|
|
I
Blind as a phacolith;
Among the throng,
I wander.
Blunt hearts dipped in dullness,
Mine,
Seined in Sameness
Walking the maze – no thread,
No clue, no trails to the totem pole –
The Vision.
Blind as a phacolith,
Here amongst the horde
To ingest our mutual puke;
To live the lives of leaves –
To faint, to fail, so frail,
To die.
Coasting along,
A dull herd, dumb to the call
Of the near-distant Voice;
Lacewings, leaned to char –
Smokewisps – flame’s breath to the heights.
Numb,
Numb to all Visions;
The dross-worn drivel dribbling to ripples
To tend a torpid soul.
Feel the limp, heavy on my heart;
None hears the call, none –
That they themselves may mourn,
May mingle
Tears – threads of brine.
None hears the call, none –
To bow before – fall on a naked sword
And be reborn.
None hears the call, none –
The wind sighs – the tale on a breath dovetails
In mortise of my unrest.
Ram my heart through the rampart –
Dispel
This horde of Sameness;
Root my radicles
In guts of humus
To unfurl shy plumules;
Leaf-limbs questing
For pure light in
Clear drops of rain.
Then,
The axis of life – the
Ankh calls;
A lean tuft of green
In deaths of brown.
II
I have walked
This way before, where silence
Treads loudly – milestones cloaked
In dust
Raised by a horde of feet.
I have pressed ears
To the earth to hear
The footfall of ants – in vain.
I have walked this way,
Each turn brings another –
Steeps my heart in general songs –
This maze that swings my feet
From same to the Same.
Feelers in the dark
Search for the passage to the light –
Diffusions like tentacles reach
For dead ends –
As the hourglass sand-runs
The flow of the days.
I walk this way still –
Where twigs
Snap like taut minds –
Reveal an urn of
Charred dreams.
The moon weeps for me – her beams
Fall impotent on my shores;
My lame feet
Can not rise to wash
Its dust in her silvery tide
Like stones, washed-white
By chimes of a waterfall.
Lame feet
Can not rise to approach
The lyre of silver strings;
To brim the ear with melody-lisps
Reeled from the lips of the Wind.
III
If the Wind is not ribbed
How shall I hear?
As bared longings gnaw
At the riddle of the Sphinx.
Here I sit
At Equinox – the air gorged
With fetid gyrations of decay –
The darkness smoothens my ruffled fur
But the Ankh,
Hovers before me – The call
Of Light.
So, the Circle yearns
To ride the crest of the Cross
When the mirrored stare
Of a cock-lain-egg, sat on
By a toad yields
The dust-to-dust.
Here I sit
At Equinox – lone pulsations
Of a waning gibbous –
Here I sit
To piece the broken Rosetta –
Stony fragments like a plectrum,
To thumb the Wind.
If the Wind is not ribbed
How shall I hear? –
The tenor of the streams lollop
That leads to the sun-curtained cave
Behind the Waterfall –
Beyond the sentinel arc –
Seven hues,
In the ascending spray.
...
VI
Thunderclouds in amber-bowls
Of lightning –
Presages of the weeping sky.
Fleets of rain-drops
Rain arrows at the womb
Of earth;
Let the seeds break
In cracks of life;
Let the green
Cloak this naked brown;
Let time be sown,
Hid in pods of the Dream;
Let the pods break –
Let it break,
In the dawn – this rebirth,
This meeting of the Spirit
With the primal breath.
O Spirit, wing my thoughts –
This flutter of the Dream
Towards the Light.
VII
A wind-tossed leaf
With a Voice –
Soft fluff, on the ripples
Of a breath, flows
To the end of an echo.
Lone leaf, learning
The lore
Of the wilderness;
Lone pilgrim
Of the Wild.
VIII
Spirit, wing my thoughts;
Plume it
With tongues of far-seeing eyes.
Part the veil;
This nimbus
That secrets the Light.
Part these hooded eyes;
Let this pilgrim read the rhythm
Beyond the horizon –
Beyond the quarrel
Of this Wilderness.
Vision, wing my heart –
Reel me in to the nest –
To the breast,
Of the eternal IS.
Let this path I tread,
Be trod
By the staff – the Voice of Sight.
|
|
|
|
|
|
