Long Insubstantial Poems
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Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
A slow swim through clouds of consciousness.
My wife said I had lost a day,
but I was timeless, though as my mind moved,
so did the world,
I travelled by ever clearing thoughts,
over distant skies and far mountains,
the earth was beautiful and without fault.
I was weightless, but not insubstantial,
for gravity simply lightened spirit and will,
a gentle force
moved me to wherever I desired to go.
When the nurse appeared, her words were alien,
her angelic speech created only for celestial tongues.
My wife's voice was sweet and as musical
as a Sufi prayer.
I was told later that I just groaned loudly,
complaining that
my ass was sore.
Matthew Scott, Whar Art Thou *****?
Nobody, but yours truly
bore deeply and countersunk
his spontaneity satisfactorily
lightweight corporeal mein kampf,
didst more than baptize or dunk
cuff, which admirably aided to flunk,
(whereat no universal solvent,
could (kant) kelp dissolve barnacles
of sea sonned gunk),
asper thickly congealed
encasing this laughable
antithesis of hullo kit ting hue man
overweening tricky hunk,
which thought to attempt
skidding row bust humor
as a "FAKE" teetering drunk
ken-pro lit tarry hut overgrown punk
(riotously swinging balled fists
way of course), and mine
feeble insubstantial poetic jabs, where
teenage shadow boxer slunk
tis my harmless recourse to peddle
as sway to escape funk
seriously, Aesop hoes,
this personal mockery
wrote for no rhyme nor reason junk
bonded really gluten
free self deprecating
playfulness of course as chipmunk
makes any sense, neither kerplunk
emanating from atop
me notched noggin
swishing with grade A klunk
emasculation par excellence, asper
out thee talking head of this lunk,
whose earlier "talk therapy"
every Monday at 2:00 p.m. with preshrunk
kin shrink finds tarnished psyche resonating
analogous to reverberation while spelunk
king in an echo chamber futilely
questing, searching, rummaging...why I trunk
hated living when merely thirteen
this admission honestly haint no bunk!
On drear and endless nights
when the thunder in my head
is louder than
the thunder beyond my window
and sleep denies me rest,
I have to wash my eyes several times,
for her face imprints itself
behind closed eyelids.
The departed move on, travel away
from the gravity of this place and time,
they are unshackled from us,
we who may still cling
to our own emotional chains.
What does she want of me?
It was a short torrid affair,
why this lifetime haunting?
You cannot dream someone out of your soul,
it's not about memory or forgetting,
if there was once love
it is a now only a torn rag
flying upon heedless winds,
a make-believe insubstantial thing.
Why does she paint herself before me,
and why do I disappear
when she looks upon my aged being?
I wash my eyes and often wonder
if it is really I that haunt
her.
i am transformed. in what i see.
my eyes can not discern
as shapes melt and swirl
and break into dots --
merging with the Static.
i am transformed. in what i hear.
of overlapping rips of space itself
with the unyielding babel of humanity.
i hear everything and nothing
becoming one with the Hiss.
i am transformed. in what i touch.
my insubstantial hands stir turbulence
passing through scratchy mist.
the Dust drapes over me and through me.
i am infused with the smell of a million worlds.
i am transformed. in what i think.
of snippets of thought
impinging on me.
racing through my awareness
and memories of titillation.
i am arrested by efficiency and classification.
my mind gives over to the Context it can no longer fight.
i have been transformed.
in all my senses and in all my thoughts
i am conjoined with all Things.
i am Undifferentiated.
Words escape me.
How do I articulate if I can’t speak?
I am struck down by my pride.
Helpless as always.
So close, yet so far away.
I can’t see the end to this ocean.
I’m drowning, I’m dying, I’m sinking, I’m crying.
I’m momentary, a fleeting blip on the face of the earth.
I’m insubstantial. Wiped out in a single moment, breath snuffed.
I’m far from perfect, but I’ll do what I can.
I’ll survive. Maybe not on earth, maybe not in this time.
Maybe I was meant to be a little different.
Maybe my legacy is something worthwhile.
Only time will tell, whether I’m here to see the answers or not.
Insubstantial
I opened the window in the door, one early morning.
and was met with a face that looked like a cloud; it
blew frost roses on the glass, they were so beautiful,
abstract, and oh, so fragile.
Years ago, by the cloister`s wall, I saw some miniature
Looking at roses, I replanted them in my garden, and they
disappeared, I thought they had died out, but this spring
They were by my wall, nodding shyly in the breeze.
As the spring turned into summer, they had no shade
and disappeared like frost roses on the window glass;
And that is ok by me, cause I know they are there just
under the earth, waiting for another spring.
Many the people I have known
a few who were once loved with hot passion,
most insubstantial shadows lost in time
a few remembered well and most fondly.
As for me, am I remembered too?
If so, with fondness left lingering?
or by other less salubrious thoughts?
Where did they end up these ghosts of mine?
Some, just a brief fling, then on
to pastures not always any greener
with the same every day strife's
that tear and weaken the fabric.
Love always arrives most joyously
fanfare heralds it in the door
Yet just as fast it flees in the dark
Leaving the remnants behind to pick over
To truly love is a perfect gift
granted only to a precious few
empowering them as it laps over them
so I say to long ago loves, Be Happy
Alternate Reality (MJH 17 April ’18)
Maybe in an alternate universe,
Where good is bad and better’s worse,
I could be you, you could be me,
Together apart, sadly happy.
You’d pursue me, I’d flee from you.
Yes you’d pursue me and I’d flee from you,
‘cause I know that I’d be caught by you.
Perhaps in a wondrous macrocosm,
We’d share everything in common.
You’d finish things I’d start to say,
But we’d laugh about it anyway.
Time would not be our enemy.
No, time would never be our enemy-
I’d be part of you; you’d be part of me.
By chance there is another dimension
Beyond earthly comprehension
Where past, present and future blend;
Time has no beginning nor end.
I’d say “I love you” with laughter.
Yes I would say “I love you” with laughter—
Said so before, will say so after.
In some hypothetical reality,
Beyond conceptuality,
Where nothing is circumstantial--
Matter’s almost insubstantial.
Separate bodies, united minds-
Yes, separate bodies and united minds-
Our souls forever intertwined
9.1
“Opposing forces,
duties done and left undone—
when does it end
and for whom?
Considering this, be ever desireless,
let go of all things,
and to the world turn an indifferent eye”
9.3
“Seeing all things as threefold suffering,
the sage becomes still
Insubstantial, transient, contemptible--
the world is fit only for rejection”
Sacrilege but we beg to differ
Based upon what we do infer
Detachment not indifference
Why anaesthetise sentience
Celebration not rejection
Exuberance not dejection
Pain may be but suffering imaginal
If we feel it is real not conjectural
As for the rest and reading between the lines
We do divine
That being not the doer there is no doing
In dynamic stillness too the Divine alone is moving
If we are here it is of our own choosing
Let our stillness then be our consciousness so accepting
Surrendering the illusionary ephemeral to the flow
Erasing negativity within to reveal our presence aglow
In stillness slow
(20-August-2019)
~~~~~~~~~~~
Verse revisited on 29-October-2021
Earth life manifests sharp contrast
Leaving even fearless hearts aghast
We are here to energise our potential
That we may conjure our love parable
For in the domain of light our soul rests
Facing adversity triumph earth life tests
On reaching exhaustion get to recognition
That desire cessation pathway to liberation
So ceasing thinking, we meld head and heart
In the void of stillness we feel bliss ignition start
Our emptiness magnetised by bliss in fullness
In time time we merge with the That oneness
We are then in but not of the external world
In silence we celebrate as soul is unfurled
Spiritual heart, here now within our form
Enlivened by divine bliss currents warm
Layer by layer we see identity vaporise
In boundless measure does bliss rise
Negating nothing exiting stagnation
Flow of life itself is our meditation