with a little child in her arms, who is nursing, and unaware of the wonderful events to come, in spite of her heart’s eagerness and in spite of her pride. His little fingers possess the world with an innocence which the immovable forces Avenge and they are known by a loving heart. In the courtyard she prays: but who she prays for? The next she sees he is walking down the stairs : with him goes his hand and he stretches out his little arms when the little boy reaches out his hands
and they know each other. But there is no single sound of their happy greeting nor is there a single person
they meet: the space is also their meeting place.

Life.

:: 03.28.2021 ::


SLEEPERS IN THEIR GRAVES

That there were no Souls in the World – and no one there to blame – but Me.

That terrible sobs that took the time to lick a Heart that had forgotten how to sob,
or even how to whisper, were redoubled into shrieks, and they kept me from laughing.

O heart of Mine, why do you howl?

If Thou wouldst die, then in vengeance thy Redeemer of Whom, Whose Heart was my own,
and whose Whistle blew wild through the Rails, and who, at one moment when the Gate was open,
as he reached the top of the Jail, and searched the Valley of Doom.

To find my Prisoner there, and to know that his Out-cries had been so wretchedly contrived,
and, because they cried out so piteously, were not stopped at once!

How dare thou, thou Death, laugh? If Thou didst laugh at this, and the world now knows
the Death that has come to me, in consequence of the Puny Strength with which Thine own weakness left Me.

Let the judgment of all come in, and they make the old curse true and then i should not be sad.
For those mourners, the unquiet were they – how the Sleepers in the Grave would cry:
“Those poor Souls!

Is there one Death, for another?”

But though all sleep sound those that dream are always sad. i had a Brother, i knew,
who went for a Passenger, and his Friend had brought him, and held his hand when we left.
The Station – and in the Coach the Friend held up his Heart.

“Poor Brother, my Friend, have you never had Love?”
And his Friend said, “I don’t know that I ever had.”

Then they were gone.

And in my Brain, with a Funeral, i cried, “My Brother has gone!”

When my Brother and his Friend were lost 0i knew, in my Brain, that I should not die –
yet they had gone from me for ever and for ever.

All the Earth is a city of Death – the Sun that has shone bright and cast up its golden rays
must fade into Night, and the air shall turn cold, and the day will vanish like the evening:
when the Sun goes down, and it is Dark upon the Mountain.

Even the Stars, when the Sun is hot fade, and there are not as many as there once were.

The very Earth which gave brightness to the Branches of the Tree shall wither and die and fade,
and the Blue of the sky will dissolve, and the Earth Will shake and fall into the Sea.

The City of Death in which we live is like a great Prison under the Earth.

The Clouds that surround us and Sooth our Sorrows are but Cloths that cover the Dome
of the Pitiless Heaven – the Void where such Rulers as are but Planets, like our own
shall reign.

We have no Ruler who rules by Love, no View from Heaven, no Vision from the Stars,
no One to give us a Joy that would pass all our cares when we are set upon a Mountain,
sighing over the Valley of Sorrow, weither our Heartbeats cease.

Luna can but smile when She sees we have passed the Point
Where the Blue West gives the Shade of Night, and the Tree is pierced with Cold –
and the Night of Light does not come but the Winter wanes.

And all mankind is contained in the Castle of Death.

There is no Labor which an Angel can give, there is no Beauty, there is no Joy,
there is no Heaven.

So for us there is the Earth, and the Flock that bares all whose Flying
is but Death and Murder, and Death’s distant Call, and it is Death, of all things,
that gives us all:

That Taste of Beauty.

While we fly on the Wings of Love, and with our Tears water the Earth
with our Love, our Wings go, and with our Corpse Land to fall upon the Earth.

With the Time comes the Age
When Love is heard
And no ear
has ever heard it,
with the Age comes the Age
when Men look up,
and no eye has ever gazed upon
no Green Earth – when the Tree is cut down
the Earth is bare.

From Blame to Blame
From Sorrow to Sorrow
From Darkness to Darkness
And Death lies on Earth –
The Land, the Water, the Earth,
The Birds and Animals,
And Man – The Land, the Water, the Earth,
The Birds and Animals,
And Man – like the Wings of Love
The Kingdom of the Earth Is a Prison
Under the Earth.

When will We see our Land?
When will We fly away?
When will we light the Nights?
When will we light the Nights?
So my Song is very solemn,
But I hope in it one Hour

When we shall find our Land.
When the Day of Retribution
Is ended, and the sky is blue
and the Sun shines, and all that was buried
in the Dark of Night, shall come to Life.

The Earth shall be green,
The Trees shall yield fruit,
The Green of their Leaves shall radiate
all over the Earth.

We shall catch our Breath,
wnd thank God,
whose Love brought us together,
and made us Wings
for his Flock,

To fly away – the Wings of love.

My Story:

‘His Love is the Light that
shone in the World, 0when the Sun of Love
and the Golden Child was born in the Cave of Life.

And then the Angels said,
“Fetch the Child, bring him forth,
that he may be king of his Kingdom
but let it be done, in the Cave of Life –
therein he may reign

as Father and Son, for the King of Men
must not reign alone.”

They called the Child and said to him,
“Arise, Unto the King of all
the Happy Isle of Love
where You reign as
Emperor of Love.

The Angels called again the King of Love
and said to him, “Arise, unto the King of all
the Happy Isle of Love where You reign as
Emperor of Love.

And the King of Love Speak!”

“If you will not come with me
then fly away!
Fly away!
Fly away!
Let me be alone!”
And the King of Love left the cave of Life
And went up to the Heavens, and came down
and placed upon the Earth

all the Things that Matter.

:: 01.25.2021 ::


NOW MY GOWN AND TULLE

Now my Gown and Tulle
feel the Wind that weaves a Shade –
and on the roof i cannot tell
since the picture there is –
because Time, a Form, stood a-hiding
and well It did.

Words and Music (my own)
Performed by James Dale
and Love.

“He is oft-injured by his men
or with their Menages,

‘I think I hear him say:
“His Portents are the Dews –
His Words the Dews – and Mine –
His Ends are Ieya’s.

“I wish this next Scene were ended
with the Destination of my own Fate –
“The Flight of Orpheus, I suppose,
“Off the Coast of Homer’s Folly –
Or Death – to Eternity.”

Futility was King in the play, under the pen of D. H. Lawrence.
I hope he was a reader of Shakespeare.

Well, I cannot write about this.
It is really too late.
There was an early book, and there is always another.
The fact that Lawrence is a poet is very well known;
and many of his poems have been put to music.

i have heard those – sometimes for many times – though
i should hate to go against the dead.

A great deal is being written about D. H. Lawrence
in the second decade of the twenty-first century.

:: 01.26.2021 ::


WHAT IS LOVE

There is so much a man can tell you, so much he can say
You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain
To me you’re like a growing addiction that I can’t deny
Now won’t you tell me, is that healthy, baby?
Now won’t you tell me, is that healthy, baby?

My power and my pleasure;  an addiction…

So “God is here, with you, and in you.”
 There is a supreme and infinite pleasure that fills your heart.
Some languages of love will only permit love as a verb or simply a noun.

You are part of everything; you are not separate from anything.

Everything is part of you; you are part of everything; you are not
separate from anything.

So, i am and should fall large and in light that you shine,
can you see me?  So baby, I compare you to a kiss from a dream
i live every day.  

You may feel your experience of the world is disjunctive – somehow
disconnected. What is the actual nature of our existence? Is it
static, or in constant flux?

Maybe that is just your individual perception.

But we can try to figure it out by seeing how things affect us

  • and how we can do that.

This path we choose is about learning how to communicate effectively
with what we find, giving it meaning, and acting in ways that contribute.
If we are engaged in the pursuit of love in a real, open and collaborative way,
we can witness how relationships change and grow.

We may start with a story, but we are essentially learning how to be a partner.
We can see in our interactions how we are unbalanced, not yet aware that we need to change.
Over time, we discover what we are trying to hide, and begin to open up in our relationships.

The inner change begins with our hearts!

:: 01.06.2021 ::


FOURTEEN

i wish I had more time and opportunity to explain my disgust to your rust-stained sarcophagus. To offer a calm palate of meditative colors for our feelings (why not) — you seemed so surprised to be called from a glass prison.

Oh, blessed crystal, what do I have to do to kiss your hand with a succulent kiss for you have forgotten the grain of truth to your rust-stained sarcophagus!

To offer a calm palate of meditative colors for our feelings (why not) — you seemed so surprised to be called from a glass prison.

Oh, blessed crystal, what do I have to do to kiss your hand with a succulent kiss for you have forgotten the grain of truth and your heart could only love the person who feeds it for nourishment — is a difficult task; so you resorted to Cupid’s slingshot!
But here’s an alternative: follow my heart down the garden path, until my sticky feet block the entrance of Cupid’s grave.

Here — get me the jar of colorful paint and I will show you the
sparkle of love.

Here — get me the fork and I will show you the flavor of our love
that came from one man.

Here — get me the ball and I will smash it across my canvas of life.
Here — get me the pencil and I will draw you a gentle, tender picture.
Here — get me the jar of colorful paint and I will show you the
sparkle of love.
Here — get me the fork and I will show you the flavor of our love
that came from one man.
Here — get me the ball and I will smash it across my canvas of life.
Here — get me the pencil and I will draw you a gentle, tender picture.
Here — get me the paint bucket and I will lay it on a canvas of life

It was exactly 14 days since you told me you left the store early.
14 dreary days and I do not think you’ve been here once (not that I
would blame you for believing it).

14 days since I was mean to you, and then you said you’d be back
by 14.

:: 12.24.2020 ::


THE WOMAN

SHE can bring love with her smile and devastation with indifference
and ruin faith with the turn of her face;

SHE can bring paradise with her arms and paint masterpieces with her lips
and only reveal what she wishes you to see

SHE can bring passion to your life or steal the meaning of all things
breath the deep blue skies and bring a perfect day

Oh, mystery is beneath her footfalls and how her dress bellows while she
never gives out or gives in — she just changes her mind while promising
the Garden of Eden

So love i followed every motion of your emotion as you took care of yourself
and waiting as you want — ooh, she never gives in while singing angelic songs
and cuts you while you bleed

Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm.

She just changes her mind while so kind does anything but gives hope to the lesser
Souls who ache for Love.

:: 12.21.2020 ::


BURNING FEELING DEEP INSIDE

THERE’S a burning feeling deep inside me
: — /so i find it so very easy to be true
, and admit i am easily a fool \

i hug the sun at day break
and kiss the moon at nightfall

hmmm.

But everytime you are by my side
i count the moments and watch you
and every move you make: it’s art and
as an ocean’s tide i’m pulled into you.

i know i am not worthy of a treasure
such as you but find it very very
easy to just be me — to be true:
because your mine. So at day and night
you’re upon my mind because you’re mind.

hmmm.

i have fallen inside a deep truth of hearts
figured out fruit flies but not cucumbers
and went down down inside a passion that almost
destroyed me — then your hand pulled me out
of poetic insanity.

:: 12.18.2020 ::


BURNING CITIES

AS cities burn without regret
while people have hysteria
many weep — \for what is lost:
our Republic and common sense/
  Parents hugging their little ones
as many lose their faith,
this once great land sliding into
mysterious madness / an abyss \
All these threats are made by you
and me and them.
if we never confront the madness
before us —
  Oh, how i fear both sides of this
political fence and especially
Oppenheimer’s little toy
where gift of light and love has
no hope nor control!

Believe me as I write to you:
no one wins and everyone loses then!

:: 12.14.2020 ::