Long Vaster Poems
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Prisoners of Time
There is nothing secret
nothing sacred from man
He reaches beyond the
infinite to scatter dreams
He will employ
extraordinary means
Alone or in the company
of those with like heart
he can stream to
undiscovered places
Which brings, the opening
of a tale of how he
exploited the mighty whales
and in the process, cruelly
used, the giant turtles
of the Galapagos. Yes!
they were collateral damage
for the no less serious but
vaster sin of killing the
Leviathans.
Fresh food for the crew, they
endured layers of
imprisonment, stacked alive
on their backs in the holds of ships,
helpless in their giant shells for
a year at a time
Prisoners of the depths
of man's ignorance- such
sacrilege.
We can only pray, that
in that living death-
they entered a much
altered time state- that
became like fragrance;
an elusive, wafting
and that bliss flooded
their being
In praying this
we whisper an apology
Suzanne Delaney
Sunday, March 21, 2004
We stand on the edges of the silence's abyss, you and I, in contemplation,
Looking at each other, but in silence, against the backdrop of a tumultuous world.
Separated by a deep silence, vaster than any chaos,
In this space between us, only our gazes intersect, speaking without words.
It's our silence's abyss, a chasm where words find no place,
Where the echoes of speech fade, where our hopes dim into shadows.
We try to build an imaginary bridge, but the stones find no rest,
In this void, only the whispers of the wind convey the truth of our silence.
We break the silence of dawn and dusk, with our eyes that speak,
Each blink deepens the abyss, each breath becomes an echo in the wilderness.
In this abyss of silence, we are like two solitary stars,
So close, yet without touching, we just gaze at each other.
Oh, I wonder, my beautiful, if this will always be our story,
Just looks thrown across this terrifying abyss.
Will this be our silent dialogue, an exchange of glances in eternal silence,
Is it our destiny to remain forever separated by this chasm?
Although sadness envelops me, seeing your eyes in silence,
Hope dawns in my heart, like a ray of sun in the darkness.
That maybe, just maybe, my beautiful, we will cross this abyss,
And the silence between us will become a song, the distance will turn into closeness.
Until then, I will continue to look at you from across the abyss of silence,
And even if words are lost, my gaze will whisper love to you.
In your eyes, my beautiful, I see a whole world waiting to be discovered,
And even in this silence, my soul sings to you, a melody of the heart.
War
In a kingdom full of combatants I heard a naval, military struggling
Combat
I am non violent And I am recovering
Death shall bring troops
'War!' said I, 'thing of jihad.'
Do they believe in God
Quite odd
And those eyes have all the warmongering
Wars
Great war - great war - great war!
Only this and a nuclear winter
Snowing atomic gluserian
That antiwar, antiwar campaign
War
I remember I was feuding
And the clans never advocating
I crave the antagonistic, calorific awareness
awareness calorific, the antagonistic I crave
War
Eagerly I looked for the disaster
War
It was castor, alabaster, vaster!
Not
I crave the warlike, war-torn warship
My conflict, I could not awaken hatred bliss
Do not enlist
Still is planing, still is planing
In there stepped a medievalist 'red army faction'
God makes love, man makes
War
8/11/20
written word by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©
EARLY POEMS XIX
Bound
by Michael R. Burch
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground,
I have lost what I once found
in your arms.
Now it is winter—the coldest night.
And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes,
I have remade all my chains
and am bound.
Published as “Why Did I Go?” in my high school journal, The Lantern
130 Refuted
by Michael R. Burch
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red ...
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 130
Seas that sparkle in the sun
without its light would have no beauty;
but the light within your eyes
is theirs alone; it owes no duty.
And that flame, not half as bright,
is meant for me, and brings delight.
Coral formed beneath the sea,
though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me;
while your lips, not half so red,
just touching mine, at once inflame me.
And the searing flames your lips arouse
fathomless oceans fail to douse.
Bright roses’ brief affairs, declared
when winter comes, will wither quickly.
Your cheeks, though paler when compared
with them?—more lasting, never prickly.
And your cheeks, so dear and warm,
far vaster treasures, need no thorns.
I believe I wrote this poem as a college freshman, age 18.
With my daughter, by a waterfall
by Michael R. Burch
By a fountain that slowly shed
its rainbows of water, I led
my youngest daughter.
And the rhythm of the waves
that casually lazed
made her sleepy as I rocked her.
By that fountain I finally felt
fulfillment of which I had dreamt
feeling May’s warm breezes pelt
petals upon me.
And I held her close in the crook of my arm
as she slept, breathing harmony.
By a river that brazenly rolled,
my daughter and I strolled
toward the setting sun,
and the cadence of the cold,
chattering waters that flowed
reminded us both of an ancient song,
so we sang it together as we walked along
?unsure of the words, but sure of our love?
as a waterfall sighed and the sun died above.
This poem was published by my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. I believe I wrote around age 18.
Keywords/Tags: early, early poems, juvenilia, sun, red, lips, seas, light, flame, fire, oceans, roses, thorns, winter, cheeks, waterfall, daughter, rose, roses are red
Science deals with
the made,
and not the maker;
with form
and not the planner--
really only finding out
what can be created
and not
who made it all possible;
far more inclined
to accept a what
than a someone.
Science, the manipulation
of parts...but not the necessary
internal eye
for the art of deeper creation--
deeper than the smallest particle
and lightless hole.
Much in common with
the Atheist—who sees
only nostrils, limiting
the nose to breathing
and not for poking
beneath the cover
and behind the veil
into the far vaster reach
of an unseen universe
ever expanding--
fading, compressed light
merely an illusion
of consciousness.
The recent, decent, authorised remaster -
now deeper, fuller, meaningfully vaster,
it’s done its fifty years – this one’s a laster!
I don’t care if you’re reggaeton or Rasta,
you worship Satan, Seti, Zoroaster -
just play this baby for your priest or pastor –
it’s early Fleetwood Mac, but cooler, faster –
so get it grooving on your ghetto blaster!
Abandon Grand Theft Auto, drop your Dune,
and scrap your Patti Smith and Patti Boone:
just get more Gilmour (boy, that boy can croon!)
and Roger Waters, nicely out of tune:
the rest is paltry. Daltrey’s picayune.
I’ll meet you on the Dark Side of the Moon!
The Roar of the Silent Diamond
The silence stretched like an ocean suspended in veins screams my blood,
a crystal roar that grows from the depths of my blind-hearing ears,
but beyond the red beats of the heart that stomps in burning temples,
there exists a roar vaster than the air—the mystery that hisses shhh eternally.
The diamond of wisdom roars in its silence of living transparent stone,
a voice without voice that breaks eardrums with gentleness of rough velvet,
louder than my own blood that boils in arteries like sweet lava,
this mute roar of the full nothingness reminds me of something forgotten long ago.
Something I lost in the stress of days that flow since birth,
a knowledge swallowed by the weariness of breathing always in the same rhythm,
a secret buried beneath the layers of noise that cover my existence,
and the intense silence becomes a window toward what I have never been.
My blood roars like an underground train through tunnels of bone and flesh,
but the roar of silence is vaster—it's the ocean in which the train swims blind,
this cosmic shhh that rocks me in its arms like a lost child,
calls me back to the beginning where there were no words only pure breath.
The diamond of wisdom doesn't speak—it roars in invisible frequencies,
an explosion of white light that compresses into the zero point of silence,
and I listen with my ears turned inside out toward the interior of my own abyss,
where my blood becomes the echo of silence that births me anew always.
The stress of days since birth covers my memory with thick dust of forgetting,
but this mute roar pierces everything—it's the cold fire that melts the walls,
the mysterious shhh that reminds me I was once part of silence,
before noise before words before me and before world and before everything.
The silence so intense that you become its sound—the vibration without frequency,
your blood is no longer yours—it's just a note in the unseen symphony,
and the roar of the diamond of wisdom washes you of all false memories,
leaves you naked and clean like white paper on which silence writes with star ink.
Robert browning and Me (2)
Where was I with that book on Artemisia?
No Internet or Amazon back then,
So I got busy trudging round – then busier.
No joy. “American? We’ll call you when …”
“Import it from the States, you say? (sigh) “Sorry …”
That book to me was life-blood. From dry fact,
I knew I could carve angels. It was packed
with pure potential. It would be my quarry,
I, Michelangelo. But Florence called
(the city, not the girl). My summer break.
I’d soon be very happily installed
in Art’s sweet Heart. That book would have to take
a rain check. There were Browning things to see,
check out the places that the poet knew,
and stand where he stood (absolutely true!)
the day he found the Yellow Book. For me,
this part would be the climax. One fine day
in June of eighteen-sixty, Browning strolled
(the gods of poetry pointing out the way)
the Square of San Lorenzo – and struck gold!
He found a worn old book, and made the sale.
The record of a legal case with pleas,
submissions – this could be his masterpiece!
(A bit like mine, but on a vaster scale.)
So, there I was in San Lorenzo. If
my Artemisia project was on stall,
at least now I could breathe vicarious whiff
of Browning’s triumph. Oh, I was enthralled!
He read the lawyer’s brief as he walked home.
I traced his steps – down Giglio, Panzani, then
across the Arno at the bridge again –
(I caught a glimpse of Brunelleschi’s Dome)
and then it happened. Those poetic gods!
A bookstore on the Tornabuoni. (Time allows.
But what of Browning? Even Homer nods!
What harm, if I just sidle in and browse …?)
The book on Artemisia! Divine!
How many thousand lire? Hey, who cares?
So, I and Browning had our talents (tares?)
He used his well enough. Now I’ll try mine!
I was born to love people, to be a traveler through their hidden hearts,
To discover the inner gardens, where the flowers of triumphs rise from the soil of sufferings.
Every smile evaluates me with a luminous chasm of hope,
Trying to reach the essence of their being, through each rain of buried memories.
To not be the one loved, but just the mirror that reflects their light,
Perceived as an echo in the silence of autumn leaves, writing poems in cold winds.
I was born to be the poet of shadows and scattered lights,
The one who catches the sparks in their eyes and hides them in intricate metaphors,
To touch the invisible strings of souls, weaving threads of a burdened destiny.
To break down their walls, with a delicate touch, sowing trust in barren places,
Without being seen, without being felt, but as a passing breeze,
Like the wind that leaves the harbor before dawn, leaving only calm silence behind.
I was meant to be part of the waves, not the one that lifts them toward the sky,
To float among ordinary people, an obscure presence under shifting shadows,
An entity among souls, not spreading storms of emotion, but only the echo of bygone times.
A pool of indistinct feelings, a lake of experiences lived in silence.
Somewhere, my gaze wanders to seek the depths,
But it hits the strict shores of harsh reality,
Perhaps being part of the wave was not just the people around,
But something profoundly missing within me, a void becoming ever vaster.
And so, in this journey infused with mysticism and lost hopes,
I weave every thought with threads of melancholy and magic,
Lost in the labyrinth of souls, weaving a secret and poetic universe,
In the heart of the waves, where my heart pulses under the enigmatic light of the moon,
I find the delicate thread of hope and follow it into a perpetual rebirth,
Toward an infinity where the heart intertwines with eternity.
Sometimes the
lines between
happiness and sorrow
love and hate
are thin (barely visible
to the naked heart) –
(a healthy heart
needing more than
a steady-beat
to be truly healthy) –
hearts not created
merely for pumping;
nor for expressing
exclusively within
the Body-visceral
while excluding
the vaster realm
of metaphysical being
(confined within a cage of bone)
(drowning in its own
oxygen rich fluids)
No, the heart truly
reaches out -- beyond
muscular attributes:
exceeds surface
perimeters of flesh
and blood –
transcending
the core-less Atheist
concept, absent a
spirit and soul
for greater inspiration…
refutes the materialist,
who sees only
superficial reality,
excluding the essence
of divine interaction
and miraculous manifestation –
The heart I speak
stretches the rulers
of medical Measures –
remains an enigma to science,
and by contrast -- the light
apposing dark-sided men
who reject Christian-unity daily
as did those prosecutors
of The Son of Man
who rejected Christ love
and His revelation
of Divine Source
and Holy Trinity….