Some Original Poetry

These are some poems and poetic thoughts that have occured to me recently. Some are simply in the form in which they came to my mind and are not refined much. Others have been worked somewhat. Feel free to rip them to shreds!

Willow and Maple

Two seeds fall, one Willow and one Maple,
Landing side by side, each blown from afar.
Upon these germs heaven pours out its blessing,
Tender roots reach out, to feel where they are.

Their first roots entangled, growing together,
Push through the soil and hold the earth fast.
Two yellow-green stems look toward heaven,
Seperate but bound, they rise from the grass.

Jointly feasting, drinking, breathing,
The saplings grow harder and tighter entwine.
Trunk and branch and leaf pressed together,
Wood yielding, hearts yearning, their bodies combine.

Sap flows mingled, branches knit together,
Maple gives strength where Willow is hollow.
Willow tempers Maple's stiff fibers,
To bend, not break, in storms to follow.

Spreading, growing, each day melded closer,
Where either tree parts can no longer be seen.
One trunk, two hearts, at once strong and flowing,
Reach joyously up to touch heavens beam.

Pushing up, and up, they quicken my breathing.
Starting - I ponder, head on my pillow.
Two limbs wrap round me, our roots entangle,
I feel her heart beating, and I whisper, "Willow."


The Fall of Man

All I was.
All I felt.
All I knew.
All was one word.
I said the word and it broke in two.

So became I,
And that which is not I,
A firmament between us;
My dome of knowing.

I breathed in the firmament
And with it I sang,
Till that which was not I broke,
All worlds to compose.

That which was not I was now four new words,
Inside me they chorused unique melodies:
Wind and Wave, Field and Flame.
My heart leaped up to sing with them.

My breath tasted like thunder,
The melting ice smelled like my sorrow,
My ears rang with the din of sunlight,
And my heart felt the dark soil push the sapling up, and up.

All this I knew, and felt, and was.
But knowing, and sensing, and feeling was not enough.
I had to tell it
To someone, to myself...To God.

I used my mouth as a cleaver, and split the four songs.
Wind became air, and breath, and flow, and spirit, and current, and blow.
Earth became strength, and moutains and mud,
And I mixed it with fire and turned it to blood.

And so with each word, my toungue did divide,
But each word sang a little less loudly,
Until I could barely hear the song over my voice.


Art as Backdrop to my mind

All perception in a metaphor, an imagination of actuality, an image projected on the screen of the self. The crushed dyes of Cimabue are spread in my mind and paint the hues of an autumnal leaf upon the canvass of my I. Each woman I see, be they study, mistake, or masterpiece, is impressed in my conscience with Renoir’s pastels.

Talking

Language is a poor messenger- in fact is not a messenger at all, but a summoner. For he can only call forth and not convey. And what is it that he hopes to call forth? Why all this talking anyway? Sounding the reaches of our own soul; hoping to hear an echo to let us know we are not alone. All speech is only a singing - a single flute playing a theme on the symphonic harmonies of our soul. We hold in our mouth a torch, still burning, warding off the dark of a life unknown, not reflected in the glass of another's mind. So we send forth our summoners, calling and calling, seeking an ally to come forth dressed in gowns that match our own.