From High Point, he hailed
With his instrument, he had a
story to tell
Many pundits call him insane
But for those who know simply call
him Trane
His claim to fame was riding the galactic
ship of jazz
Pushing the status quo and exploring with
a whole lot of pizazz
But his earnest desire was to get to know a Love Supreme
Through Acknowledgement, Resolution, Pursuance, and
Psalms, his soul was able to gleam
Saint John, a quiet storm that blew with a serene
veracity
With Giant Steps, he walked through the world of jazz with a divine tenacity
All God’s critters got a place in the woods of Saint John
They dance and sing and get their jimble jamble back on.
We see it happening, and we laugh, for of them we are fond.
They are jiving and striving down south now, toward Unka’s pond.
Some are coming back. Here is raccoon, muskrat and beaver.
Opossums claim they have some weird kind of holiday fever.
The fox and badger are both sneaking around the old mill stump.
Here are cardinals and goldfinch, and a blue jay named Grump.
All God’s critters are welcome, we take in our own.
We don’t want anyone lost, lonely, sad or alone.
Please come see us if you are feeling purple or green.
We will cheer you up with your happiness sheen.
We used to play truth or dare
behind Saint Johns church,
with the dirty girls a few blocks over.
Most of the time we chose dare
because we were ready to feel fire.
In that darkened parking lot,
we ignored God and Saint John
they in turn understood young lust
because never once did they stop us
perhaps preferring to hover and watch-
Never bug the Ug Wug, or he’ll be bugging you.
He lives inside a cold dark cave near Douglas Avenue.
Some people say they’ve seen him swimming in the tide.
Spinning in a whirlpool, he’s quite preoccupied.
Never bug the Ug Wug. Please leave him alone.
He’s been around since Water Street was laid with cobblestone.
Some say he’s prehistoric, half-lizard and half-seal.
He’ll look at you with big red eyes and make you his next meal.
Never bug the Ug Wug, especially not in Spring
When gasperaux are on the move in an endless string.
He’s gluttonous and greedy with a massive appetite.
When it comes to empty bellies, he’s very impolite.
Never bug the Ug Wug. He’s faster than you think.
He’ll swallow you in one large gulp as quick as you can blink.
When thunder rumbles high above; when rapids race below,
Don’t let yourself be swept away in the undertow.
Never bug the Ug Wug. He’s why the Falls reverse.
The Saint John River is afraid of this antiquated curse.
If you’re fishing in the current, and you feel a stubborn tug,
It better be a big striped bass, and not old Mister Ug ……. Wug!
My walk’s slow, but I’m in no rush my friend.
Day will finish itself, night comes so what?
I’ll stop by some ‘bo’s campfire at light’s end,
be with like men, share some humor or smut.
I’ll spend night with vacant space in my gut.
Rail walk’s no soft piece of cake but light’s dawn
may bring train and ride beneath car’s frame strut,
finding me next day at place of Saint John.
The infant orphan, you grew up in foster homes,
but your Polish roots were strong.
You knew Paderewski and you made his sculpture
for which you won the prize at World’s Fair.
Ziolkowski - the story teller in stone.
In your sculpture, you made the Crazy Horse face
larger than ancient kings,
larger than Egyptian pyramid.
May our another compatriot,
saint John Paul II pray for your soul
and all Native American Nations,
calling their sons and daughters to sainthood.
Rest in peace my countryman.
We were living in another people's territories,
making them proud.
May they grant us permanent asylum.
The Inner Workings of a Clock
My Catholic schoolgirl
Denies my shadowy persona.
Costumed in
A navy blue uniform
A snow-white blouse,
A chest pocket embroidered
By Saint John Fisher,
Her youthful bearing ticks
Smoothly, quietly, piously.
My Catholic schoolgirl leads
The May Day procession
She crosses herself and genuflects.
Wrapped in rosary beads,
She pushes my golden orb,
Tilted and warped as it is,
Into its preordained trajectory
Toward saintliness.
Starships of jealousy and greed
Some dressed as childish lies
Others as adult deceptions
Pitch me into a blackness
Unnoticed by my angelic clock.
Hands circulate 360 degrees.
Springs unwind.
Inner pendulums
Swing madly.
Simultaneously, I am
Remorseful and gleeful.
Twelve o’clock is
My imagined sanctity of
Honeyed knowledge.
Six o’clock is
My known blasphemy.
I wear my hair shirt with pride.
Tortoiselike, I see only
Darkness or light.
My Catholic
Schoolgirl’s soul
Refuses to apologize
For my humanity
Nor does she brag.
I am God’s creation,
A jigsaw of sharp-edged pieces.
Hailey was so much impressed by Saint John that thinking of him was an eager excitement. She talked with him always stirred, becoming twice the lady she was, with the hand missing glasses and whenever close to him feeling idyllically calm and peaceful. No-stress. Yes, no-stress, this high-class and profound luxury. The surprise when he appeared was bigger than average as he appeared in her life rarely. And it was not important that not everything was as it ought to be- next to him the world was taken in slow motion. And in slow motion she could enjoy both the world and Saint John himself. Open, handsome, with bright smile but only a little shy. Her sinking in his really good-hearted look meant: Everything is well now. However corny that seems, it was real as the heat before the storm.
30.06.16
He is so very married.
A sister wants to reach out
to a brother who doesn't care,
about the way she truly feels
being drowned, she fights for air.
He said some mean things
she will never forget,
if their parents were still alive
it would be something, he'd regret.
They'd be rolling in their graves
and their grandfather would be too,
if their grandmother found out
her feelings would be subdued.
The sister is sad and angered
about things her little brother said,
she wishes the parents were still alive
he puts them down, after they are dead.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Jan.22/2014
I wrote this about my brother and myself. We used to be connected at the hip at one time, but ever since our Dad passed away, he's said some really hurtful things. It got worse, after our Mom passed away. After I found out yesterday, that he was in Saint John, at my daughter's work, I felt like calling him up tonight and cursing his ears off. I don't know if I would be able to forgive what he said about our parents. It isn't right or fair to defile somebody, if they are still alive. Or even after they are dead. :'O(
When I didn't know how I was going to pay my bills;
It was already done.
When I fought being in the Master's will,
It was already done.
When there was no food on the table,
It was already done.
Didn't I know that God is able.
It was already done.
When I had nowhere to lay my head;
It was already done.
I serve a Living God, not one that is dead.
It was already done.
I should never have any doubt;
That my God had worked things out.
It was already done.
When Jesus died upon the cross;
It was already done
Not one that belonged to Him would be lost.
It was already done.
For the words He spoke in His last minute;
It was already done.
Jesus looked toward Heaven and said, "It is finished."
IT WAS ALREADY DONE!
Saint John 19:30
On Saint John’s night
Full moon shines on with its eerie light
The ancient nymphs dance with delight
The flower of fern small and unassuming will sprite
Yet something is in the flower above which nymphs take flight
Some kind of mysterious deep light
Something that if in one’s hand it is one can’t help to gaze up at stars into the night
The flower caries second sight
The senses it will excite
But one can’t sleep until dawns light
That is the only way divination to macrocosm will bring the inner sight
The all Seeing Eye macrocosmic future ghostwrite
The destiny is pushed further and so is birthright
Switching with macrocosm all levels are beyond infinite in their fight
All nonlinearly beyond expanse at the base as imbued macrocosm shines bright
The beyond destiny will always be beyond as in imbued macrocosm future will dendrite
SAINT JOHN COLTRANE
Old Trane New Trane Coltrane
Stood on the edge of the avant-guard
Sanctified sax in hand blowing like thunder and rain
He acknowledged The Creator with Psalms in A love Supreme
A love Supreme... A love Supreme...A love Supreme
His horn screamed with pain
Alabama Oh...Alabama where our children died
Ka-boom!!
Expressions of rebellion as The Black Movement marched on through
Along came Joy and Peace yet he moaned and groaned
He ascended to a higher plane
As he sings praises in heaven his legacy abounds on earth and the spirit is still alive
SAINT JOHN COLTRANE
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Thanks
Saint John of Rila
Father John –
I have no bread
(short is the bread daily)
And the Lestvitsa* -
so long …
Longer than a thought
and shorter than a peal
of a bell.
I’m ashamed, Father,
that today I am speaking
but not staying quiet like
a germ,
like a drop of a candle.
The heart holds me up.
*[‘lestvitsa] stairway to spiritual life
Saint John of Rila (Bulgarian: ????? ???? ??????, sveti Ivan Rilski) (876 – c. 946) was
the first Bulgarian hermit.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_of_Rila
January 7 — The Synaxis of St. John the Forerunner. This is his main feast day, immediately after Theophany on January 6 (January 7 also commemorates the transfer of the relic of the right hand of John the Baptist from Antioch to Constantinople in 956)
My Saint John flow on
Through forest, marsh and town's spread
Tablecloth of stars
Conquistadors gone
The blue herons walk alone
In moonlight's silence
River and lone night
Memory is a wind's hope
Rustling swamps for gold
Let us keep our thoughts
In slow meandering lakes
The salt sea invites
Less Timucuan
Waken find us new remnants
In Ferdinand's dream
Love wilts in salt tears
The heart snakes the bush of grief
Tense as beauty stares.
Waleka, Rio
De Corrientes, Rio
De San Juan, the same
A gaudy green thrill
Peace sanctuary of births
Life from life flowing
Still at Sawgrass breast,
The Seminole blood of strength
I from Afric's tent
We the better ore
Than gleaming figment of fort
Lovers on this shore
Sea abandoned child
Scarred and aching love consoles
Tributary feasts.
O otters swim deep
Beneath the currents I weep
But a shrimp of tear
What is gone is gone
The sun makes still day's new dawn
Oceans carry on
Ships cargo joy fresh
As pines from which warblers sing
Magics of today.
My Saint John flow on
O'er fertile grounds of sweet love
Blooming moonlight still.