Long Unthought Poems
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Tissiack’s Tears
“[F]or I was absorbed in the great Tissiack [Half Dome]-- I have gazed on Tissiack a thousand times -- in days of solemn storms, and when her form shone divine with the jewelry of winter, or was veiled in living clouds; and I have heard her voice of winds, and snowy, tuneful waters when floods were falling; yet never did her soul reveal itself more impressively than now. John Muir
Tissiack’s tears fall from her rain-stained face,
her profile one with the lichened rock.
She, the spirit of the Ahwahneechees,
speaks silently, with the voice of winds,
and presence of time past and present.
For a summer, my tent opened to her
With flaps opened, I peered upon her,
Confident that I understood her words;
But I was just imperiousness youth,
And youth distracts from truth.
Years later, I return to her and sit
in the moonlight at Mirror Lake.
As my eyes tire and grow unfocused,
I see her missing half in the water –
her half that’s not, her mystic moiety.
She whispers of life’s unhalves, and in the
rippled, reflective waters appears,
my unhalf – those thoughts, unthought and
that life, unlived; whereupon, I too shed tears.
Travelling down these sentences we find
Unknown,unsought, unthought, but always real
A home where we can rest our fragile minds
The people dropped,the habits left behind.
The good, the mediocre, what we steal
While travelling with the sentences we find
The hate that frees,the love that too close binds
The heart, the soul, the body, how we feel
For homes where we can rest our fragile minds
The touch that chills, the distances unkind
Unwished for yet demanding all the soul.
Unravelling are our sentences unblind.
The freezing looks,the glories undermined
Ill timed,ill gotten, ills both new and old,
Hedge homes where we could rest our fragile minds
I have never dwelt in realms of gold;
But there are many stories never told.
Suffering our own sentences we find
A home that welcomes, our more liberal minds.
The veil is there for a powerful reason,
And yet some of us can see what prances from the other side
Through automatic writing and psychometry
We can immediately feel loved or frightened.
It is best to not intentionally pull back the curtain
Unless you are a shaman or wise woman with roots
That are deep, clear, open to unthought of possibilities,
And you are willing to face the consequences
Many of us can travel to the otherworld in our dreams
Some go nightly. Astral travelers
Yet do we remember in the morning?
Often if we have not developed language of this lifetime yet
The veil is there not as a warning
But as a protection
When we sense something is wrong
The warnings come from beyond the veil; pay attention.
Your spirit guides might be trying to save your life.
Of course, the demons use this avenue too.
This is when you really need to listen to your internal feelings.
Upon the wings of time, we intertwined our spirits,
Seeking the harmony of eternity, a gentle ocean of song.
A kiss unfurled the creed of ancient silences,
And in a waltz, we joined, with suffering sealing a holy pact.
An invisible thread, a weave from bygone times,
Bound us in the mystery of a world long forgotten and lost.
In depths of mine, your smile blossoms like a feast,
Under a newborn sky, where light was bestowed upon us, undefeated.
Your hands sketched paths across the skin of my unsuspecting hopes,
Your gaze, sparkling like stars in the night, a longing that never fades.
You were my peace in the tumult of the day, I lived every quivering moment,
And upon your brow, I left, with a prayer, a thought that clings to hearts.
In you, perhaps love has melted away, but in me, it blooms anew,
In absence and silence, its deep grave has been dug.
Yet I bear it like an unconquered emblem woven in purple,
And even unthought by you, you are an altar in my soul.
Within minutes, a gentle wave comes to nudge your consciousness
Stars appear bluer than you remember
Globus, the lump in your throat is gone
Memories emerge that remained unthought for years;
A strangely lit corridor;
A den in the woods
Back in the present, all is still
Nothing just happened
And it is a gift; a comfort.
The world is tinted back to the colour you understand
You feel your heart beating in your fingertips
Your hands are steadier than you have ever known
Your skin is attached just right
Up to this moment, life has provided you with just the right amount of destruction
To let you Understand.
Past injuries can be observed with detached interest
Sunlight behind closed eyelids glows in reds and oranges
Lay back and experience
A swirlycap high
Written: December 11, 2023
_________________________________________
Intricate depiction of a being?
That a single hand could create
Beneficial matters can be evanescent
When built out of yielding clay?
Molded into fiction, scales, and tails
In terms of creative process,
Ground and airborne entities
Morph into unthought-of shapes.
A refined intellect creates ephemera
Quickly under a gentle moonlight
I'm floating in the swaying elevator
Regarding heavenly breezes.
Hair converts into poet-trees from poetry
Yet untamed ideas are captivated
With the spirals and knuckles
Brilliant sculptor's vision and decision.
lifting our minds into untamed sight
Those who grasp this routine are lucky
And the beholders of moonbeam dreams
Pursue the path that moves the heart.
The question and problem at hand
May not require the expert opinion
Of a genius or rocket scientist, but the
Issue in question is rather complicated
And requires a pause and recalculating.
So, sleep on it.
Haste would clearly be out of place.
Quick and unthought-out remedies
Might be a waste of human resources.
So, sleep on it.
Common sense has often won many a race,
Because applied wisdom sets the pace,
Providing solutions to many hard cases.
So, sleep on it.
Before reaching a decision, give it time.
Allow possibilities to simmer the mind.
Also, I once heard a very wise man say,
"Sleep on it".
Like a bagel with no hole
Like a flag without a pole
Like a singer with no soul
Like a furnace with no coal
Like a gangster with no moll
Like a quest without a goal
Like a bell that cannot toll
Like a super with no bowl
Like a yacht without a keel
Like a car without a wheel
Like a con without the spiel
Like a thief who cannot steal
Like a key that will not turn
Like a log that will not burn
Like a boss who isn’t stern
Like a skill you cannot learn
It’s a pen that leaves no mark
It’s a dog that cannot bark
It’s a silence in a lark
It’s the padlock at the park
It’s a great big open space
Like there’s nothing any place
It’s an ass in a horse race
It’s the blankness on my face
It’s the words I wish to write
That refuse to see the light
And I worry that my plight
Is because I’m not that bright
It’s the words unthought, unsaid
It’s a veil that can’t be shed
It’s the blackness in my head
It’s my muse…
I think she’s dead.
Sometimes it seems all the love songs have already been written;
No new ways for “I love you” are left to be said.
Sometimes it seems all the love plays have already been scripted,
And all the love sonnets have already been read.
Then when you are with me I know that can’t be true;
There must be love songs that have not passed any one's throat.
The love I feel for you never before has been experienced;
There must be some unsung love musical notes.
Sometimes it seems all the love poems have already been thought of;
No love words are left yet to be rhymed.
Sometimes it seems all the love phrases have already been whispered;
No new sayings can new lovers find.
Then when you kiss me I know that I must be the first one
To ever feel love as deeply as I do.
And so there must be some way unthought-of
To express just how much I love you.
Th'pain of ice is th'lacquer o'stife
To th'begg'd bane, stilled, thawed
Caught'n satin fame, dragg'd towards
Th'Blood of a sadden'd kiss,
"To this"
"To what o'this"
Seen 'nstead of 'nfringed love
The blade, call'd catharsis a dove,
"To this"
"To what o'love"
Fraught, unthought shove
Fame fall'n still, dripp'd 'n drench'd f'love
Bade blade ripp'd the blanch'd flesh
O'th'pure goers' eternal rest
Lay hereafter, for'ver after,
Goeth detestable pest, upon th'
Holied site o'pelted tundra
Lay'n to rest lover o'blunder,
"To us"
"To th'last of us"
"I must"
"T'what you lust"
"To this"
"..."
The pain of ice is the cold of fear
To whatever may lay here
To whatever may stain the clear