The deckplates pitch,
dive, and roll
beneath my feet,
denying any firm sense
of place.
Darkness pours into sight,
lenses straining for substance,
pupils expanding to
engulf any semblance
of light in moonless night.
The ship’s hulking,
shadowy silhouette
lurches into view,
slowly shrugging as
I ride her spine,
the sound of her
slicing the ocean
is a choir of
Poseidon’s vanguard,
shushing our advance
through His domain.
The peacefully disquieting scene
is almost bearable until
turning my gaze upward,
facing the weight of the cosmos itself,
the twinkling slivers of each planet,
star, cluster, nebula, galaxy, light
from both minutes and millions of years ago,
all bearing down upon my brittle soul at once,
crushing me with the weight of
my own insignificance…
“Do you remember that sensation?”
she asks, pausing to clean
her multicolored,
dappled feline fur
passively observing
my tormented meditation.
“Stop it!” I gasp,
squeezing my eyes shut
even tighter.
“You became disoriented,
and had to look away
to regain your bearings,”
she continued,
chuckling to herself.
“Remember how the
near-endless
points of light
became the spots
of my fur?” she pressed on
unhurriedly,
but resolute.
“Just reminiscing about it
makes my head spin,” I whimper.
“Please, Nihirizumu. Enough.”
“But you asked me
about the pulse of your poetry,”
said Nihirizumu
in a mocking tone.
“You wanted to know
where that throbbing vibe came from,
so long ago
or did you not?”
“I remember now,” I concede.
“It’s too much for me. Please stop.”
“Very well then,”
said my poetic pride
with a weary sigh
and dismissive tail-flip.
“But you need not shrink away
in fear of the cosmos.
“You think yourself insignificant
in comparison to its light,
but you are both from it
and of it.
“I hope that one day
you will gaze upon the vastness
secure in knowing
that you gaze upon yourself.”
I opened my eyes,
took a deep cleansing breath, and
began writing this.
***
While there is virtually no link to my poetry and what I do for a living now (frankly, each entity exists despite the other), there was a link to when I was once a sailor staring into the night sky free from light pollution for the very first time. I don’t recall ever feeling as small as I did that day, but that was only part of it…
With the deck moving beneath my feet and no point of reference, it felt like being everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. It was as thrilling as it was terrifying.
You will never know true love
You, who weighs all things by gains
You’re left a wealth bereft of
Substance and joy, your void reigns
You, who weighs all things by gains
Born into meaningless means
Substance and joy, your void reigns
Stranger to spring’s renewed greens
Born into meaningless means
What is sin, you call a win
Stranger to spring’s renewed greens
The want you chase? Frail and thin
What is sin you call a win
You’re left a wealth bereft of
The want you chase; frail and thin
You will never know true love
You’re left a wealth bereft of
Compassion; lost, you taunt fate
You will never know true love
Your flock divides, wielding hate
Compassion lost, you taunt fate
Lies, scapegoats fuel your sad boast
Your flock divides, wielding hate
Both them and you suffer most
Lies, scapegoats fuel your sad boast
But spring sun will have her turn
Both them and you suffer most
You will never feel the burn
But spring sun will have her turn
You will never know true love
You will never feel the burn
You’re left a wealth bereft of
You will never know true love
To hold her hand, knowing God
You’re left a wealth bereft of
True gold, searched by dowsing rod
To hold her hand, knowing God
Surrender to selfless need
True gold, searched by dowsing rod
Not obtained through hate and greed
Surrender to selfless need
Unlocking joy none can buy
Not obtained through hate and greed
Treasures few can quantify
Unlocking joy none can buy
You’re left a wealth bereft of
Treasures few can quantify
You will never know true love
You will never know true love
You’re left a wealth bereft of
***
Written in honor of the peaceful worshippers in New Zealand who had their lives violently ended by a hate-filled man who was enabled by hate groups emboldened by greedy, racist, selfish, corrupt leaders (I’m sure you know the one leader I’m thinking of. I won’t give him the satisfaction of writing his name.)
Reaching the summit was of no small feat
Great Sister’s reception felt bittersweet
The young man bowed to her respectfully
The old woman shrugged an indifferent beat
“Great Sister,” he greeted her fretfully,
“I come to you troubled, regretfully.
Life seems meaningless, yet death do I fear.
I pray you change my heart’s trajectory.”
The old woman peered through somber veneer
Her response, sincere, and yet still unclear
“Your fear of death is a fear of pre-birth.
If your life lacks meaning, why are you here?”
The young man searched her words, seeking their worth
He puzzled their weight, finding only dearth
“I climbed this peak seeking your renowned sage
but you made it clear I serve as your mirth.”
Great Sister stood fast in his bleary rage
“My child,” asked she, “recall your pre-birth stage.
You cannot; for none of us know that time.
The same is death; an unreadable page.”
The young man mused over these thoughts sublime
He asked, seeking reason within the rhyme,
“So death is a void and life, but a joke?
If true, does that make existence a crime?”
Great Sister laughed soundly before she spoke.
“The void and joke are both yours to invoke.
We are a part, not apart from the whole.
I am flock and hen; you are shell and yolk.”
The young man bowed as her words took their toll.
his heavy heart lightened by her console
Path to the valley, beyond his control
Its footfalls? Perhaps his own to insole.
***
What a
bizarre perverse
spectacle we must be
to anyone with the gift of
vision.
Contorting our delusions
to fit absurd collective
narrative illusions.
Your happiness is
worthless
to me
and yet
I weigh my worth upon you saying
that you are pleased by my efforts
to bring happiness directly
to your seat with a smile in my voice
fit to claw your eyes out
to minimize eyestrain.
As I strain,
monks go door to door
with empty bowl in hand and
it is filled more often
than not.
If it be a sin
to covet a neighbor’s empty bowl
then I am the foulest
most wretched creature living
if one could subscribe
to the false illusion that
somehow this is life.
But I lie while lying;
it is his heart I covet most.
I would reach into him and
feast right upon it,
right there in his face,
sitting upright, cross-legged
upon the dusty,
nutrient-starved earth, and he
quietly, peacefully
would mourn the fact that
he only had the one
heart to offer,
withholding nothing.
I don’t even count them
as withholds anymore,
for they are nothing to behold;
I place the holy magic beans
inside the divine tabernacle
and watch random gods of diversion
snatch them all away like a
school of piranha
picking clean the bones of my
counterfeit coffers.
Thus, am I served.
It would be cute
to call it being
eaten alive,
but that would play to
the illusion that the beans,
the tabernacle
and my convent with the gods
ever existed and that
somehow,
this is living.
Oh, what a bizarre spectacle I must be
to anyone with the true gift of sight.
But I am ready.
Ready to leave it all behind,
take a leap into the absence of lore,
and see for myself
what this living business is all about.
Perhaps
the best part of
my yet-to-be-told tale
will be when I ended service
and served.
My story begins on the last page.
***
(Video is only loosely related to the poem. I only included it because I really loved the movie, and it makes me feel better about things in my life that kinda suck right now.)
On the path not taken
incomplete thoughts and wishes
pair with longing and regret
along elongated line-of-sight
shrinking to a point-of-light
as all paths do when curving
beyond known horizons
I close my eyes for vision
the grass is greener, and yet
the air is thick and toxic
reflection fails to muster depth
strangers call me pops and grandpa
ex-lovers commiserate
in much greater numbers, laughing
at flaws, triumphs, cuts and scars
revealed only to their eyes
pale winter sunset invites frost
breathing artic dusk breezes, I watch
my trail turns away from light
Orion the hunter claims the night
as he pursues the Pleiades
my hunt dovetails to warmer days
for the path not taken
is uninhabitable
***
knowing is the loneliest part
(for it is knowing
that you are
alone)
it’s lighting the wick after dusk
(the wick’s initial spark
cutting through tangled
colorless murky thickets)
my lantern lights a moonless night
unknown banished from amber sphere
(my amber sphere is weak
and clearly finite)
margins of its influence dim
(for the margins are too frail to divine)
beyond lies entangled nothings
randomly pierced by pricks of light
(each nothing entangled
as knotted terrain; each pin-prick
of light, a home or villa)
each, a distant lonely lantern
(each lantern,
a wick’s spark,
cutting)
lighting a range; the loneliest part
(for the loneliest part
is in knowing they are
alone;
surrounded by loved ones,
they may not know it,
but they are,
utterly and completely
alone)
look to the sky and you’ll find more
of lanterns lit eons ago
(eons later,
their light dots darkness
like notes from sheet-music)
each one a voice; an unheard song
living verse that died without bridge
(for the living verse we hear
leads to a divine bridge,
a cosmic chorus of a song
heard in its entirety only by
the Infinite,
the Alpha,
and the Omega)
unrehearsed, the ballad plays on
its meaning dims where our light ends
knowing is the loneliest part
you and I are more different than alike
born under the same sign in different
eras and regions, our intertwined fate
indifferent to lineage, chromosomes
we share no bloodline, only profound love
for your mother and sister, and yes, still
I instilled my values upon your heart
hoping you’d call upon them in moments
of your greatest need, of unseen hazards
dovetailing with the inexplicable
born from my inevitable absence
(we rarely have say in Final partings)
we have differences and share likenesses
both from broken and imperfectly-stitched
families, mended by golden-lacquered truths
my truth lied in helping you stand alone
but while I drew strength from isolation
you forged alliances with other hearts
each heart fortifying your own backbone
foreign course, yet I admired your route
your unique journey led you to a path
not so different from mine; I know it well
a quest to find answers from a father
leading to an absence of resonance
while I can’t truly know your emptiness;
for it is a similar, but different
flavored void than my own quest for my Truth
if you never knew it before, hear me
I will end this crime and tell you the Truth
it’s what he should’ve told you long ago
and what I should’ve known you long needed
for you (as you are right now) are enough
you are you; your differences are beacons
as lighthouses, cutting light from darkness,
rock from sea, known earth from cosmic secrets
I pray our similarities guide you
strengthening, enlightening your journeys
without fogging your way towards your own Truth
for, you see, my dearest, intrepid son
we are more alike than we are different
***
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 