Wind in the Leaves

They dance, they dance, the teardrop leaves
that line the ash tree's limbs.
Do you hear them rustle?
Do you hear them speak?
Oh, how the green dance speaks to me...

Emerald hands that grope for the touch of Light...
Only the Sun can give it.
(Oh, how I love the Sun!)
Feel the wind move them with a breath,
see how their spirits flutter!

And how alone, how single is a leaf there on the limb!
Each branches, each finds its own way,
each springs further from the root.
How quickly they forget that one Life
flows through them all.

What terrible solitude sets a leaf to quiver!
Oh, that they freeze alone,
that springtime warmth frosts them over!
(How to bear it?)
Why? What for? What hope?

But still they dance, the darlings, as they reach
all for the Light!
Is it Love that draws them out, together,
Love that sets them dancing?
How can I help but love them?

But will Love warm, will Love give Light?
A child's game,
to hope in Love...
But still they dance, the darlings, as they reach
all for the Light!

To Athena

I wonder how you pass through days, how picture pretty flowers,
what spirit winds in your mind's ways as you breathe away the hours?
What thoughts entangled by brown hair and locked by matching eyes,
just how do you perceive this world that all around you lies?

To wish to know that mind of yours, to feel its flowing beat,
to wonder how you feel your arms and how you guide your feet,
to find the you that makes you you, and trace obscure its ways...
now there's a task to keep a poet busy all his days!

You sit in stalwart silence and so make yourself a riddle,
and yet what whispers come my way as I play at my fiddle?
I noticed once, and dearly pray that my saying be allowed,
that a certain sort of silence beats the eardrums very loud.

Now I could take a guess or two at what your silence means,
but then again I'll never know just what's behind the scenes.
Perhaps it's best I do not know, that I may not repent
or find this silken silence was but your experiment.

I must confess this silence yet does give me some surprise,
for hesitancy never seemed to lurk behind your eyes.
Perhaps you are not really there, although you seem so real,
and I speak all to nothing while the time turns at its wheel...

Stone

He dreamed he was a little stone
that gave reflected light,
and sweetly all his facets shone
to all the world's delight.

The little stone, the little box
they kept him in was clear,
and how they all observed the rocks
at every time of year.

They called him little pretty thing,
and how his fears did shrink.
And there affixed upon a ring
he needn't ever think.

How safe, how very peaceful did
the little stone then feel!
With all exposed and nothing hid,
he longed to think it real.

But bitter wake the sweetest dreams,
as surely this one did,
for moonlight's shining golden beams
can never keep life hid.

The morning, how it woke him rude,
and he began to weep!
Against himself in purest feud,
he spoke to fickle Sleep:

"Cruel dream, oh why entice me so
with things that cannot be?
A life so hard, and all I know
tossed bubbles in the sea!

Impossible is all I wish,
I'd be what I am not:
a stone, a dance, a pretty fish,
and all the things forgot.

You dream, you seem to make me stone
but cannot make it real;
if only you could numb my bones
so I could never feel!"

He dreamed he was a little stone
that gave reflected light,
and sweetly all his facets shone
to all the world's delight.

Friend

To walk in Light that's dancing through the leaves
and spot Eternity in feathered song,
to ever seek the peace that Grace achieves,
to wish to love this world, not say it's wrong...
And I could bear my burden, call it light,
and say that hardship makes a soul to grow;
but what disgrace to all that should be right
to watch all helpless as you suffer so!
You wear your smile, you don the daily mask,
put laughter on and bravely you pretend.
But through that front so fractured I must ask,
"What ever can I do for you, my friend?"
It just won't do to say, "I wish I could,"
but what to do? I would relieve the ache,
would drown out sorrow with my better good,
if only action turned not to mistake!
To live before Eternity aware,
to see beyond this sorry self of mine,
to act and be the good in taking care...
would that not take the breath of Grace divine?
So human and so small I feel today,
and though I'd help I cannot see the way.

Memory and Desire

A castaway upon the shore

muses by the ocean's door:

"A flowing Memory has got

a time to ripen and to rot,

and all that Memory directs

is all that Memory connects.

You meet the past, a ghostly specter,

the phantom's taught you what you are.

But Memory, if you'd direct her

would burst into a shining star.

To love the stories that you've told

is to already have grown old.

To love the stories that you'll tell

is a step towards living well.

To swim, oh how to swim, to dive

deep down the flow of Time;

what else does it mean to rhyme?

To sharpen Time, the swerving knife,

and clasp it to the throat of Life;

what else does it mean to thrive?

A past is born each moment new,

so many selves for every face,

so many narratives to trace,

so very many things to do.

But how to live this moment now

without a quiver in the brow?

But how to separate invention?

And how to calculate intention?

But will I go projecting ever,

and pat my back and call me clever?

Or will I live forever new

and call myself forever true?"

Thus he spoke, the clever liar,

to Memory and dark Desire.

Before the Sphinx

To wrap the earth in cleansing rain,
to draw an hour from a needle,
to pierce and seek the golden vein,
to see a man descend from beetle...
Enigma, would you name yourself
and take your place upon the shelf?
Or would you eye the churning flood
and see the river red with blood?
For you know, invented fiction,
the catch of breath betrays a thirst,
and storm winds blow, for good or worst,
Enigma, Queen of Contradiction!
And if I borrow Pushkin's verse,
you'll take my meaning none the worse.

Enigma, do you know your mind,
or would you charm coincidence?
A breath of wind will never bind,
may never make for incidents.
You've seen the Pharaoh make his round,
and all with rosy petals crowned,
yet why remain within the city?
(I fall to curiosity.)
Why do you haunt this spot of earth,
and why return to sift the screen?
Is here a thing you've never seen?
What is this plaguey village worth?
None could learn to answer riddles
and never ever love a little.

And yet you'll never speak your name,
though apples ripen on the line.
You'd let the fair fruit rot in vain,
and all to spite the passing time.
Wash the land with storm and shower,
see the plague that spreads each hour.
Does it need skill to hold a mirror
and draw the light a little nearer?
You, with wandering attention!
It only wants a rat to spread
and pile bodies of the dead.
(Your beauty I refrain to mention.)
How ever could I answer you?
Enigma? Nameless? What to do?

Ascend

How fragile are the paths that wind
into the hidden way,
how tenuous the ties that bind
tomorrow and today.

Thick mists choked his sight.
Blinded by fog on freezing foothills,
from fear he took no step.
How to avoid the precipice, the fall
(so far!)
into the abyss?
What light could guide his sightless eyes?

Will he ever see sunlight again?

What dream of beauty could inspire
enough to make a move?
Why purify yourself in fire,
what is it you must prove?

Parting veils reveal in
violet sunset splendor
the silent rising peak.
He weeps to see it is
more distant
than yesterday. How far,
how long, how hopeless, how hopeful.

Is there no end to climbing?

A mournful air assaults his ears,
and silently he listens
to centuries undimmed by years,
and how his eyes they glisten!

Why lust so after heights?
Do you feel yourself low?
Why would you be above the earth?
Do you love to gaze on valleys?
Why strive to be a hero?
Do you sense yourself a fool?

How distant is the mountaintop...

Skim

Eyes dancing over falling lines I read
so deep so many meanings. Lovely page,
so bright, but teach me how to plant a seed,
to tend your gift to grow another age.
You inky beauty, teach me reading you,
and let me parse the poetry between
your smooth, soft, supple covers, and to do
such reading as ecstasy's never seen.
Oh love, but how to read between your lines,
and think but what attempting does to me?
To dare to trace their author's grand designs,
now would I not invite catastrophe?
Somehow there lives in me a fear of books,
although allured I am by longing looks.

House Cat

He sits with eyes of lime,
marks time with his metronomic tail.
He cannot sing or speak or swim,
but there is nothing wrong with him.

With gray face at the window,
his bones recall dark jungles.

He sits with pointed ears,
still senses subtle harmonies.
He cannot roam beyond the frame,
but his eyes know from whence they came.

With a nose on the wind,
he'd track his prey for days.

He sits with stomach rumbling a
near-distant falling minor chord.
He cannot mark the scent of blood,
but knows the eating will be good.

With legs like water running,
he'd close the deadly gap.

He sits with claws extended,
an aria upon his toes.
He cannot hunt or track his prey,
but does not fear he'll starve today.

With gleaming teeth he'd greet
the sweet flesh of his labors.

He stands with curving back,
drops a note at mistress's feet.
He well recalls his burning bright
in the forests of the night.

With green eyes upraised
he sings sweetly for his meal:

"Rrrrrrrowl!"

Dream

And if we never meet again upon this human earth,
what good will from these scribblings spring, I ask you, what's their worth?
Will I forget the penning them and you forget you've read,
and we two never think of them until we both are dead?

I ask me why I write these lines, and why I bare to you
the deeper conflicts of my mind, and strive to keep them true?
And if you too should wonder why, well thank the gods above!
Although I can't quite fathom it, it is a kind of love.

However I'd not love you, how much rather I'd be free,
oh how dearly do I wish you'd never heard of me!
For in the furrows of my brain you left a seed to sprout,
and how I ransack through my mind, and wish to tear it out!

Do not think I think you meant it, no I do not accuse;
if it's reproach you're searching for, well I must disabuse.
Although I cannot say precise just how you stole my heart,
there's a something in your being, that you need no subtle art.

But the autumn seed you planted now has burst in verdant spring,
and as it grows to flower here I cannot help but sing.
If any beauty's glimmer bless these verses you should know
that they are but your sun's pale moon, their light a borrowed glow.

I am a weakling spirit, and can live in only dreams;
my mind is far too fragile for reality, it seems.
And though the pain of living burns so sweetly I could burst,
the hopeless ache of loving you is far the sweetest worst.

I cannot even say that I would like my love returned,
for something in my nature only loves when it is spurned.
I think that's why my tongue grows loose, and why I say too much:
above the real I far prefer the pure, imagined touch.

By nature I'd have been a monk, but now that God is dead,
I turn my eyes upon this world, and worship you instead.
Don't show me too much favor, for apostate I would turn,
and like some Grand Inquisitor you'd have to watch me burn.

I hope I don't annoy you with this structure I've erected,
and that it gives some pleasure that it's you that I've selected.
But should my scribbling bother you there's yet no cause to fear:
I'm sure I'll have some other hopeless love this time next year.

I said I'd show you conflict, what I hide beneath the mat;
I'm quite embarrassed to have writ a thing so true as that!
And if you too should wonder why, well thank the gods above!
Although I'd rid myself of it, it is a kind of love.

Opening

                “White moves first,” Mark suggested, his eyes only a little too wide.

                “I know, I know, I’m just thinking,” John answered with a frown, “It’s just… It’s just so hard to pick a first move. There are so many possibilities.”

                “Not at the beginning,” Mark countered, blowing a thread of smoke and ashing his cigar onto the concrete, “You’ve got two possible moves for each of your eight pawns and two for each of your two knights. None of the other pieces can move at this point. So that’s what, sixteen plus four, only twenty possibilities. Not that many.”

                “Well, if you want to make it a numbers game, sure,” John assented, staring at the board, its sixty-four squares and thirty-two pieces that, with a little cleverness and patience, worked themselves into a game of infinite variability. A game that contained a whole world of loss, of struggle, of victory. A game of high stakes. A game worth playing.

                “Why don’t you make a move, then?” Mark sighed, crossing his arms and turning to examine the flowers that lined the gently rising slope to the right.

                “Well, I guess it’s that maybe the first move is simple, but it sets the tone for the whole game, you know?”

                “A strong opening is crucial, yes,” Mark rolled the cigar between thumb and two fingers, visibly admiring its texture and the snowy color of its ash.

                Silence ensued. John spotted a little white cat, apparently a stray, creeping beside the flowers with a slinking step, as if on the hunt. He looked about, but could see no sign of the feline’s quarry.

                John turned back to regard the board with an unpleasant urgency in his heartbeat. He eyed the squares, the pieces, black on white, white on black. A summer breeze mussed his hair as he watched Mark draw on his cigar. Breathing perhaps a bit harder than usual, he shifted his gaze back to the arrangement of pieces and squares. The board seemed to shift and buckle slightly, as if John were viewing it through some thick, clumping liquid.

                “Well?” Mark prompted. The little cat turned, gazed at him with great green eyes for a fleeting moment.

                John sat motionless, seemed to be trying to stare through the board. Mark cleared his throat loudly and John looked up shamefacedly, said, “Sorry, I sort of spaced out there for a minute. God, I’m dizzy!”

                “Come on John, just make a move.”

                “But you know what I was thinking about as I was looking at the board? It was all the little black and white squares that got me thinking about it, really.”

                Mark rolled his eyes and ashed his cigar once more, “What was it?”

                “Well, I read somewhere or other that our human perceptual systems are set up so that what we really notice when we see something, or smell something or whatever, is the way it contrasts with its background. We only see the tree against the background of the sky, kind of thing.”

                Mark gave a forbearing nod, “Right. Or like the way you feel cold after you get out of a hot shower.”

                John smiled, “Exactly. So I was wondering, looking at the board, whether I was looking at a white board with black squares or a black board with white squares.”

                “You should have been thinking about what move to make.”

                With a warbling howl the cat burst into a run and pounced. In a flurry of feathers and feline hisses a startled raven flew up from the ground to land in a nearby tree.

                “Well, what the squares got me thinking about was, was that what if everything around us, like what if our whole life was like that?”

                “What do you mean?”

                “I mean, what if our whole life, everything we know and love and see and taste and touch… what if all of that was like the figure appearing against some greater background?”

                Mark shrugged, “ I don’t know, John. Can you even imagine what that background would look like?”

                “I doubt it would look like anything, because if it did it would mean we could only see it against some even greater background we’d never see.”

                Mark whistled. The cat went to sleep among the flowers. After a minute or two Mark asked, “Are you ever going to start this game?”

                “Oh, you’re right,” John exclaimed, laughing, “Really I knew what my first move was going to be all along.”

                “Of course you did, Mark groaned, ashing his cigar one last time as, with a sharp eye, John moved his pawn.

A Seaside Meeting

The tide that rises foams to flood,

and spends its waves upon the shore,

yet still returns, like circling blood,

inclines it to the heart once more.

See how he moves in liquid seas,

the water-born with bended knees!

And if he nimbly pierces waves,

it's all because he's water-made.

You'd almost think he'd learned to breathe

beneath the rolling surface foam,

that he would name the sea his home

and live in waves that him enwreathe.

But though he dwells in landlocked tent,

cool water's yet his element.

With her proud tail and regal form

she glides so daring near the beach,

but though the waves are soft and warm,

no heat into her heart will reach.

For she's decreed with iron will

to never trust the ocean's swill.

She's learned the great sea's terrors well,

and seen kind waves become a hell.

And yet she cannot help but rise

to seek the sunny surface bright,

for she's a one that loves the Light,

exults in sunny, starry skies.

Tail churning now in antic order,

she draws so near the foamy border.

A fisher stands beside the shore

and tests his nets with expert hands,

but spies a thing he's not before

when he looks out across the sands:

She sits among the ragged rocks

and runs a hand through graceful locks.

She lightly sings into the air

a haunting song that makes him stare.

The water-born with bended knees

appears to surface by the stone

and bright eyes, his to hers they shone.

Such silence stills the whirling breeze

they laugh to hear the fisher's wish,

"I only want to catch a fish!"

Leap of Faith

                Surrounded by midnight darkness, she wrapped herself in quiet and in warm bedsheets. With closed eyes she tried to will herself into the blissful tranquility of peaceful sleep. Beneath the blankets and the nightgown, her body ached with the tiredness of the day, the gnawing exhaustion she knew, she already knew, that a few hours of fitful sleep could never remove. Her eyes itched with that horrible insistent need for sleep, that terrible hunger for nothingness she’d fought daily for who knew how many years, would fight daily for who knew how many more?

                Sometimes, hovering on the gray misty borderlands between sleep and wakefulness, the in-between space where thought somehow grew more muddled and more clear all at once, she wondered why she fought so hard. In those torpid frontier moments, she waveringly felt that she’d gone to war against herself, her body, its limitations, its irreducible and inescapable weakness. She felt, at times, with a rising terror she didn't like to examine directly, that her body was her absolute enemy, that if she let her guard down for the barest instant it would collapse, dragging her with it into the primordial formless goo that spawned it, so many billions of years ago. Only constant vigilance could save her from herself, from that unthinkable dissolution.

                Once in a while she wondered why she felt so anxious in dreams.

                “Amelia.”

                Her eyes snapped wide and she bolted upright, tossing the sheets aside. She rapidly scanned the darkness of the room, the desk, the dresser, the locked door, the window, opened just a crack to let in the cool evening air. It seemed that she’d heard, no she couldn’t have heard… but still her eyes darted through the black night, hunting for the source of that voice, that quiet voice whispering her name.

                It must have been the wind, she decided, something blowing in the air through the open window. Not her name, never her name. She stretched her arms, yawned, and laid down on the bed once more.

                Sleep eluded her still. Her mind raced with the busy demands of tomorrow, the insistent echoes of yesterday. So much to be taken care of, so much that ought to have been done already, so much that her enemy had prevented—

                “Amelia.”

                Louder now. It seemed like a kind voice, tender, if a little timid. The voice had a playful, halfway mocking quality, as if it were only speaking as part of some wonderful game it was putting on for her benefit, a game it dearly hoped she would enjoy. A note of suppressed pain lingered in its timbre, as though the voice contained centuries, centuries of waning hope and ever-diminishing chances of Light. Centuries that had at last turned it within itself, and now it strove to escape the involuted prison it had inherited…

                No. There was no voice. It must have been the wind, she repeated to herself as she tossed about, hunting hopelessly for sleep, the blissful self-forgetfulness that hid in the bed.

                “Amelia.”

                She started, and her heart stopped icy cold. A chill ran down the length of her spine as she realized the voice was coming from inside, was it from the kitchen? Lightly, carefully, she crept to the door, silently unlocked and opened it.

                On tiptoe, she made her way to the kitchen. No, she should go back to her room, ignore this voice, go sleep the night away. Surely the voice wasn't really there, surely it was all her imagination grasping at phantoms and shadows. And if it wasn't? If it was real?

                All the more reason to ignore its calling. But still she approached the kitchen.

                She arrived, peeked around the corner at the table, her arms and neck tingling, her body shivering from the night’s chill, and perhaps something else as well.

                There was no one in the room. Holding her breath, she walked into the kitchen, checked everywhere, even dared to turn on the lights. Still nothing.

                Slightly disappointed, she methodically searched the rest of the apartment, the living room, the bathroom, every closet, and under all the furniture. With the whole place alight, she made certain that she was the only inhabitant.

                With a sigh she walked through the apartment turning off the lights, and returned to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She climbed once more into her bed and wrapped herself in sheets.

                “Amelia?” came the voice, close by her ear.

                She turned, saw nothing. What was this insistent voice, this phantom that disturbed her rest but would not reveal itself to her?

                In a flash, as of a light coming on, she knew.

                Amelia took a deep breath, sat up and answered, “Yes? It’s me, Amelia. Who are you? What do you want?”