Pilgrimages Poems

Descent And Ascent

My hilly paths are full of pits, and my trails turn and twist.
My life and destiny have contracted clandestine tryst.
As there are dams blocking rivers that flow flawlessly
Unknown hurdles put pauses to life rather lawlessly.

Brick by brick how cautiously I construct my dream castle!
How a storm pulls it down as though it's a hut on the hill!
Exploring, inventing, and enlightening, I move on.
Towards absurd spells of death, my mortal being is drawn

Inner aches, like yokes, weigh me when I let go of my worries.
Pains and grieves, like traumas, bring in tumultuous flurries.
Soul passes through deserts of spiritual emptiness.
Pilgrimages of perfection become pride-filled pettiness.

With my descents and falls, I, a weakling, come to my Lord
He lifts me from dust and takes me to his heavenly abode.
As a vulture that gains its youthfulness, I take new birth.
Dark nights of my soul end and bright days lead to endless mirth.

Ways Of The World

Shadow black blood floods flow silently wailing in whirlpools
Volcanoes of endless enmity erupt with vengeance.
It's not humanness. Here, the mores of 'might is right' rules
Against routing quagmires, lotus buds fight for transcendence.

We shake hands like friends while minds float on clouds of fraudulence.
Amidst rocking crowds in digital sounds, we feel alone.
Wearing torn costumes of cleaved conscience, we seek vigilance.
Weeds of weariness spring up, wherefrom seeds of smiles are sown.

Like weak rams, we follow the rushing crowds to hit someone.
Who do we want to hit? Why do we want to? No one knows.
We make weapons and enable our young ones fight for fun.
Roots of truth hidden, falsehood from friendship flawlessly flows.

Why is each one who toils not the owner of their wages?
Why don't we end all dead ends that prevent our pilgrimages?

trauma

Ex-President Trump had a near miss recently. That can be traumatizing.

We know how it is, our old republic survived a near insurrection recently.

At least Trump's assailant was killed, he can rest easy.

Thanks to faux-jurisprudence, our felon is still out there - on the loose.
.
.
Songs for this:
Run On by Elvis Presley
Use Me (feat. Cynthia Greene) by The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir
Order My Steps by The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir
.
I love gospel music, maybe because I’m from Georgia, the home of MLK, civil rights and the Ebenezer Baptist Church. Lisa (who lives in Manhattan) and I’ve made two pilgrimages to the Brooklyn Tabernacle to hear the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. I admit that I’m a heathen and a pagan but when I hear a gospel choir - I'm easily reduced to tears, and I’m moved to at least wish that I believed.
.
I would never wish Mr. Trump harm. I would like to see him loose fairly and resume his opulent, civilian life.

The Work

I've lived in it all my life -
the self's grand fiction -
refuge for the child, youths
rebel fortress and a walled  
cloister to house
the holy relics gathered
on the pilgrimages 
of my mind. I have built it
line by line with words
baked into bricks. 

Rooms follow years
down passageways of books,
dusty manuscripts and dreams
hung in stations along
age blackened walls. 
In high towers, windows
open to a universe
with a terrifying silence
at its core.

I hear reality's hard fist
knocking at the door,
a presence breathing 
its corrosive damp into mortar, 
unpicking me
brick by brick. And yet,
a sense of peace in surrendering 
what was never really there,
dissolving into what is

In Another Galaxy

Before I even close my eyes, 
Awareness floats, starting to rise;
An earthy smell of fresh soil turning,
Rabbits burrowing and squirrels stirring,
Smoke from a fire burning;
Spirit answers the shaman's calling,
Trees undisturbed and evergreen,
The forest thick with no in-between,
Glistening emerald catching my eye 
As I pass the hanging moss by.
I come to feel the leaves dancing in the breeze, 
Gliding like an eagle high above the tallest trees.
Gathering, I pick up the pace, 
Wind against my face,
My long hair flowing free;
Memories of the hidden key.
Misty rain, 
The taste of salt in the air, 
Aromas of the sea,
Echoes from the ocean, 
Crashing waves are calling me.
Soaring through the clouds, soft fluff white, 
Visions replay of pilgrimages at night,
Ancestors from another time,
Greeted as I'm guided in through a portal.
Earth grows small and air grows thin;
Consciousness slowing, starting to spin.
Now in another galaxy, 
I am glowing from within.

Pilgrimages'

A pilgrimage should not take a direct path,
a traveler should wander seeking to be even lost
following new tacks
to unexpected destinations.

if you know where you are going
the sacredness of your journey
will be at best just a ritual.

Pilgrimages'

A pilgrimage should not take a direct path,
a traveler should wander seeking to be even lost
following new tacks
to unexpected destinations.

if you know where you are going
the sacredness of your journey
will be at best just a ritual.

The Western Wall - Jerusalem

Though just a wall
      or so it's deemed
    
    She's kept alive
      a people's dreams

    Myriad pilgrims come
      her faithful friends

    To renew her glory's
      beginning and end*




    *Beginning - Inaugurated by King Solomon, c. 1000 BCE
     'End' - To be rebuilt with the advent of the Messiah ...
    __________________________________
    The Western Wall, aka The Wailing Wall, 
    miraculously survived the razing of the 
    Holy Temple and the Temple Mount by
    the Romans in the First Century C.E.  
    Jews have made pilgrimages to the
    Wall over the millennia, especially since 
    1967, after the Six-Day War.

Floating Ashes

As I gazed out over the slow-flowing creek
Suppressing the agony of losing my child
Tears never fail to spill down my cheeks
As I have repeated this ritual for a while

Making these pilgrimages to this waterway
While I stood on this same slick, muddy bank
I enjoy observing the bluegill and catfish play
Paying their respect. For that, I owe thanks

An army swims back and forth in formation
Alerting the water inhabitants as they often do
Like synchronized swimmers without expression
The fish will come if they think you have food

It's been a year since I freed his charred remains
All that is left of his countenance is this powder
It’s hard to comprehend or for my mind to contain
As I visit my only child's ashes in these waters

So Close You Can Taste

I’ve seen wretched souls 
fall poorer by stealth 
I’ve seen frail old people 
endure pain as they knelt 

Climbing mountains barefoot 
pilgrimages never stop
A penance for being born 
light your candle at the top 

I’ve seen false prophets 
adorn halls with great wealth 
I’ve seen saints being evoked 
promising to cure ill health 

Down beside the grotto
past where wheelchairs roll
Believers lie prostrate 
whilst souvenirs are sold 

They beg for miracles
hoping prayers will be felt 
Some have their spirits raised 
gods name becomes misspelt 

Selective interpretations 
scriptures bent to suit man
Dogmatic, stern beliefs
hushed silence, vetoes, bans

under forced indoctrination 
this mind started to melt
Brainwashed in a classroom 
with the strap of a belt 

Now feel worthy of nothing 
and deserving of it all 
I still must climb mountains 
but try avoid the brick walls


By David Kavanagh

Royalty

Kings had fine feasts with rare foods from afar.
I can drive to restaurants serving cuisines of all kinds.

Kings prided themselves on fast and strong horses.
My truck is much faster and is hundreds of times stronger.

Kings boasted of jesters and musicians.
I have YouTube.

Kings called upon scholars for answers.
I have Wikipedia.

Kings went on pilgrimages to far away lands risking their lives against diseases, disasters, and war.
I can fly almost anywhere in less than 24 hours.

Kings could bathe or purchase expensive perfumes.
I have a shower, deodorant, and shampoo.

Kings had to wage wars, build castles, lead armies.
I have to pay rent.

Kings had to fear assassins and usurpers.
I'm one of millions.

Kings had little defense against diseases.
I have modern medicine.

So, no, I don't live like a king - I live better.

14 February 2022

Then and Now

Travails nor toils so edgy,
Hilly roads nor heights dizzy,
Nor arduous journey,
Ye call it a pilgrimage,
I, picnic spots, what a rage!
________________________________
Musings|18.05.2021|
Topic: travel, pilgrimage

Poet’s Note: Pilgrimages are increasingly turning into picnic spots what with smooth roads, infrastructure to cater to visitors, and comfortable facilities. People arrive in all comforts as tourists rather than pilgrims of old times under a lot of hardships that they faced willingly and as a matter of fact. Things are a changing.

Mary Magdalena

Painted by many masters of distinction throughout history,
displayed in Museums and Cathedrals with touches of mystery.
In agony and sorrowful tears or in blissful prayers,
the woman with Christ by biblical affairs.
Saint patron of cruel Dominicans and prostitutes, 
witness of the his resurrection and crucifix prosecutes.
Apparently also mother of his child and lover,
when she had to flee Galilee for no one will discover.
Relics suppose to proof that dust of gold,
holy matrimonies for pilgrimages forever sold.
Her Image in many sculptures as the ultimate devotion,
tears of sorrows and transcended bleeding heart notion.
The woman that anoints Jesus feet and being a disciple,
representing the spiritual love as the feminine part of Bible.
She had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities,
because Christ empowered woman in his ministries.
Mary of Magdala with the alabaster box supporting that man,
understanding his teaching and fulfilled the role as part of plan.
To make Jesus followers faith stronger with a display in this regard,
still touching even in mysterious ways a powerful spiritual art.

The Eye of the Beholder

Those eyes that can reflect heavens on earth,
turning earth expression into constant birth.
Pilgrimages to You from within as servant,
sacred dwellings of worship and its current.
Compassionate visions radiate in true ideal,
provided natures phenomena and eternal.
Seeing flower footprints as godly dancing steps,
veneration of space as formless love effects.
Immensity of celestial majestic display,
presence without doubt from Your heart at bay.
The soul as compass pointing towards that behold,
crossing the ocean of life facing the storm so bold.
The eye of intuition never deceived,
hidden mysteries given liberty received.
The domain of every soul in its own sphere,
multidimensional observer reflecting to take care.
The magical glance poured into every child exist,
starving kisses enfold that no one can resist.

Fractured Canterbury Tales

For the benefit of any non-Middle-English
speakers, a literal, word-for-word translation
has been provided beneath each line of
the original:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote!
  When we've already had enough! of April showers

Whan priketh hem Governeur in oure corages
  Our prick of a governor locks us down in our garages

Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
  Ha, ha! Our goon squads are itching to go on barrages

And smale fowles maken melodye
  And assault thine ears with foul-mouthed serenades

That slepen al the night with open ye
   'Twill fershloft three far aye with mnemonic charades


       
  ~ A special thanks to Middle English translator, Barry Kanter

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