Long Unmoving Poems
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Once upon a time,
an ant who had long made his home at the root of a tree
asked to be assigned to work among the high leaves and branches.
Having been granted his wish,
the little ant was astonished by the great difference he found between the tree at its root and the tree at its branches,
as all that he knew were based on his experiences at the base of the tree.
Though overwhelming at first,
the steady routines of life in his new home began to set in,
and the little ant began to appreciate the view his new station provided him.
Until one day,
when the little ant overheard a group of ‘high-leaf’ ants
discussing the root of the tree:
“What I’d like to know,”
said one high-leaf ant to the others,
“is how the 'bottom-of-the-tree' ants put up with all of that swaying back and forth.”
This discussion deeply troubled the little ant,
for he knew very well that the root of the tree is as unmoving
as the great earth itself.
Before long the season passed,
and the little ant's time to work among the high leaves and branches
came to an end.
While preparing to make his way back to the base of the tree, though,
a rush of understanding flooded through the little ant,
and he knew what he must do.
He made his way
to the top of the tree
as fast as his little legs could carry him.
Once there,
the little ant did something that ants almost never do:
The little ant looked UP!
Were you to make your way to that very tree tomorrow (whether to the root or to the branches),
you would probably not find the little ant at home,
for he rarely has time to be in any one tree for very long.
You see,
having imagined what his tree,
and more, and more, and more trees might look like to the sun,
the little ant felt a great need to teach other ants to look not just from the root or from the branches,
for to do so is to ensure that the tree they see
is as they themselves are.
The little ant who looked Up! tells stories of life among all the different parts of a tree;
and one day, when the other ants are ready he will teach them to look Up! too, so that all of the ants might finally see the tree
as it is.
Upon a time not so long ago
I saw these things, and locked them away,
Treasures in memory's secret stores:
A sunrise of Apocalyptic brilliance,
Clouds of opal strewn
Above a sapphire sea.
White ruins of an ancient city,
Once home to a great people,
Now settled to silence, the only footprints in its dust my own.
JUst behind these things
I felt another something
Immense, unnamable
That lies beneath our normal perceiving
Like water below thin ice.
The awareness of this presence
Felt only in fragile moments
When images too beautiful for words or speech
Burn their way to the depth of our souls
Gave me a sound I sometimes hear in rare times
Of perfect stillness:
A clear bell that sounds a tone unmade by any instrument,
A sound that stills the frantic revolutions of my reasonings,
Brings me the pure light
Filling the mind of a child.
In fleeting impressions
Falling past the tempest of experience
Through the cycles that so often grey our lives,
I sense the other side of the world,
The part that lies forever in the In-Between,
The calm and steady eye in the center of the cyclonic round
Of creation and dissolution; the drive-train of the Universe,
The unmoving hub of the Infinite Wheel.
Sometimes I feel this other place, both faraway
Yet nearer than my latest exhalation,
Playing counterpoint to my heartbeat, firm beyond all confusion,
An isle of strength that sits solid without substance,
A haven in the surging sea of doubt.
I touch it with my mind, sometimes, in flashing moments
This is enough - enough to bring some peace
Between my warring emotions, enough to steady my hands
As I guide my life towards its uncertain end.
I suppose it is enough to have this gossamer understanding,
Some insight without the whole story.
It is enough to make me shoulder my burden,
To soldier on.
I drive alone down misty roads
where the morning’s frost still lingers
on the earth, grass, leaves unreached
by the feeble winter sun
whose fingers slowly withdraw
into the white blankness
of unmoving air.
The road bends as it climbs between
the shadowed pines and
leaping across the road
two roe deer, almost always two,
run from the shrouded trees
slowing my progress as I scan for more
to disappear again in depths of forest.
Higher the road climbs these mystic hills
higher still until the sky appears
that clear blue dry-air winter sky
full of all light but bereft of warmth.
I think of home, as I clear the misty hills,
mystic still but now illuminated
by the light of memory, of love departed,
thoughts of you beside me
almost always you beside me.
As I drive alone out of the higher ground
the frost still lingers but the feeble sun
has banished the obscuring mists
full of all light but now
bereft of warmth.
Sense a kind grace flowing in pure goodness;
Yonder beyond trace knowing apt finesse.
Now in sure time growing in calm hollow;
Option in clear rhymes that feels so mellow.
Ply a fond touch reaping in true gladness;
Succinct smiles fling much in crazy madness.
Ideas hint motive in excellent glow;
Streams beyond optic the treasured fine flow.
Doyen of word scripts that hurl a strong sway;
Imprint exquisite in prompt verse array.
Amber shades lighting the swerve in the mists;
Look upon sightings where words mind the gist.
Obtain the motions in unmoving calm;
Greet then attention beyond saving balm.
Leon Enriquez
12 September 2014
Singapore
Upon a time, not so long ago
I saw these things, and locked them away
In the treasure room of my memory:
One sunset, Apocalyptic in its brilliance;
Clouds of opal shimmering,
Flying across a sapphire sea.
The white ruins of an ancient city.
Once home to a great and proud people,
Streets long settled into the silence
Of years marked off by dust,
My footprints in that dust.
And just beneath these things I felt another something
Immense, Unnamable
That lies far below our common perceptions
Like water flowing beneath thick ice.
The knowledge of its prescence,
Felt only in those fragile moments
When images too beautiful for the frailty of words
Burn their way into the depths of our souls,
Has given me that sound I hear now in silence
A clear bell that sounds a tone
Not made by any instrument of Man,
Which stills the frantic revolutions of my reasonings
And gives me back the pure sight I had long ago
Before my childhood disappeared.
In fleeting impressions
Falling through the tempest of experience
That carries us all through life,
I sense this other side of the world,
The calm, steady eye
That holds fast in the center of the cyclonic round
Of Creation and Destruction
That drives the Universe along:
The unmoving Hub
At the center of the infinite wheel.
Sometimes I feel this faraway place
Lying nearer than my latest breath,
Standing firm somewhere beyond all confusion,
And island of strength beyond all substance
Surrounded by the seas of our doubts.
I touch it with my mind, in flashing moments
And it is enough
To bring some peace to the wars of my emotions,
To steady my hands as I guide my life
Towards its unseeable end,
Uncertain and dim in the approaching distance.
I only get to see beautiful women as they walk on by.
I do not get to fall in love;
Nobody will ever be on my side.
Mine to adore, to love and much more,
My girlfriend, my lover, my never a chore;
My only ever, pleasure forever after.
I wait for a sign or reason to carry on,
But there is no hope…no love…no one.
My heart is empty of someone to love,
So I will give it up, it takes too much.
My heart and soul I would give to be loved,
But I cannot even see a way that is up.
That is what’s up. Forever down, by my own depression,
I never learn any lessons.
I just fail, leave them guessing,
Never actually show a piece of me; there is nothing to see.
The music video ‘Just’ is in my head today,
Because if they all had my empathy, they would all stop
And lay down next to me.
I am unmoving, going nowhere fast; no sympathy, please.
No kiss or hug is heading my way,
Because I am an island covered in rain.
Who would want to go on a holiday there?
(Even temporarily)
…I do not care…
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Queueing for busses
Even though not going far
Been queueing for busses
Ever since I sold the car.
I still can’t believe
What a bus passenger hears.
What have i been missing
For all of those years?
I sit there quietly
Occupying my place
Trying go maintain
An unmoving face.
I hear about adultery
Uninhibited sex
Heaven only knows
What I’ll hear next.
Delinquent children
Beaten up wives.
Don’t people these days
Lead such disjointed lives.
The best are young women
On their mobile phones.
They seem to think
They're in worlds of their own
Yet they all seem to speak
In a manner so loud
As if they are fighting
The noise from a crowd.
Admissions of guilt,
After fun filled nights,
Lurid descriptions
Of esoteric sights,
Three in a bed romps,
Translucent underwear,
Just some of the things heard
While quietly sitting there.
Sometimes I’ve travelled
miles further than I intended
Just to hear how
A good story ended
Queueing for busses
Even though not going far
Been queueing for busses
Ever since I sold the car.
I still can’t believe
What a bus passenger hears.
What have I been missing
For all of those years?
Mute
but immutable.
Unmoving, unmoveable;
timeless, yet tireless.
Solitary stalwart sentinel
surveils undulating horizon.
Aberrant, achromatic clouds
pock-mark the skies, as distant
rumblings herald his adversary's
latest gambit in their age-old conflict.
The wrath of a thousand crashing,
clashing, thrashing fists batter
against the beleaguered sentry.
Ceaselessly, remorselessly,
the maelstrom assails him.
But the foundations are firm and
noble gatekeeper stands steadfast.
Single-minded of purpose, placid
custodian morphs into combatant as
his luminous, voluminous blade carves
luminescent arcs through chthonic cloak.
Tenebrous tendrils wither and dissipate,
impotent under intense lambent onslaught.
His victory is only fleeting, as vanquished
foes are summarily supplanted by more of
their ilk in a seemingly continual surge.
Again and again, over and over, tormentor
presses the attack, exploiting any weakness.
Over and over, again and again, valiant warden
repels the barrage and despatches his enemies.
And so the pattern repeats endlessly, unabated,
as these eternal opponents jostle for position
in a perpetual cycle of aggression and defence.
Until eventually, finally, ultimately, the stale-mate
is broken; when Tempest's tantrum is tamed and
Blizzard's battalions have been banished, all is calm.
Tranquillity is able to reassert herself and order has
finally been restored; at least for the foreseeable future.
Obligations fulfilled, the triumphant Guardian can now rest.
Until the need arises again, until he's called upon once more,
he will wait patiently, watch diligently, in unflagging vigilance.
Forever resolute, a beacon of sanctuary, a symbol of hope, his is a
thankless task, but the Protector of Mariners will always be needed.
-----------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 27 July 2017
For Eve Roper's "Lighthouse" Contest.
(1st Place)
In my dream, I gave birth to a child
The doctor said that he would die quite soon
My feelings overwhelming made me wild
The Nazi doctor threw him on a pile
I lay there unmoving as I keened
In my dream,I gave birth to a child
A week passed by,I knew that death beguiled
Frozen lips made no sound, song or tune
My feelings overwhelming made me wild
I had to rise and say my black goodbye.
My baby with the others;horror loomed
In my dream I gave birth to a child
I picked him up , when suddenly he smiled
I held him to my breast, my songs I crooned
My feelings overwhelming drove me wild
I had to carry him, the landscape gloom
A desert grey aand rocky like some moon
In my dream I gave birth to a child
In terror I had walked yet love consoled
The opaque grains of darkness drizzle silently
from the curved cauldron of the seamless onyx sky.
The silver embroidered satin tapestry rolls out
from the copious cornucopia of the nascent night,
as the twilight tinsels dissolve in azure ambiance.
The music of silence echoing in the nocturnal sky
wakes up the sleeping stars of beauty one by one,
designs the enticing lattice of the crystalline crown.
The moonbeam motif distills the stellar sequins,
makes the drifting dream of your charisma for me.
The dust of radiance drips in the mystique night
from the sparkling bowl of the blooming stars.
The lattice of twinkling trance is thus designed
for our love to serenade, flowering in garden of night,
with the seraphic symphony of the silver starshine.
Clear of the cloud of surreptitious self-qualm,
the diaphanous brilliance in the ordained orbit,
embellishes the stars, each shining with clarity of its own
in the enlightened transmuted stellar trajectory,
out of the ambiguous depth of abysmal spatial abyss.
In the dark wilderness of the desolate life
I set my eyes on the unmoving pole star.
Its unique attribute takes me to where you are,
I see argentine starry shine in the iris of your eyes,
glistened by the emanation of efflorescent emotions.