Long Unnamable Poems
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It could be seen in the rough surf
Marco and Laura traveling towards French style turf
Touring the gulf
Showing the teeth of an angry wolf
Winds swirling
Waves curling
Water hurling
Like a southern gent
Dealing with egotistical celebrity resent
Putting up a TNT hospitality tent
Programming things on TV
Watching it with a cable fee
Keeping certain names alive
Buzzing in their sacred bee hive
Presenting giving it more visibility try
Enjoying ongoing stories emotional ride
Mindful amusement park fury
A situation that stated evacuate in a hurry
Or natural forces will bury
No caring or worry
These two names never had news worthy mention
Now got National network’s attention
Coming together creating tension
Claiming to be a hurricane
Category level no longer tame
Special effects warning checks
Screaming stating show respect
An angry tone
Entertaining spectacle viewed alone
Hoping there is a working phone
Drowning in the watery foam
Death could come by scripted dialogue
Being read by studio anchor reporting information in a fog
Did Marco write this page?
Preparing students living in a pandemic cage
Or is it Laura having rage
Loving a craft different from a road house stage
An unnamable part
Only miles the two are part
When Laura and Marco bring back the loving sun
Knowing the tides are crashing scaring some
Needing to know ‘Are we having fun?’
I Am as am, in being-ness complete
Self luminous, with vibrant bliss replete
Here and now present, in the joy current
Centred in void, to each pulse cognisant
Swaying to the rhythm of loves heartbeat
I Am both the static and dynamic
Self-existent aliveness ecstatic
Here on Mother Earth, flowing like the breeze
Fragrance divine, thus imbibe and release
Unified head and heart, view holistic
I Am! That I Am! The unnamable!
Beyond mind body, truth of parables
Living in this reflected universe
Swan-song love throb, in melodious verse
I Am the symbol of Gods miracle
18-March-2021
(“The Search For Unnamable Things Merit Badge”, 2011, original oil)
A Great Unknown
I figure there are just a handful or two
Of friends and family who really know me
But last night in a dream a roommate told me
He didn’t know me well
And it made me wonder,
If this aspect of myself can say that,
Who really does?
I’d think my wife of nearly 18 years does
And daughter of almost 30 would
As I don’t hold much back from them,
But realize they have their own selves
To worry about and to know
And anyway, see it all, as we all do,
Through their own shifting filters.
Same for everyone from immediate family
To close friends and acquaintances
Everyone forming ideas based on perceptions
Building a notion of each other
Which really only ever hints at the truth.
And this ambiguity is how it is for all of us
Each of us a work in progress learning on the fly
Who we are, who each other are
As we discover its truth in flashes and layers
A great unknown becoming known.
A volcano spreading its magma and ash
An ocean bringing itself up to the beach in pieces
A night sky revealing its depths with the seasons
Until enough is known for us to function
Form opinions and biases and concepts
But enough remains hidden
To give us something to live for
Each day and each night
Another way to discover a little more
Of what is and will remain
An inconceivable mystery.
(12/13/24)
...dead mice thus far do gnaw, splintered mirrors
neck and rubber yet with scant regret.
Ropes both for hanging and climbing, good grief,
bad love, honey-do-dew in a salty brew.
In my closet, pockets unpacking pockets,
string bags under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls as mute as hollow urns
turn to cry their mournful why’s.
One horror story lives forever much chewed over
by skeletal moths and stray cats.
The edge of IF, the pots of peeled moonlight
guttering in a midsummer dunk, these glad me not,
yet are kept like the pickled smiles of saucy women.
In my book of lies there are truths still worth distorting,
times killed by a compulsive retelling,
fields plowed over too long
where the dead are uncovered only to dance again
on the graves of long reclining martyrs.
The drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
works slackened and sent unfixed back to the
depths from which they came. The unclaimed, reclaimed
and the unnamable named.
Yet here I am, the one person, this golden spark
in a potash smutter, still blinking my way,
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic wings hover
to grab up my rash stash of self, and I say:
yes let them yes come, and god help those wings.
Here at the heart of the darkest day
Darkest light at noonday and midnight
The shadows show the holes to a different realm
A different reality, negative images of creation
The opposite of light, the reverse of night, positive to negative
Light from the other side of life, seeing the unseen, revelation
What lurks between the now and then
The in-between what is known and unknown
In the heart of the darkest brilliant day
The witching hour deep in darkest night
The 13th-hour chimes, echos die in the coming doom
Hollow and sacred, full of light well past midnight
Another world of a different sight
The flip of noon darkest light an errant
Night nether white or darkest night
A day of an odd unnamable delight, a color out of time
Outer space, the inner realm of the deepest dream
A dream within a dream in a world
Of darkest light, in dooms dead light
Souls are frozen in movement, each an action
Of a normal life, now only echos in doom light
Faded mysteries of a time past
Each wraith, a shadow or shade of a different life
All lost in the darkest of noons brightest night
All wasting away in dooms light
The coming end of echos and reflections
Casting far, far from the deepest darkest night
All blind in the doom darkest light
I was sitting in a church filled with light and beauty
listening to an organist as he gently fused my soul
Even the flowers on the alter seemed to be entranced
in this ethereal place where hardened hearts erase ;
And as I offered prayers to the Savior Lord of hosts
I was saturated with karma and unnamable mystique
Faith became a foundling, much braver then my fears
as I touched His loneliness, everything disappeared
Pondering on the crucifix another door was opened
and it was the HOLY SPIRIT who finally dried my eyes
Soon the only thing I saw was a broken Jesus friend .
as I sat on a wooden pew the organist just played
until the sun fell and the stained glass turned to jade .
December 1st, 2019
Contest Name: Holy Spirit
December 1st, 2019
Contest Name: Holy Spirit
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We carried them home in shoeboxes
poked with air holes,
our fingers trembling
against pastel fluff~
yellow as buttercups,
blue like faded denim,
pink like bubblegum
stuck under our beds.
They cheeped in chorus,
a sound so small
it could drown in a rain puddle.
We named them
after cartoon characters,
after dead grandmothers,
after whatever sweetness
we could scrape from our imaginations.
By Monday, the dye ran in their water dish,
streaking their feathers into something
less magical, more real.
We didn’t know
they’d outgrow the colors,
that their feet would twist
from walking on newspaper,
that no one’s mother
would let them stay.
The grocery store manager
just shrugged,
his apron smeared
with something unnamable.
Take ‘em, he said.
They’re free.
you may read the accompanying memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/peep_peep_baby_chicks_13614
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.
If I took my heart out of its cage
you would think: "ah offal, just meat,
fresh blood if I eat it quickly."
.
Crazily, you call 'need' love,
you're crazed, heartless,
a cannibal, a crippled dog
baying at a savage moon.
Limp tongues turn to syrup eventually.
Clearly these bodies are ravaged temples,
apes howl about its holy alter.
And yet, cherries are flesh,
their sweetness is in the hunger.
I drink and remember your face,
it is a landslip,
pushed by one iron gray hair.
We are mad, madly unhitched,
we hang from a mirage of love,
dangle from its limp sinews,
lips puckered,
ever willing to name
the unnamable, what it is not.
Avoiding the girl-scouts
I hasten out of the store
trying hard not to see the people
huddled in their thin coats
as they wait for an infrequent bus.
This ice-chilled evening
with its stark revelations
is like the nag of an irregular heartbeat
sheathed like a thorn in my shoe.
Later, by a warm fire
sitting in an upholstered armchair,
a despondency chews at my breastbone,
it is a reaction hard to pin down,
to objectify,
a lingering presence.
My mind shifts through a symbolic iconography
effigies depicting:
a lost and hungry dog,
an ill-treated child,
a stranger I refuse to call brother,
places long deserted,
places found far too late.
A love unpicked from a now withering vine.
That same presence
sets a table and chair before me
that I may write, try to explain
this tumbleweed of unnamable sorrows,
a phantom, that even in happier times,
I recognize it as a coarse impression
akin to a grating scar
beneath a tender tongue.
Tomorrow may emerge as a frail old lady,
struggling with full shopping bags,
head bent to a cold uncaring wind.
Many might offer her a lift
but in my present brittle mood
I probably would frighten her,
so,
I don’t.