-- index of poems --
a night story in day
sunset on black water
dark
chapter 24 - moonlit sea
wind chant
just met you
a poem for biking
ttc
of vesna and i
and the music plays
early morning
summer by the see
chapter xix - the door of sighs
between frontiers
shudder
in the hearts of us
a dream within a dream
a blessing
observed
between the lands of the living
chapter 17 - the dogs
two reflections
snow
dream of the lake
i want to live
the colour of love
winter
fragile
the storm
fortune
beneath this bridge
this hope
nephilim wandering
the otherworld
loneliness comes
moonlight ghosts
sarcophagus
in cardiff
berlin
paris
yolanna
skye
with vesna at long lake
process
we
whisper
black birds
post-modern solopsistic idiot
moth
akasha
don't blink
melting in warm
apology
sunny veki in january
in niagara on the lake
man in cage hears bird
impressions of a park
still life
in a letter to lib
rain
snakes
for the minister of leaves
struggle
in bliss
number
chair-top
morning rising
chapter 1 - fool became the magus
years twilight
the grave that carries joy <<----- ** favourite **
in the centre of night
pyramid
frontiers too
a night story in day
so he sat down one night, and cried. cried where the mist was
lying like lovers entwined. while it lasts. the raven tilted his
eyes at him side-wise, shook the world, and it turned with a nod
of it's head. round the pine tree. tears trickled hot, like rain
swept by the autumn wind. where did they go? is was there nothing
left? he asked the sky. and silent she replied with silence. the
presence of the void comforting, and emptied him both at once
ain soph. so the moon came down and gave a caress. that lifted
his heart and he went inside to where there wood was, wishing for
warm, and stone in logs, with fire, and chatter of familiar
voices from people who were not him.
voices murmur in the foreground.
disembodied he watches as they pass through he walks by
"is it cool out"
"i think i'll retire early abend heute"
"could you pass the milk. oh, sorry, and a napkin too"
distantly near, the sounds were comforting, yet disturbing.
sister, mother, father, from here, there and manchester. the cat
was sleeping, lying stretching stretched on the hearth, and
blazing fire. cozy snug in spots. catherine knocked at the window
for twenty years. it was a ghost of his mind, from he read. the
dream-reality became part of the scene of now.
he paused, and responded, "not tonight, danke, guten nacht.".
steps. and i'm walking. he is me; we. pilgrim in this maze of
words, he
noticed the dust by the floorboards, and the curl of the paper at
the trim, the electric lights are harsh, so lights a candle when
he steps through, and there in the darkened lightened cocoon, the
room. he enters, and i wake. up - but that's tommorow's morning.
then is now, and the next step takes him into the room for the
night. blink the eyes, goodnight.
taking off his socks, and tosses them precise. wishing for not
aloneness. the voices continue their murmur. and lull like water,
punctuated by the odd distinguishable word.
"tommorow"
"so"
"if you"
"could you"
undoing the buckles, tin and leather. he wishes it were another.
didn't he quite get the one he wanted. undone. standing free and
then the shirt. head over in. flirting with the shirt.
throwing from exhaustion. brother just came in. "hullo" and clink
of tea.
pulling covers over, and so what is, then?
day thinking over, and that's where we begin; to
the candle, the candle, loath to take the eyes from the candle.
in the back of things, always a fear of that reality might just
be a façade of some greater dream. have you not had this
reluctance of to not want to look away from things. what if they
resist the second glance? as if reality might betray itself at
any moment. so he clinging, clung to every moment. to dread
lying, he knew he must die, probably not now, or even years from
now, but eventually. only then would be the union with the whole,
this constant tension between the ego and the mystic impels.
space dissolved, and there was no more there, there was only here
like the million diamonds arranged diagonally on that wallpaper
stars they were; arranged and holding itself, a single note, an
eye opening, a candle holding, and waves rushing in shape towards
itself.
we were climbing stairs, they spiraled over each other, returning
to the same place, but one level up. twisting intwo;
and then stand to remember those who died, i am so saddened for
their sorrow, god must cry a lot (this song plays an important
writing on a wall, i urgently try to write it down (wish i could
remember, the words were clear not long left)) while ducking,
dodging.
something about ignoring the bullets? no, it was more
than a passage, a lady, at it's beginning.
next. (there is no next only the eternal now.)
you can never arrive. st. augustine forgot what time it is when
you asked.
to arrive is to die (static = dead; to possess a mystery is to
kill it. the butterfly died as it alighted in mine hands.) turn your head.
absolute and not alternate ?!?!my house is full of owls.
yesterday, then and tommorow all happen now, see in all ways at once.
life is intensifying. practice thinking thoughts not yet cloaked with words
and that's where we begin, i dreamt last night (when!?), voices
murmur, tea and clink of,
and i remember only the smallest part, but here's what's left,
before the fading and forgetting:
forests (life? the forest of us.)
then in lake, primal ocean, waves, two, intersecting
(semi-perpendicular), creating constructive interferences, crest
rushes towards me, over me.
big wave just abend ganz weiß. heute morgens gesternwelt.
waves rush over, waves are sky, foam flecked clouds
from sea, chaotic, turbulent, flow, immersed, surround, to rigid,
hierarchical, layers, necessarily so, self organised, the tower,
solid, an apartment, dwelling, we found our way in, through a
secret door.
guardian, someone, protects this place from discovery (but it is
we) looks for us, to stop and kill
"life is an illusion, but one we must take very seriously."
(huxley)
the universe is made of folds, life folded arounds it's form.
then a stairwell in an apartment from childhood
different floors, different levels
the stairs go up;
round and round, in spirals
each level transcending the place before it, but one higher and
more focused. the cat was sleeping, lying stretching stretched on
the hearth, and blazing fire. focused/ing fire, cozy snug in
spots. catherine knocked at the window for twenty years. then and
when are now. dark night of the
then in a place that's highly physical, concrete, and organised
to a grid plan (modern design, not rigid, but-and open-concept,
with different levels of floors) where the mist was lying like
lovers entwined, it lasts.
there the guardian is trying to shoot us with guns, they miss,
but spray of bullets is deadly.
there's an important writing on a wall, i urgently try to write
it down (wish i could remember, the words were clear not long
left) while ducking, dodging.
something about ignoring the bullets? no; it's more
than a passage, a lady, at it's beginning.
the passage lined with big people, they threaten, spaced close
apart, with machine guns, and bloody bayonets on the end.
so i ask her, "so this leads to brahmin pure existence?"
she grew terrible, and frightful to behold
then aha! now i know why they call this the world of illusion.
i walk through them, as if they are shadows. their bayonets, and
bullets, and bodies do not block me. i am their phantom.
to kill passion is to know passion
eye join into the one., which is all, of who all this is the
emanation from, of. breath which is we. heaving sighs in
exhalation; breathing
my companion, she follows, and exclaims "if they didn't harm him,
they won't harm me." and follows me to go through.
she is killed instantly.
forgettingforgettingvoices from people who were not him.
she is killed instantly;
forgotten. is where we begin.
chapter 0 - the world became the fool
dream boldly, 'ere the night shall take us all, knew it all and
tried to explain, but got bogged down in the details, had to
create the world to tell it, the story changes every moment, got
bored knowing, and so forgot it all into innocence again, it is
was too much, that lucidity sank." the one behind the camera
wished to film and be filmed. we needed two; the first
difference; perception.
"could you repeat that please?" she asked.
but the purple raven crooked his head side-wise, around jumped,
and would not.
"the centre is here!" he said. insisting
i must find another end of things
as i was coming awake this morning, impressions of out my window,
i was, it was then, past, back then, now, voices, street bustle
noises, and the cascading notes down on each other of, on, the
bells in the square, i heard them, the window, i'm coming more
awake, oh, i'm here, it's not when where i thought i was, it's
1994? what am i doing here? i'm in scott street, st. catharines,
my name is john? i'm here now. awake. awake?
the hymn came through the door; "be still and know, that i am
god"
"no! it's here too! and there and there and there."
perched upon, "not the tree, but the tree." (at wood) look. see!?
it's branches and envelopes. he started chanting:
where the night is like light
black sun in a white world
shining forth dark passing the abyss
casting light shadows and so you think the centre is you? all
things
only in death will you join it like so perhaps, he knew he must
die, because osiris was a black god you raven. all voices; one
voice even the rocks will sing out and be be still and know
chapter 3
on day the before, awakening, and this is not the story, who
listens? the question was written on a small card, lying on the
table, horizontally - not vertically. it asked himself; "so, who
was the [little] girl?"
"solopsist!" the other man uttered with rage, as he furiously
wiped feces from his left shoe, which he had evidently just
stepped in, while he overheard the question being bent. with a
toss he heaved his head high, and uttered, "the effect changes
the cause!"
the land where he grows poison berries, and he advises to the
apprentice: "never trust them completely, for they'd just as soon
poison you for their fancy." passing by giggling apparitions,
"surely you jest." now, said
said the wise woman, "i have something very important to ask you;
there is a small lake which is draining, and the people of the
lake are afraid, for the lake gives them life by it's water, what
would you do?"
"i would stop up the flow of water from the lake to keep it from
draining further." s/he/i replied.
"that would be very unwise; for if you stopped up the lake, it
would become a stillwater, and the people would die from disease
bred there. if you wish to keep the lake full, you must make a
new channel of water in, to keep the lake filled. the lake is a
flame. to say or restrict is to kill."
"but from where would the water come?"
"from the spring in each of us. we touch not with our outsides,
but from through our insides. there are some things, that to
keep, you must give away. there's always water rushing; be a
channel. restrict nothing."
she was killed instantly.
sunset on black water
july 30, 1992 at long lake lodge
sunset comes forward
and paints the luminescent sky
over the mountains
lining the waters that dry
stand.
i am standing in love
during that ephemeral time between
when the world meets the divine
take a step back and brace.
lean forward and breath.
black water deep and pure
clear as ebony
plunge, i am rushing through the wind
but already done
the water closes it's door above me.
i'm in the deep
but already rising
the light swirls like incense
a dazzling mandala of sun in water
breaking the surface i swim.
blackwater before me
blackwater around me
soothing deep and pure
only before me is sun,
reaching her arms
across the water,
swimming into her coolness
breeze.
arms part in front of me
causing smooth
that ripples aside
into the filigree of chaos
i journey home.
dark
may 30, 1993
she enters me
through a split in my head
her tongue running through
my passages greedily
sucking out the marrow
holding my wood staff
agasha
and it falls into two
like snakes writhe
and swim into water
to wrap around her
they will protect me now,
suck on your nipple (mine)
with a bite of fear
and a shock of treachery
and then your face
covered over with the
drips of an imbecile
your face melting.
i gouge the snake from the corner
of my eye,
and a tear of blood
comes sad.
chapter 24, 1990, september - moonlit sea
and i found a little girl, whose eyes were made of moonlight.
moonlight and saddness.
"who are you?" i asked
and she replied; "i am sorrow. for i am made of all the tears
cried by those whose love is lost." she said.
"all those who've lost their love may look to me."
then i saw that she grew and grew, and the tears washed over me,
like the sea.
wind chant
october 2, 1992
the wind in the trees
is a breeze if you please
and the wind from the south
will kiss you on the mouth
and the cats catch the rats
which scurry underground
and the wind will sing
and dance about
with fingers in your hair;
it will toss about
and dances with the leaves
in the trees
that sit so stout
and the tree wears a crown
that looks on out
with a ray he will say
what are you about?
and the ray is gold
and it shines so bright
from sun to moon
when it's chilly out
and it's sunny out
with the leaves in the trees
where baby looks about
baby's whistling out
to the mother
who does flutter
in the trees with the ray
and everyone sees
in the breeze
while the cat takes a nap
and purrs like the furs
of a call to us all
in us all
is a breeze
but no-one sees
the cat eat the rat
for they do not know
where to find them.
and the leaves do flutter
at the sound of the mother
and when rain is coming
and the sun starts sunning
and the wind does chatter
to voices that matter
and the sheep start spinning
to the wind that's winding
from the north is blowing
birds in an arrow
and even that sparrow
twitters the day
away.
all day the chatter
to the cats do matter
and the seagulls floating
in a rain that's doting
to fill the air
with those wonderful ribbons
that the crown starts singing
out of colours springing
between the twilight rays.
and the dogs are howling
and the music's growling
where the water's flowing
into the glowing
and the mist is twinkling
while it does it's sprinkling
and the flowers are thinking
into the colours
that they do wear,
where the cat is napping
and the cat is scrying
until she's flying,
and baby is crying
until the mother
comes with another
and the cat was laughing
and everything's merry
as though that fairy
did kiss the moon.
and then the shower
and the fish
and the flower
chuckled til the light of noon.
and the fluffiest rats
took off their hats
and the merriest berries
no longer do tarry,
for the fairies and the birds
and the rat and the cat
and the fish and the bird
did eat them.
and now the swallow
the wind does follow
and the sun is setting
into it's bedding
and the wind does chatter
'what is the matter?'
for i'll be waking soon.
just met you
may 19, 1992
just met you
when the moon was ripe
your sleek body covered in wet
black cotton lace; flutters like bats
standing in the fountain.
tranquillised by the night in your kiss.
slowly, erotically,
run my fingers
down your spine.
wet covered;
blood coloured;
lights beat to a throb
in rhythm of veins.
sweating melts the ice-locked.
kissing on the beach
with sand in our mouths
between kisses and bites
sucking like desperation
the sticky sea air in winter
like bare branches;
your neck
exposed.
you bite and you laugh.
just met you
and dead
forever.
a poem for biking
august 18, 1988 pour hélène
power manifesting itself in circles
it is just you and the wind
the bike and the road.
the sun is a circle of power,
and around the pedal goes.
powerful, passionate red beams
out through the misty blue hues
of this world
the sunset
is perfect.
another stroke, and the calves tighten
the sweat and the passion
pushes her forward, through
the misty hues of this world
the feeling
is perfect.
i am by a lake, and there
is the reflection of the trees,
the flowers, the clouds,
the sunset.
the water is still,
it is so so calm, tranquil and pure.
the cool breeze - a sigh
fry breath it's surface
my mind is the water
with reflections of you.
your eyes, your lips,
your legs, your breaths,
your smile.
and my mind is calm, til thoughts of you;
powerful and passionate
form ripples on the water;
drop.
powerful, passionate, these thoughts of you
the sunset is perfect
and another stroke,
the calves tighten,
the sun is a circle of power,
and round the pedal goes.
t.t.c.
may 29, 1990
through these grey veins
daily.
a hundred thousand people flow
everyday
a little bit of death
closes in on our hearts
in the soot of the underground
til soon
you feel the darkness
has shaded your skin
like all those around you
and you long for the few seconds of sun
when you cross the d.v.p.
daily
you must drink the smell
of milk gone sour
everyday
the closure of common
strangers crowds upon you.
of vesna and i
november 22, 1992
smiles like squirrels burrowing through
in a passageway
dark so you can see the other side
where androgynous friends shoot at the other
switch
and rejoice their misses
then carry a little child who says
she was carrying red, said
the little girl,
"as she wandered through the room."
and a fluffy spider
that walks like a book flipping pages
from that end to here (hear)
and the girl who was carrying red
gives me a book
in which, vesna has written
the most beautiful poem to me,
which i read, and awaken.
and the words are fading
like gossamer memories, leaving
rainbows fireworking inside
inside
the most
beautiful book is written;
"he loves me,
though i may not love him."
and the music plays
march 17, 1993 - at a throwing muses concert
within every person
a bird, a fish,
a frog, a snake,
a cat.
and to which one comes
most often to the surface
what broods just below the surface?
water, warm
mud oozy bottom, silt, soft.
so we're all in this large smoky dark room [cave].
they say there's a concert here tonight
the musicians will play
and turn off the night
into mist
into nothingness
it becomes
the music starts
and the world around fades
we are left
with no numbered days
we are here
the dispossessed
we are here
is there nothing left?
smile and symbol
serpents whisper in the air
ending at a cigarette tip
exhales
squinting into a yawn
back into the cavern of the air
stale and glorious, close your
eyes, don't smell
and it's fresh
stinging your eyes.
he and the cat
walk into the room
it's silent there
here
his head turns
so the cat
heads turn also
synchronous
because this is a dream
and he is the cat
indians say dreams are
more real than life.
the music plays
so the body sways
into the rays
red and wave
away
flag of my soul
kiss my lips
my burning lips
burning with oil
bubbling with blisters
drink the cup
which overflows.
that was sweet.
the lips were only imagined
singed, for they are perfect
in form. is lovely
like rodents
snails crawl slowly
across your cheek.
drone.
drone.
drone.
the music is ecstatic
while it hides in a corner;
insistent, persistent.
pulsing it, gyrations
soothing to the heat
one.
they are one now.
where do they know?
what broods just below the surface?
laughter?
or sinister?
that man sitting in the corner
old man.
wrinkled in face.
what is he doing here?
what's that look in his eye?
what's that stare?
then a smile cracks his lip
one corner lifts the air
the smile
his eyes slightly crazied
someone said "he's flipped".
he knows the secret secret now.
have you stirred the waters;
how does it feel?
to know the beast within;
is it purring?
swimming
or drowning?
did it fly away?
deluding, diluting, every bit of each
die the either/or
they make each other and!
both three. be3!
so alive.
the music is ended
the concert's over
but
there's still no there!
they all think they're going home now
but there's nowhere out to go!
looking for an in.
only mists and vapours.
so they go back and sit
where they were
and weep, and talk,
and ask what happened.
time passes
but it never did, it all happens
simultaneously
we only have to wait for it
because we can't take it all in at once
like it really is.
that's the illusion.
space curved in on itself. and time.
stretches curved like mirrors.
and time.
stretches like fallopian tubes
delivering the to the connection
of life
this place
this space
is a meeting place
the cave
the womb
is the same
let's meet there
and see what happens
because you can never know
the path changes itself
like the space between
like the path is all the places
between the trees.
so they stop and stare
into that air
that commensurate vapour
and all things that seem
that solid one day have been;
sleep
and they eat
and what becomes?
what is.
in the morning
they awaken
she has thought a flower
and he a hush
him a dagger
and her a thrush.
the stage became a tree
and the chairs all became toads
the instruments became flowers and wind
the strings became vines
which sang out of tune
some of them got twisted
and turned into two
and so were the people;
the kind ones became translucent
and the unknown ones became free
the shameless (but not them)
became executioners
and the thoughtful ones birds
this frustrated them greatly
for the birds weren't big enough for the racks.
now in the vapour
and in the cave
here. it effects itself too
when they wake up
they all happen
the things they thought
the dreams they dared
became.
early morning
july 3, 1993
i awoke
at the time when the sun wakes
and the world seems
out the window
were many white trees
and each of them
were bare in the breeze,
yet covered in black birds
full - like they were leaves.
the sounds of the birds
made a great song
and each sound, though silent
quivered me strong
with rushes and thrushes
through my mind.
the aura of sunrise
crawled up the wall
and over the dresser
and into the hall
the brilliance of being shone through me
for the ephemeral time
as i wakened
my eyes grew back asleep
and woke again later
into this dreaming world;
now only glimpses between cracks
did you see that shadow rush?
summer by the see
july 7, 1993 halifax
her eyes smile like
clouds in a dramatic sky
manifesting in mirrors
moves.
silk ripples on an open sea
calm as death
running over me.
mists.
mists of love
cloud like fog
making ghost ships
lowly they moan
and sigh out their years
it's a wonderful day
chapter xix - lillith opens the door of sighs
the broken songs
of a million sighs.
rush. weary
on this world. oh yes, i'm quite aware of your condition, for
these are the phantastes. on this cloudy day, the sun shines over
us. recognition and liberation are simultaneous.
between frontiers
january 17, 1992
between the edges of night and day
between the borders where the twilight lays
between shadows
there haunting
there running, drifting
there where snow drifts like fluffy snakes across the road
and leaves scuttle like creatures across the way
with nervous twinkles,
confidence
shyly mysterious
intertwining
knowledge, hero, myth,
warmth, psyche, and unknown
luminescent whispers into iridescent thoughts
misty roses blooming through
shadows, in the halls of childhood.
and time;
gathers like dawning
before a new time of beginnings
of endings
of endless lives
loves
comes softly, like panthers feet
to patter on this mortal coil
flow.
like clouds billowing in their dance
creating their collapses and renew.
see? life runs in rivulets
sadness quickens the joy,
tempers, deepens its glistening
where the sparkles and sighs lay,
sleeping?
helplessly intertwingled cats
brooding through doors
doors revealing destinies of
ephemeral galloping colours,
across the wayside seaside
splashing through exhilarating crests
winds of sands through the nostrils
revelling wild and free in details
too plain and vast to ponder.
a tryst between fey lovers.
at once inside the outside
through the door and in the without
fractals coil through
joining separations
belonging, reckoning and listening
singing into creation
spirits dancing out their part
between the lines of this life
between and in the angles of the earth
between frontiers
life.
shudder
june 1, 1992
whatever has become of me?
the youth once young and free
stands now in front.
of me; decayed.
the pure water sings
so easily is stained
by compromise
skeletons in forgotten closets
rattle their bones
and raise a dust
the indulgence of a lonely desire
like mud.
the pureness now only longed for
the innocence flitted away
this fiendish flesh
covers my core
of naiveté
my countenance bears monstrosity
i lift a sagging scaled paw
to cover my eyes
which bleating red
i cried to do good
my heart of light
is covered in scales
the boyhood hasn't died
it only lays hidden inside
behind animosity
and there he fights
with small wooden sword
he pokes and he prods
at remorse
and cries;
anew! renew!
nobleness is eroding;
every lie
every hurt
every slighting
every shirk
encrusts him a little more
will he win?
he looks out
i look in the mirror
and i shudder.
in the hearts of us
june 17, 1992
in the middlemost part
of the factories and decay
roundabout where
the festers lay
an island of water
where ships lie in bays
acrid air that chokes and flays
stings the land, and rots the way.
there.
here are the swans
alighting like ripples
sending the lilies
scented nudges pushing away
like the merest breath
of us.
swans and lilies
lilies and swans
lie in the middlemost part of us.
a dream within a dream
may 7, 1992 in memory of edgar allan poe
"all we do or seem is but a dream within a dream"
dreams fall like snowflakes and melt
as they touch my tongue.
turning, they pan
left to right
right to left.
pirouettes;
like gusts of air
bubbled in the deeps of water
like smoke
twisting and flying
towards the surface
of life.
the other side glistens
with light filtering through
the collage of waves.
gleaming like a jewel
that melts into two,
and sings into one.
a blessing
april 13, 1992 - for my sister diane, on her birthday
i want you to have a feeling.
a feeling like when it is night.
the air is delectable
and you sit by a lake
softly the breezes
ripple the image
of her moon, in fullness.
translucent and warm.
with shimmers.
crickets chirp soft
like ivory, carved.
with ebony bows.
feel beneath you
as the earth sighs
in slumber the grass
spins out its dew.
this is what i give to you.
to know.
tranquillity.
observed
june 12, 1992
breath the silence
in the tangles of your hair
blown like the spray
of dawn.
moonsets
sunsets
over the waterfall
creeping without listening
sings until it falls
watching.
they are watching me
silently they stare
and wonder,
wonder if i'm aware.
between the lands of the living
april 7, 1992
the wind blows hurriedly
a wakening cry
through desolate lands.
caught in a tree
bare as bone
shreds of cloth writhe
a long tormented stream
snaps like a wraith
whips
to their frenzied scream
dance in the wind
caught.
to the wind
says it's prayers
to the wind
crying
mercy.
chapter 17 fundamentalist and postmodernist dogs.
sought the light; i had it, but when i tried to say, i forgot the
words. i looked away, and caught sight with the corner of mine
eye; pointing, i said "look!" but the dog was too busy smelling
my finger, and mother kirk was too busy crying "jesus jesus".
they are alike in this respect. i looked straight at it, and it
died; it grew again elsewhere, just out of sight.
two reflections
february 14, 1992
i)
when you ate my heart
with your stare;
love's shadow flickered
growing strong, but
then goes out
like
a whimper
ii)
when she raped my heart of love
inside me
the land died.
amputated trees
with things caught in the leaves.
dead trees,
like the land.
whipping and wailing
tatters and tatters
of cloth in the breeze
of death light and despair,
a wasteland of no ease.
snow
february 16, 1992
nature's filigree
lacing branches
that sleep and renew
ice that ribbons the glass
coils and look through
mists frozen in swirls
as every snowdrop
in a tiny world
blooms.
dream of the lake
may 25, 1991 lewis had an island
alacrity coats my mind
with longing,
cascading colours; shadows
of music
play the cacophony of life.
glistening; eversweet waters
fall cool through the air
subtle hues of vast cosmic voices
too silent to hear
billowing fissures
in caves like cool dreams
shades of life colours
drench every pore,
and creep to the inside
of my outsides
i seek you.
i want to live
may 10, 1991
i'm swimming through an emotion
i'm covered in warm
and breathing liquid
flying, floating
bracing for the coming storm
waves rush over
waves are sky
with foam flecked clouds,
i want to die
i'm swimming through an emotion
i'm flying through fear
i'm covered in confusion
this hope is this fear.
waves rush over
waves are sky
with foam flecked clouds
i want to die
the colour of love
december 15, 1990
i)
black is the colour of love
and grey is a shade of sorrow
reach up and touch the sky
that lies in her eyes.
see.
she stands and prays
she.
claims to be wild.
you can't tame a starchild.
you can't claim the starchild.
ii)
i have a feeling
this is a mirror.
laughing and crying
living and dying
you live in umbra
i gave the sun love
so, i want to be
just like you.
it said.
winter
march 19, 1991
winter comes
and winter lays
til almost the memory
of green and living things
is gone.
skeletons consume me,
and the trees rattle their bones.
all the earth lies in wait
beneath its shroud of snow.
fragile
june 24, 1992
the beauty
is fragile
the flower
is not.
beauty is
the essence
of the
flower.
the storm
september 24, 1990 - port dalhousie, st. catharines
the water is deep
endless hunger
the waves seeth in
chaotic lights
darkness broods
and smothers
the water, and
sometimes the waves
reflect their menace
and come to chase me
flood.
flood all over.
the place i stand,
i'm walking.
on the rocks, and i press
my face into the wind
and revel in its fierceness
as the spray stings my face
and i feel the violence in it's kiss
it's eyes blink with lightening
and it's roar whispers
'i love you'
in my ear.
* someone once said they thought
this poem was violent, but i was
puzzled, for i don't see it that way.
i see now that externally considered,
this poem could seem that way.
for here i stand and know, that for
all the flashing, it will not harm me;
it cannot, there is no fear. otherwise
one would be cowaring instead of
reveling. one must consider that
when a roar whispers, it must become
gentle in its very approach.
i wanted to portray how a great
fierce raging also had another side--
the still in the eye of the storm
is the unsaid counterpart here.
fortune
august 1990
i)
with a swat i dealt its cruel fate
i severed his abdomen
from his head and wings
the top of him
flew away
and there,
with little bits of white gut
the rest of his body lay.
in a horror he reeled
to come back to the part
of his body that remained.
frantically he probed
the bits of strewn guts
which were his.
the horror
of being
separated from himself
taking hold of his entire mind
with a clear and panicked clarity!
til i laid him to rest.
ii)
today i saw a bird
a small and little sparrow
in the middle of the road
between the third and fourth
lanes of the busy highway
i travelled on.
just for one moment;
an ephemeral time
our eyes contacted
and i felt its plight
and echoed the fear
in its eyes;
i wanted to stop
to save this bird
which surely soon would die.
for it couldn't fly,
but then i had already passed on by,
with nowhere to go.
beneath this bridge
june 23, 1990
the cars stream by
fifteen feet away
ten thousand of them daily
the people walk above
four thousand of them
everyday
hundreds of people pass by
in high-speed trains,
daily;
and never do they notice
the leprechaun watching
from beneath this flower.
this hope
april 1, 1990
i'm not living
i'm just existing
a ghost haunting
this body of mine
wandering the memory halls
of
my love.
when it fails;
it always does.
my heart starts to crust
once more.
(a little thicker)
purity and innocence
rot away from me
into dangling despondency
i fear i may never love again
for all's been spent.
it's the decay of love
this hope is this fear.
nephilim wandering
january 17, 1990
laughing at stars
they are the nephilim
inside of us!
their fate is folly
and pride is their joy.
wandering through our lives.
casually strong
they are the nephilim
inside of us!
haunting our religion
the meek are strong
wandering through our lives.
the otherworld
september 12, 1990
the otherworld
is a reflection
peering between my mind
longing desire
creeps through these
mental chains
i feel like milk
and my tongue is shaped like ice
and my bones sound like love
wrapped in fur.
if we are brothers
where are our minds?
existential lives
make up our minds
and
where do they go?
mother kirk
if you've got to know
there's no reason
for them to give.
loneliness comes
july 24, 1991 - ottawa
when loneliness comes
in a city of lovers
bitter-sweet thoughts
caress my mind
and it rains through
where the moonlight shines
on a sunny day
between the mists
of my memories.
moonlight ghosts
may 19, 1992
there is a river
flowing deep and wide
a giant slumbering
heaving with great sighs
currents slow and strong
with willows at her side.
this river is at night
with the moon
full on her brow
reflecting on it's deep blackness.
on this river
is a raft
and on this raft a man
aged and grey
like the morning will
someday.
and on this raft
with the man is a mare
pale as pearl
silently they glide
opaque and thin
then slowly.
they fade away.
sarcophagus
august 16, 1992, liverpool
dead bodies
like abandoned homes
of great men
sleep their endless
sleep in this
immortal place
that whistles like
the ancient stones
that rise to the heavens
a dischordal tone
shrieks through the
music of gothic spaces
and shadowed vaults
and echoes
in the inner caverns
of their minds.
in cardiff
august 22, 1992
and as i walk towards
the sound of the cathedral
a solitary leaf flutters down
narrow cobblestone streets,
my footsteps punctuated by
the cascading sound
of bells.
five notes descend on each other
echoing the desolation of
the twilight tower, silhouetted
alone against the opalescent sky.
in the sunset, i proceed.
a cat wanders towards me,
stepping stealthily between
the edges of a fence,
i call to it, and it slips
between the filigree,
and into the shadows
of a shrubbery.
berlin
september 3, 1992
i glide, i float, i spin, i twist
through the currents of life around me.
people come before me
but do not enter in. precisely;
voices and noises cover the surface
but the reality of the past
simmers beneath;
the city groans
with a smile, and a light winks
out once, at the end, and
so they struggle on.
and as the city dances in the night
around me,
the skull of the cathedral
yawns before me
beckoning
sadness gushes into my being
for the sake of those here before;
i've crossed through the gate.
paris
september 9, 1993 - en montmarte
the enchanted grime of paris
hangs beneath the moon;
in suspended motion,
can you see her swoon?
colours of musicians
bleed into the air
motion flows as
artists paint the sky
with the city below.
an ancient style moves deftly
in the streets, and
graces the motions
of those whom it meets.
the cafés sway
with wine and flowers,
those with whom
the bustle will entreat;
the proud gaiety
of it's liberty.
yolanna
august 14, 1992, ft. william train station
in the heat of our argument
we did not notice
the one who sat beside us
whose face was serene
as she smiled like a queen
of peace.
she interjected between
our outbursts of mean
and rippled the station
to calm.
unpretentious and polite
we never knew quite
from where she had been.
i take care of children
she said
and with a wave of her head
she left in the place
a clean.
from south africa sent
to heal the rent
and never to be seen again.
sitting among us
are a thousand angels.
skye
august 16, 1992
over a thousand hills lies skye
in the whispers of a loch
in the echo of a stream
there lays the emerald green
crowned with mists of gold
and lavender smells unseen
sigh to the sky,
where lies my queen
between the meadows
of an ancient dream.
with vesna at long lake
july 17, 1993 - with respects to emily dickinson
a certain slant of light
reflecting in motion
sunlight off the water
dangles into the air
on the underside of shade
upon me
cool rock.
process
august 9, 1993
the dinergy of being
makes, become.
the golden make spirals
twisting
falling
riding the wave
in asymmetrical balance
precariously perched
and falling over itself
forever
like the dance of cream
in tea,
so life strives
towards the imperfect-ideal.
the strange attractor
undone.
we
september 7, 1991
alone in a world without fear
crying on a road without tears,
we are the lost ones
that have been found.
lurking in the corners
of our minds.
haunting iridescent shadows;
laughter
running through
the halls of childhood.
whisper
june 15, 1992
my mouth whispers
my mind shouts
a seeming brook
trickles out
leaks out
of a raging torrent
from a whisper
it echoes
and answers
a flooding torrent
drowns it out
to a scream
the softness
the harshness
the strength
fights the strength
snuffs it out
convictions
winds about
words.
my mouth whispers
and my mind shouts.
blackbirds
january 26, 1993
five blackbirds
four, chasing the fifth.
two blackbirds
mated for love make
three
blackbirds, sitting in a row.
one blackbird
sitting in a pie
in the branches of a scattered tree.
branches bare
branches leaved
branches free
branches moved by wind
strengthens them
you know.
post-modern, solopsistic idiot
september 7, 1993
this text is not the text
for you are the subject of its object.
in my dream, i dreamt
that i was telling this to you.
you aren't really reading this,
you're only dreaming that
you're reading this,
and you are trying to tell yourself
through your dream
that you wrote this to you.
this text is no text
for your reading it is the subject
of its writing.
you are reading
it about it.
you are reading this
as something that i wrote,
but if i wrote this
and i am you to you
then you are writing this
as you read this.
in your dream, you dreamt
that you were telling this to me,
because if you read this,
you know that
i am you.
moth
august 20, 1992
flies to the flicker
at the back of the cave.
to the left
is the exit
in the darkness.
akasha
january 13, 1993
i recorded the 45
at 33 speed
it sounds better slowed down
then you can feel in
every note
ride inside the music
at one with the rhythm
vibrating the quick notes, slowly
comb the spiders
helplessly tangled
in the tatters of your ragged hair
dusty nests divide
spill earth thick with roots
mottled masses heaving sobs
we tore apart
your beautiful ego shines
like the sun
eclipsed in penumbra of days
drifting like celestial quicksand
eating the floating time
bent in ways that left too soon.
don't blink
march 1, 1993, for lib
would you like a secret?
well, it's between the lines
up in the air and into the breeze
run through quick kittens
into the sea
quickly, before it stops
one, two, three
close your eyes and feel the outside
begin to burn
like roasted peanuts
inside; feel the glow grow through
your eyelids
the colours chasing the borders
of the shape of the flame
of life grows through
do you know where it is?
we just passed it
it's at the edge.
melting in warm
march 25, 1993
an orchestra of raindrops
drips off their ice
and into the cracks
where once they froze and cracked
the heart of frozen stone
pattering, splattering into subsequent pools
breathly big enough for a plash
plunge and direct
drop into the ice pool
and drip deep through
where translucent and rim
spills onto the side unfreezing earth like music
it's not raining
the icicles gather rapidly
a row dripping like happy
short above the ground
caught me dropping
with these sounds.
apology
march 3, 1993
i)
do you like the words then?
words. rivers. flow.
between the silent snow
will they ever start to mean
the things behind them they do seem
raging and my mouth shouts
while my mind whispers
it echoes out
what came out i said today
words are lost among the hay
my mouth whispers
and my mind shouts
a seeming brook trickles out
stay the fury
light the calm
who am i
to throw a bomb?
my mind cries
and my heart dies
to see the torrent flow
the wound caused by vibrations
in the ear of one i love
i'm sorry.
ii)
ideas impregnate into the mind
a universe of difference
is difficult to find
where is the end
when we begin
the begin
the space curves inside us
when we hear the word
the signal, the message
travels imperfectly far
through oceans of question
the aha becomes bent
mobius strips of space
rear up into my face
inside becomes without
and face becomes not stout
the strength must yield
the other will become
til none other comes back again
to do it all again
ideas with arsenic laced
becomes the death we feast upon
each must die into the other
the other is not the other
until another
stars gleam bright and fair
born of shadow rare
light and dark make one.
and that's how love was won.
sunny veki in january
april 4, 1993
walking down
soft ravine
with thigh kissed by footsteps
daisy smiles
face at the sun
into forest
with scattered light
caressing ground
and thrush scampering through
snails crawling; moss
over, in.
mushroom plays
fry ring around
then body smiles.
in niagara on the lake
march 21, 1993
white splayed
expanse spread smooth
under the white wide canvas sky
clear, breath and open
where mist sprinkles out
the water eats
seats vapoury sky
in white
and subtle hues
hoary ice
in hoary trees
line of shore forms
the gargoyles sleeping
of grotesque trees
by ice drips of the misty morn
mourn happy
canvas clothed
hangs with drooped masses
the shore eats the colourless
slow the breathing
lapping of blank
water on blasted dripping
ice fingers dripping
smoothly down contorted
wood bark covered seemly in the
breeze; the drop
catches
and falls not quite
straight to join
the eternal
surging of the white and barren
seas.
sensing still the
recoming of
the drips of spring
loosening still
sleep-like coma,
but aware
the sleepy paralysis
of the ice-locked
first the finger,
then the hand
then the sea.
dripping sideways
for the breeze, wave, surf, flow
over the subtle snow
the shadow of
grey light, sunny in diffuse
impressing hardly
into the snow
over ice, the sentient drift
curves in the shadow
and clearly in diffuse
form
drift
snow one blown into
at a time; to curve
in shadow
subtly, if you listen
carefully, you can
hear the sounds the
shapes sing.
wide and white
land of ice
with rounds of frozen
drifting keeping
their places bumping each
in the solid heaving
breathing sigh of
it's white deepness
covered.
open.
man in cage hears bird
april 14, 1993
the love we can never have
is lost
why looking
for that which can't be found?
hope struggles on
with a careless swagger
stumbling by
that beaten stranger
apathetic for the stupor
groping with eyes closed
in the dungeon of open day
once he heard a bird sing,
and then of hope suspected.
impressions of a park
may 1, 1993
ripple shadows
of the lapping
cross the memory of an edge
see the aura
of sun streaming
from shadow head
in the water
lighting out the waves
in rays of golden-green
to white.
shallow waves meeting
each other
acrossed the pier
in-full-light of sun
under which
new seaweed flows
to switch, in the warm.
ducks play in the
grass covered water,
and beach pools.
still life
may 1, 1993, at a concert
see all the people
looking straight
forward to the music.
stand.
all but one
i caught a glimpse
of just one eye
behind the head
of one entranced.
caught looking full
with deep eyes.
turned away, and
i smiled
at the thought of
she.
in a letter to lib
january 3, 1994, listening to over the rhine
i really like words, sometimes certain words can be really great,
you would just like to hear the sound of the word, roll it over
in your mouth, savour it, and swallow it, eat the words, and spit
them out, you can have a very intimate relationship with a word.
ok, a word, a certain way, a certain time, or speak them
profusely, profanely, and the candle shadows up the wall, leaves
inclining branches, shaking that shadow tree. the leaf lady and
th e green man came bustling into the shop; she had a leaf in her
hair but unaware; we weren't supposed to know. the other day i
was in the kitchen, and i saw a needle with a thread left stuck
in the window sill, and i was wondering who could have put it
there. weaving fairies left it. can we do better than the mundane
explanation? "i hope that it's not just my imagination" the
cd's almost done, a love song comes on, where were we? early in
the morning, the sun fluttered in the window, a curtain swept and
brushed the ground, soiling it's whiteness, and golden filters,
flanders, where she stepped, and dancing between the twigs, wove
a pattern, the mushrooms played in circles, and left the spindle
bare, something in the way you said we could be good friends, we
parted, and karin said bye john with such a sad and longing
voice, i never wanted to leave, but she left it, sweetness
dripping from her lips, then she left the spindle there in the
window, to be found, unsuspected, on a cloudy day, when a ray of
golden shone under the final clouds. have you looked in your
window today? stand outside and try it. not many look in their
own windows, we only look out, what unseeing eyes unsettle us
from there? the frost is cluttering the edges. i think you should
know, that when i sit like this in my bed, i can see myself
reflected in (out) the window, floating a good fifteen feet above
the ground. i'm not falling, like alice through the glass, i hang
suspended, but safe and warm still, like so.
rain
may 5, 1993
there is a wind
caused by the air moved
by the falling rain
which brushes my face
and calls back again
the rush of water
on an ancient plain.
the earth drinks
from gathering pools.
snakes
november 8, 1993 - with respects to jim morrison
"the stars
the moon
she reads the future
in your hand"
multiplicity of meanings
the teller
the microcosm swirls
in the palm of your hand
the sacred rose
crossing, where does it go?
through dust are the bites
and vaguely vastly by the fallen snow.
lye the shells of insects
which have crawled out of their bodies
and cling to the trees
a slit of reality
in their once backs.
for the minister of leaves
january 20, 1994
weird steams
drifting rise
hallowing across the surface
tempest
in a teapot
driftingly so
steam dances like a
belly undone
withering writhe
layers serpentine
and leaves.
cream enters
like a devourer
seethingly gentle
with arms in swirls
i drink.
delight
struggle
november 9, 1993
unicorn holds it's head high
impaling virgin naked woman
pierced through her heart
and bloody
she was raped
by unlove
inside(r) her the land died
dead roots in receiving earth
within me little girl, i
and i layer upon lay her
in death i am consumed
and violently ill
i want to come inside
within me a chill of horns
poking through
heart cries of
he and she
in me coalating into
the tears on my cheek
within me and i
nakedly fight
for union.
in bliss
may 29, 1993
delicious colours intensify
themselves as the forms
of tree and sky
smooth; green and blue
in multitudes of shade
the light lakes around
reflections scatter up
the water like a dancing hall
and tree leaf shadows
quiver in their ecstasy
i flutter through
my shadow brief
and the sun feels
full on my green back
i am parts of this
i am part of this
intensity of spring
i am consumed.
number
may 20, 1994
which city?
i'm calling for
sometimes i wonder
the person on the other end
i'm trying to reach someone
number please
you'll never see or know
but this inter-action
them
a brief conversation
buried, and governed by a certain rule
you must be pleasant
so glad to know
number please
you must
they so many times
i wonder if they
wish
number
they are being replaced
they will serve only
please
this function
by computers
to give you the
sometimes in conversation
you can hear the voices of others
phone
number - please
but i
wonder
if they ever
wish
a computer could
that you'd ask who they are.
give you the number
just as well
but you're glad they're not
we ignore them politely.
chair top
november 8, 1993
there.
cat sulking,
sleeping terrorised
curls up and snuggle-snout
red ribbon the dog will play
the cat will
pray
morning rising
october 14, 1993
in droplets.
mist drops from the lake
into rainbow sunrise
like two suns rising
above the crimson-golden bough.
seagull diving,
dunks its head
the misty frost in two
grinning misty green.
unleafing branches
unlaced
my hissing wind.
chapter 1 - the fool became the magus
look straight at s/he/r and you'll miss it altogether
"start your juggling sir."
"at every moment i begin."
the man with the closed eyes asked the wise woman, "how can i
see?"
"by opening your eyes." she said.
"what will i see?"
"you will see what you want to see."
"how can i then ever know that what i see is true?"
"you cannot."
"then what can i do? for then i know not much more with my eyes
open than with them closed."
"let me open them for you."
"lady, would you?"
"seek the light!" she replied.
years twilight
october 1, 1993
fall's shadows
diffusing in the each.
relief of;
weird air blustering
windy
scuttles the leaves
chestnut coloured
nuggets of
in the grass
smelling ashen
like drying wet leaves
storming autumn
rustles for bed
gathering squirrels
whose hoarding nuts
in a flurry of wind
the sun shining hotly, lowly,
strong slanted shadows slip the
edge of those.
shadows
running up the wall
the leaves.
contrast up a shadow
bush; and petals
turning crimson
ever ringing it
with dark dry
crust of an edge of
leaves multiply
them fall.
ten;
dozens,
and dozens dozens
falling for whole
mountain-full, forest (s)
between the leaves
smell and surround,
encompassing senses
in this half-light-hush
twilight this fall of silence
and wind.
And wind
crisp the foot-fall.
fall around.
the grave that carries joy
december 21, 1994
in twilight
the forest lays in wait for me
like a lover longing
it sought my company
these shadows have eyes
in water they float
like streaming weeds afloat
with water rushing under wave
under shadow
under grave
wandering through the woods i stand
lost in shadows made from i
reflecting through the dim between
the edge of those unseen
streaming sun and edge of day
it is here that i would lay
silence weaves around
the leaves are dry upon
the ground's unheaving mounds
flow in moan of waking
raking light and holy
the leaves swirl and gather
up into a silent spectre
and flutter
the owl calls unseeing
eyes peering, feeding heart
casting light
inviting into this unkown hidden
splendour, i cannot know this bliss
until i drink of this
water flowing
it's sparkle dark and baptising
waiting for me
to welcome into their company
this silent unspeakable truth
in the centre of night
may 9, 1994
lying
curled
in sheets warm
in this silent cradle dark
within this empty room
hearing outside
this room
within this wailing wind
beating at my windows
threatening to blow into
this chamber
my room
which within i dream
silently held
of storms outside
pyramid
july 27, 1993
i)
invocation of the crawling pull
tomb of the womb
with its jaw ready for devouring
between the dirt in it's teeth
of stone
pull myself into;
i saw us before, in horror.
ii)
i bury myself into a hole
and there
where fragrant death grows
i die into the inside
crack of the four
along to the apex
where my spirit soars
and flies together like
a phantasmic bird
like dust in the dark un-light
and joins like air into one,
then in union we dream
out our lives again,
and our dreams watch us in horror,
calling us spectres
when we are love.
frontiers too
january 13, 1993
what about the borders?
between borders
between frontiers
down across the shadow
where the twilight lays
creeping through the snow
meow like nude kittens
hither, where they go
calmly sporantious
between the licks of their teeth
growl like mean rodents
and puppies in their heat
riding the snake
suffer the coils
wallace the borogroves
and meander the sloves
down in the meadow
where the swamp is coolest
and green and moist
and vines grow across the air
and down that stair
snails grow huge and warm
or am i just getting smaller?
slither the rodents
down inside your neck
a bite, a scratch
a fight, a smack
listen for the willows,
for they are weeping
dripping tears
between my toes
into the lake
the primal ocean
warm and wide
generating through colours
a music that's rare
how fair, the sound of elephants
trample in the bush
under the roots
i stick my foot
and feel the mud squish
the clay
the formation
where does it go?
where is the monkey
sitting in the snow.
eating a banana?
swinging on a vine
thick vines entangle
thick vines feed the monkey
and writhe like the cool snake;
slowly blissful with it's butterfly wings
eating it's cocoon
and sending the lilies
misty roses blooming through
flowers,
in the halls of childhood
the glow in the fog
of night fires
on prairies and
caves shine between
the twigs of essence
look at the frost
between it lays the answer
at the edges
at the borders
where the twilight lays
so she sat down one day, and cried...
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Between Frontiers poems by john roland penner published in limited edition: february 2, 1994. Download electronic version: BetweenFrontiers.pdf.
Updated: February 19, 2004 Everything here is Copyleft 2001 Contact johnpenner-at-mac-dot-com