Free Form No.8

 

The loaded words

Serving solely to misguide,

A fantastic journey

Into dream and delusion—

 

The adventurous ride

Into painted meadows

And high-tech cities,

We fly like Scrooge—

 

So lucid, so bright,

The words do hint

At facts so rooted

In common ground—

 

But alas, behold,

The lurking daemon

Behind the garb

Of loosely fitting

Robes and lavish

Yet cheap polyester—

 

The elusive form

Speaking only in riddles

And haunting tales

Calling forth fancy views

Of transient charm—

The expanding girth

Of one so smart,

The rarefied potency

Incessantly infusing

Its molecular odour

Indiscriminately through—

 

What a terrible trick!

Yet who's to blame?

For afflicted is all

By this evasive cause—

Hands thrown up!

Sigh light in knowing

Ills perceived

Are just illusion—

 

For here we sit

In silent being,

Ravished not

By dismal scenes

Of fading fights

And startling news—

 

The parasitic leech

Is shaken off,

Falling hard

Does wriggle

In drying death

And dusty dissolution—

 

Until emerging from

The desert ground

One violet pulse

Of pulpy growth—

 

With this timeless act

Of effortless strength,

The greater field,

The unwavering friend,

Shows its face

In ceaseless presence—

 

The very bed

Of all delusion.

 

MS21

 

 

 

 

 

Snow Outside

 

The quiet flurries of snow descended across
The light-blue-tinted-dawn-sky—
Only visible while passing in front
Of dark yet muted evergreens
Standing stoically in the snow.

The chill outside was felt inside
Notwithstanding the sweat-bearing windows
And the trembling heater in service.

Just as the cold was felt within,
So too were past experiences reflected inside,
Their factual intensity diminished over time
And their clarity impeded by the accrual of more.

The seagulls carving through the air from tree to tree,
Swooping and curving in graceful lines,
Were in fact playing in the falling snow.

The intellect of man, clever in its nature,
Serves the self but how dangerous to follow
Its command when not infused by the spring dawn.

MS21

Looking out onto Space

Looking out onto Space

An unfathomable distance
So conceived

The absolute darkness,
The blindness seen

Alone with a candle
Piercing darkness with light

The boundless chasm
Without reply,

Accepting the glow
In unwanting quiet—

Looking down at my hands
In flickering hues

The truth of the flame,
Its mark it made.

The warmth was felt
By source so near

And eyes rejoiced
At sights so clear.

Still deeper yet
The gratitude lay

The darkness speaking
Not to the ears

But in silent being
Its language conveyed.

Received by same (inside myself)
The pervasive noir—

The inexhaustible field
Of unyielding birth

Without time nor object
Without distance nor wait—

Behold the unfathomable
Bounty of blackness,

Our humble flame,
Without which

Could not live,
Nor so the day

Be born anew
In endless cycles

Of life renewed.

MS21