Each past, an echo not our own,
worshipped as the most and best.
It's a crowded cemetery, yet alone
we lie when put to the test.
Canyons carved by a vanished rain
will also crumble under their own weight.
Every bend records the strain
of water passing through this date.
Sifting the ashes of a dead fire
where warmth no longer exists.
The remains no longer inspire
as nostalgia grows and persists.
Part Four
One day, I want to be someone's moon - just not one of the stars. No matter how much a star shines, it's never enough. There is only ever a moon, stealing the stars' beloved gaze. Stars are compared and counted. The moon is simply worshipped. Stars ache to outshine, to overcompensate.
But for what? Being a star was always enough. It just needed to be reminded. It just needed to be loved.
Even something remarkable starts to feel invisible next to something that doesn't compete - that simply exists differently. It sits like discomfort, like a jigsaw piece forced into the wrong spot.
Words do not always need to be loud;
they can be quiet,
kept hidden behind the outburst of a closing door,
or the hasty shutting of a window,
or the abrupt pulling away of a chair:
all of which can be called silence.
It has its own comfort zone,
at least for me now,
filled with the lingering air,
as though the air were scented with the perfumes of Arabia,
which could never sweeten Lady Macbeth’s little hand;
yet the perfume was not silent;
it carried loudness within.
Karma returns in silence.
Although the path toward heaven or hell
never remains unheard,
it is a long, hard road until the last dawn.
It is only me, myself, and my karma,
bearing every other entity within me
and negotiating with them
through my only companion: Silence.
I need to be heard in silence,
need to be nurtured in quietness,
need to perform without being noticed,
need to remain steady in my stillness.
I wish to be trapped in silence;
it might be a celestial trap,
where the trap itself is worshipped,
because it is a religion.
In shades of grey
They came. They went
Uneasiness in the dusty rooms
They drank
But something dark stirred
And they noticed
But did not speak of it
As time was marked
He watched the other
Who worshipped the light.
The light that ruled him
That gave them purpose
But also haunted them
In the grey
Taunted by seagulls
Screaming what they did not want to hear
Confirming the horrors
They barely kept down
So they drank
As the madness arrived
The storms and the light
The slave to the light
As it kept revolving
Days they went on
He Who worshipped the light
Could no longer look away
The other, watched
Haunted in the grey
And so they were found
She was known as the girl with the thousand watt smile
And, to catch just a glimpse, I’d walk many a mile.
She could light up a room, the could light up the night.
When she turned on that smile, my poor heart would take flight.
Everyone in the room would be bathed in her glow.
But she wasn’t aware how I worshipped her so.
For, when she turned to me, standing there on my own,
It appeared that the main fuse had suddenly blown
We all live for that hand to hold
Don't we
Silly me
I dream of you tonight
Sending me love letters
Offering advice on how I could be better
Whispering me in the ear I love you
Writting me poetry
You write well
But here you are
Colder than stone
How do I know what is inside you
When you do not show it
You leave me alone
When your presence is worshipped
And I clinge to you
I can not let you go
I can imagine anything
But not, not to see you
So I dance in ice
With frozen angels.
I suppose what I've worshipped all along
is the Soul of All Things:
the miraculous in everything
the beauty that shines out
from the heart of God.
I was lucky enough to see it shining
with limpid beauty in one person
but now I realize
that this is the near intimation
of the Kingdom within and without.
I even have some small realization
that it is my own soul and self;
what I, what we all, are made from.
Keep your eyes peeled and your mind open
for that's the only way to catch sight of it
in yourself and in the world.
You have to be a hunter and gatherer of beauty
in the primitive reality of things.
Christopher M. Swan 2011
(The Shattered Mirror of Avignon)
Five women stand, yet all are broke.
Against a curtain of ochre, blue, and white,
Picasso breaks the world with a savage stroke,
Reordering flesh into jagged, painted night.
Two sit in masks of African heat,
With eyes of daggers, vacant and intense,
Their limbs disjointed, monstrous, yet complete,
A fierce assault on beauty’s old defense.
See the prostitute on the left—archaic, frozen—
A nod to Spain, a shadow of the past,
While her sisters, on the right, remain chosen
To bear the mask, a spell of anger cast.
No sensuous reclining, no soft embrace,
But angularity that confronts the gaze,
Stealing the viewer’s quiet, private space,
And holding him within this broken maze.
They do not smile; they threaten from the canvas,
An “ugly” genius, a scandal wrought in 1907.
Rejecting perspective, a violent impetus,
Turning a brothel into a fragmented heaven.
It is the birth of the machine, the modern, cold,
A mirror shattering the Renaissance view,
Where beauty is not worshipped, but controlled,
And all that was known is made anew.
Now That the End Is Near
The once bare walls, now adorned with signs of my spirit,
Will be bare once again
Four years held here, and now the end is near.
Every laundry pile, every stack of books,
Each crystal placed with care
Will fall into silence.
Now the end is near.
Delicate altars built to honor and hold
Will dissolve,
Making room for a new season’s bloom.
Now the end is near.
The dim-lit living room,
Where Matt Maeson’s verses danced
And Taylor Swift’s voice filled the air,
Where we twirled around to TV Girl
Will stiffen into stillness.
Now the end is near.
The bedroom, where we once worshipped each other,
Where life was created
Now folds inward
With each box packed full of memory.
A soul remembered,
A self once shattered.
But here I healed.
Here, I was reborn.
Now the end is near.
And yet
My new sunroom, a 70s fever dream,
Breathes the colors of beginning.
Here, gratitude floods in
For the space that once cradled me
When I could barely hold myself.
79.
Wrong Turn
On the time I left the straight path
Unfathomed anxiety teemed my heart
Ever doubted the resolve of my brain
If it would delight or harness some pain
The only sure thing was that
I only earned another's wrath
When from discontent
Formed I blemish intent
I became a speck
On the eyes of the meek
Abnormal fantasy
Drained all sanity
Filled with derision
To a righteous person
Worshipped childhood idol
Whom I thought would heed my call
Thought I'd found a savior
Who would do me a favor
Upon turning away
From his opponent's way
Onwards orange avenue
Belching fumes towards yellow hue
Traffic disturbed
Many eyes to me turned
On wrong turn entrapped
By stupid mishap
Was towed from the highway
After causing disarray
In proper seclusion
The transgressor was thrown
Behind the shadows anguishing
No orange attending
In the end it was yellow
Who ransomed ex-fellow.
-11/20/2011
(Dumarao)
*Yellow Poems Collection
You ruled the world with iron and lies.
Five hundred years of noise,
five hundred years of pain.
You called your conquest civilization,
your theft, discovery,
your cruelty, progress.
You built kingdoms upon stolen bones,
cathedrals upon blood and grief.
You crowned yourselves gods,
and forced the world to kneel.
But what goes up must come down.
Even gods fall.
The scripture you gave by force
now testifies against you —
“God cannot be mocked.”
You shall reap what you sow.
The harvest of sorrow draws near.
Your towers of deceit will tremble.
Your gold will turn to dust.
Your children will hunger.
Your nations will divide.
And those you once enslaved
will feed you crumbs,
as the wheel turns full.
The color you worshipped
will become a mark of shame.
Your arrogance will echo
as laughter across the Earth.
And when the new world asks,
“Why has Europe fallen?”
the prophets will answer —
They harvested what they planted.
In the society where holiness is worshipped,
And independent progressive thinking is condemned.
Be the fire of positivity, illuminating in all its glory,
Strong enough to burn any shackles of bigotry.
In the society, where mythologies are adored,
But people who actually follow the principles are abhorred.
Be the sun that overshadows all sanctimony,
Magnanimous enough in soul to establish harmony.
In the society where people are reduced to mere numbers,
And forcibly caged in narrow walls of encumbers.
Be the phoenix that shatters the glass walls of subjugatory,
Uniting them all to form an eternal, unyielding potential sanctuary.
In the society, where toxicity and oppression have become the norm,
And vital nutrition of the spirit is treated like utter luxury.
Be strong enough to uphold truth and demolish the demon in every form,
Giving voice to millions and saving faith in nature's divine perennialities.
We know the kind of person you are
Always wanting to do something new
Especially if no one ever did it before
You know the sort of things I mean
If it is done with no common sense
Or if it will probably get you hurt
That is just the thing you are looking for
If you accomplish doing it
You will be a hero worshipped by all
If you can't get it done and everyone laughs
Be the bigger person and laugh with them
It would be a whole lot more fun if you did
© Poem – XXIII/IX/MMXXV
LRET
We know the kind of person you are
Always wanting to do something new
Especially if no one ever did it before
You know the sort of things I mean
If it is done with no common sense
Or if it will probably get you hurt
That is just the thing you are looking for
If you accomplish doing it
You will be a hero worshipped by all
If you can't get it done and everyone laughs
Be the bigger person and laugh with them
It would be a whole lot more fun if you did
© Poem – XXIII/IX/MMXXV
LRET
All the same
of evils fame
hate, murder and genocide
lies, white supremacists in ties
They do not use one gun
nor kill one son
with their weapons
they murder in the millions
Now Charlie was full of hate
no immigrants
laughed at Palestinians state
blacks and women better know their place
When thousands of children slaughtered
he loved the blood of fathers daughters
He worshipped himself
Jesus never in his equations
He worshipped only genocidal nations
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