A paradox is an entryway~
one that disappears the moment you walk through it;
somehow, though, you still end up
on the other side.
It is a question answering itself
by refusing to answer~
a mirror that reflects
only the act of looking.
Call it truth wearing its coat inside out,
logic tying its own shoelaces together,
hiding meaning in the very place
it claims cannot exist.
And the strangest part:
the more you try to solve a paradox,
the more it solves you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The keys remember her fingers~
soft thief stealing ivory light,
the hammers whispering
through felt and dust.
It waits, a black whale
beached in the entryway,
its ribs humming Debussy’s
Clair de Lune.
Play me, it murmurs,
and I will give you back
the weight of your mother’s hands,
the way they lingered
like slow rain
on a Sunday afternoon.
I do not know how to play the piano~
no one comes and the pedals rust.
And somewhere,
inside the walls,
a spider spins
a web of silent chords.
I understand that this poem is a memoir poem although PS doesn't have it as a cateogry to select.
From fading greens of summer, I did pass
to seek my Autumn season's entryway
and honor life's maturity, en masse-
with brilliant ceremony and display.
A glorious salute to my last stage-
a party planned with colorful attire
to complement my patterns and engage
fine passersby and artists to admire.
My trees will dress in orange, red, or gold,
and they must pick the one that suits them best
to glow and rustle on dark limbs as bold
farewells to close this phase of life, expressed.
My last hurrah- bright shawls to warm the ground.
As bright leaves fall and soon blend with the snow
before white winter's blanket wraps around-
must say goodbye to Autumn there below.
“Fear of death is fear of surrender to Infinity.”
~ Adi Da Samraj
In my fevered state, I sought the godforsaken
sounds of the gossamer strings of the harp.
It was hours of grave thoughts before I would awaken
to the ghostly groaning of my mind’s steep scarp.
Grief-stricken, I lie staring through closed eyes
listening to the beat of my heart echoing from the
silent monitor, praying the future that it belies
pushes me toward the gate of undefined infinity.
God knows what grand or ghastly fate awaits
my soul, with grim gargoyles adorning the path
down gnarled gardens toward and through ornate gates.
Will this be my entryway to salvation or wrath?
Bàbá,
what eyes do you have of a big bigger sort,
which portaled my entryway into the blindnesses of our Ilé,
wherefrom I made to look to see with your primordial eyes?
Bàbá,
why is your soul watery,
salty like the tears of baba nlá bàbá àgbà’s father:
he took his death by the hand,
and didn't let it die cheap!
Bàbá,
stream of my consciousness,
transfused like forced labour into the nerves of my armory,
ready with iron fire and thunder, ready with my fight for their fight, fist for fist.
My irin ajo is now steeped with the signposts of the visions I saw in your eyes.
Give me the feet of water when my irin ajo is on water;
give me the wings of af?´f?´ when my irin ajo is beyond this il?;
give me the stride of love when my irin ajo crosses the paths of good men;
my children are at hand;
they come like freedom, up my soul and down my eyes:
omijé, running from the stories of the barreled gun,
from the mirrors that cursed our reflection with greed...
my children are coming,
free, and towards freedom.
Whether the work-load is manual or high-tech exercises;
Whether it taxes our brain, leaving us without answers;
Or dirties our entire body with dirt, dust, and grease;
Whether the tasks stress our emotions to the max:
Or compel us to take prescription pills to relax;
We all labor so that we may reach a point of rest and ease.
This Labor Day, I am inspired to consider One who has already
labored on our behalf and pointed us to the entryway of eternal
rest. The workload of laws, rules, and regulations; the religious
taskmasters of do's and don'ts have been nullified and set aside.
Christ has taken our laborious job on the 'work your way to heaven
train' and set us free from all the guilt, shame, and pain.
So, on this Labor Day holiday, if not a Christian, consider the
possibilities. If a Christian, meditate on the reality of One taking
away all of the heavy lifting that has been driving and promising us
much but yielding only losses and no gains. Consider Jesus who says,
"Come to me all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you
rest". * May we cease from spiritual labor, and enter His Rest. Happy Labor Day.
090123PS
*Matthew 11:28
I want to say it,
I wish you would be aware.
The manner in which you cause me to feel,
My heart nearly appears to develop.
I wish you realized I would not joke about this,
At the point when I show my love.
I want to see
You've established a long term connection.
I want to be together,
In any case, our age drives us separated.
I trust that you know when you leave soon,
You'll be in my heart.
I wish we had longer
Than simply these couple of weeks more,
I wish it was until the end of time,
That you'd thump on my entryway.
Some time or another you will be aware
What you mean to me.
My desire will work out as expected,
Furthermore, we'll be intended to be.
I wish my room had a story to share.
With the goal for me to have the option to play.
This entryway is unimportant to me.
I dislike being fixed behind a doorway.
What case might be this crawling around?
As a result, it's somewhat picky.
Without connecting with the ground.
Flying is getting simple progressively.
Is the chance to be a finished bore.
Since you've arrived at the summit of the sky
Beyond every question…
God is the answer
filling in the gaps of our imperfection
offering hope in the face of despair
light to shine through the darkness
and promise
when abandonment is all we feel
lifting the burden that covers our greatness
reaffirming our choices
strengthening our wills on the forge of His power
unblocking the final entryway
—to ourselves divine
(The Book Of Prayers: October, 2020)
Should Death be arrogant and proud,
Or slink like villains plotting harm?
Should it come open-face, shouting alarm,
And crying prophecies out loud?
Is Death the villain, spoiler, thief --
Harbinger of our last Apocalypse?
Is it a messenger whose coming slips
Past pain and opens doors for grief?
No. Death is but an entryway to Life
That holds us true and lights the Way
To horizons far beyond our mortal clay:
It ends for good all ill and strife.
With answers to all our questions immutable,
We'll penetrate, at last, the inscrutable.
Neither Punxsutawney Phil today
Nor Staten Island Chuck
Saw their shadows when emerging,
Which to many is good luck.
It predicts a shorter winter
And an entryway to spring,
Though there's skepticism surely
When a groundhog is the king.
Still, we hark to their predictions,
Causing many to rejoice.
Yet, the almanac, to me, would be
The harbinger of choice.
I do not buy a Christmas tree
(I’m Jewish, after all)
Yet wonder every year as people
Trundle with their haul.
What makes them buy one weeks before
Or just on Christmas eve?
Is Norway spruce or Douglas fir
The best with which to leave?
Do ceiling heights determine
If they splurge on one real tall?
Will it decorate the living room,
The entryway or hall?
I know that boxed-up ornaments
Are meant to be reused.
Will new ones join the party, though?
(I’m just a bit confused.)
My neighborhood is filled with stands
Of evergreens in wait,
So questions bounce inside my brain
Each year around this date.
The Coming of Fall
~
Crape myrtle highlights
in chartreuse diversions,
oak tree decisions along brittle stem
Maple leaf push pins and ash scented postcards
Autumn approaches, its fingers to send
Northern now breezes
as petals start falling,
blending the colors of October dreams
Days count much shorter and windows are open,
change in direction a’ dance on the streams
Standing behind me now
caught in the mirror,
reflections of summer and hummingbird song
Leaves painted softer in patterns of wishes,
butterfly tickles may happen along
Warm apple cider
and scarves plaid and woolen,
hang from the pegs in the entryway hall
Come again welcomes on echoes of sunlight,
send out the greeting, the coming of fall
It is amazing what I see
On a walk in the forest near the end of spring.
I saw two big trees joined together in the
middle covered with bright green
Philodendrons that were sitting on an eave
Above a door.
Who ever lives out here in the middle of no
Where really wants their privacy
Away from society.
There's no sign keeping away any visitor.
It is amazing what I see
An entryway in all this scenery
Furthermore
Who ever lives out here in the middle of no
Where really wants their privacy.
It is a mystery
That probably has to do with wee folklore.
It is amazing what I see.
An entrance to gain information about who
Owns this property.
It has gotten my curiosity up all the way
Down to my core.
Who ever lives out here in the middle of no
Where really wants their privacy.
Knock. Knock. Hello. Your a Hobbit. Now
That I know your a reality
I won't bother you anymore.
It is amazing what I see
Who ever lives out here in the middle of no
Where really wants their privacy.
06/22/2017
by Mark Miller
Trapped within a self-absorbed scarred
Feeling left behind stripped image astray
By one's own disclosed empty box enraged
Spiral reflection appears behind mirrors scatter dust
Supplant made drones doom the sector white house
Without names they shuffle past hoping for final rest
Mocking banter day hours into entryway darkness
Covered glass shrines conceal purposeless figure past
Sinks below dark shadows left empty cavern bones
Final breach held beneath looking glass revealed
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