Philosopher's Stone

 

There is a rock,

On it I sit,

Because of its comfortably contoured unhewn fit.

It takes the weight from off my feet,

And directs my thoughts to philosophy's seat.

How it does this I do not know,

And from it I am loath to go.

Music of the Spheres

Mother Earth

Has a face of stone

Not without expression

Being a mother she cries

Happy tears, sad snows, angry squalls

That fall from clouds

Formed from her children’s breath

                                  While our sibling trees photosynthesize 

All our breaths into wind

That is her voice

Her ears can hear 

Mosquitos mate in perfect fifths

But the voice of Father Hertz

She loves the most

And here we are on planet earth

In our nursery

Hearing their lullabies

But not the symphony

A Fox is in the Sky

Blood-red Hunter's Moon,

A fox is in the sky.

Better for you to set too soon

Than catch that hunter's eye.

A dragon, too,

Is after you,

So fly, fly, fly.

Wolf Ineffable

Green Acorn Moon

The Summer Triangle is visible in the break in the clouds,

the heavenly lyre is subconsciously heard,

the flying and falling vulture are ubiquitous in the Oklahoma sky, 

reflections in the black pools of a water moccasin's eyes.

The acorns are green, the chiggers are swarming, 

the persimmon fruits unfallen are glowing,

the cedars grow, the crickets chirp, the tree frogs croak,

and the thrum, the hum, the vibration is palpable.

Pagan Wisdom from the Bible Belt

With voice heavy in the sultry air

Or clear in the cooling crisp

Gods and goddesses speak,

As is their nature,

Through stars, signs, and seasons

Barely heard in the disintegration of a meteorite

Or fall of a leaf,

And so easily eclipsed

By digital billboards.

Our longest day is brief

The shortest briefer.

Live each moment expecting to hear

The voice of an immortal

Lengthening your soul

With at least a brief glimpse of eternity.

By a pagan Christian who cannot deny the existence of other gods and who loves Jesus Christ because he departed unto a mountain to pray (and because he took to his grave the bloody sacrifices).

Prompted by Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Light and Dark.

Mother on Notebook Paper

Who is this a picture of?

This hollow soul is me.

There's room for God

And room for love,

But grief has hallowed out the eyes

The ghosts to see,

And tea too strong, philosophy,

has sallowed me this way.

How can it be?  Who sees me thus?

On fallow field of notebook paper grew a mother,

Some secrets can't be kept.

He said, "I was just doodling,

And it ended up like you."

The Heaviness of Thirteen

Four haiku on the heaviness of thirteen:

Superstitious weight

Convenes Friday with full moon

A witches’ coven

Atomic number

Of most abundant metal

Aluminium

Amendment Thirteen

Abolished the slavery

After civil war

Thirteen is heavy 

Another hole but more glaze

A baker’s dozen

Prompted by Poets United Midweek Motif ~ The Number Thirteen

The Quiet of the Morning

The first few steps pounded out on the pavement
Are miserably hard on the soles of my feet
And I ache all the way to the top of my head
And I feel like a jackhammer not a jogger
With legs as heavy as heavy machinery
And breathing loud as a logging truck
Belching out carbon monoxide.

I intrude upon the quiet of the morning.

Then the road is softened by one fluffy cottontail,
Her nose twitching with curiosity
Until she exits into the wayside brambles
Where dewberries abound and one is found
Sweet and tart on my tongue.

And a squirrel follows along in the canopy
Forming an overpass over my path
And becomes a distraction from the ache
Working its way out of my body.

And clearing the nettles in the meadow’s fast lane
A deer pronks and shows his own mettle
And I show mine as my legs are lightened.

And my breathing at first obtrusive
Intertwines with the breathing trees
And my soul sings with songbirds
And my sweat distills as dew on wild roses.

I am the quiet of the morning.

Where the Last Tree Fell

Where the last tree fell
The tree of life grows,
A fractalization of the last tree’s essence,
Intelligence and immortality.
From seed so small
The cosmic tree expands,
Sending roots into black holes
And branches to the infinite heavens.
How can such a tree be guarded,
When everywhere I see
Songbirds, raptors, vultures
Perched among its leaves?

Personality Test

Which would you rather drink?

Cool, clear water

Or primordial soup?

Which would you rather think?

Cool, clear water

Or primordial soup?

Into which would you rather sink?

Cool, clear water

Or primordial soup?

Of what would you rather stink?

Cool, clear water

Or primordial soup?

Depending on how you answer you may be:

A - An ecoterrorist who doesn’t use bleach or soap products.

B – Born to be a deep thinker.

C – Catfish noodling next Saturday

D – Damn if I know and neither does your shrink. 

Musical Fallout Shelter

Music is fallout

That wrenches the soul

From the moment

To post traumatic,

Collecting memories

And compounding them,

Succussing to potency

The dissipating waves

Along the stress disordered shore.

Music is shelter

That protects the soul 

From its storms,

Two eyes keeping watch – 

The window of the soul

And the eye of the storm –

Envisioning shapes in the air

Only our ears can see

Of a postcard perfect shore.

Drifting By

Orion like a cool breeze wakes
Me from Scorpion sleep
Strikes summer mosquitoes
Away with my blood.

The big and little dogs bark
The pond sings back
In minor key
What is done is done.

Fine stranded dispersal
Of time
Seeding the future
Drifting by.

Me on my planet drifting by
Watching Orion in the sky.

Visas for Allies

Two syllables on the radio
Honor
The word heard
In two contexts
Theirs and ours.

Our captain asks,
". . . what good is our word?"

In a country made of words
We the people
Need allies.

In one nation under God,
Theirs and ours,
We should not have to fight
To keep our pledges to our allies
And our ally in our pledge.

It is a dishonorable discharge to us all.

Face in the Wood

Gnarled face in knot of wood
Stares back through wall of time
The lines of which unravel
Revealing strength of face
I would follow into the polished wood
And imprisoned world of spirits there
Where gods once walked in natural forms
As white horse emerging from morning mist
Or wolf plucking dewberries with gentle fangs
But the wild wood hewn
Can only compel my gaze
And whisper to me now.

Reality Squared

Reality squared

       Impoverished beings that we are

Equals the square root of our hope

       That we are something more.

The truth we know rewrites itself

Disordered anew to resonate

With chaotic drift to landing place

The harbor of our souls to compensate

With golden coins of history

Stamped with human face of deity.

Reality squared

       To dust and ash our bodies revert

Equals the square root of our hope

       That we are . . .

That we are more than the cuneiform, 

papyrus, vellum, cloud drive of our words.

Posted at Poets United Poetry Pantry #155.

Happy Seahorse Day

I wrote letters to my father
He never wrote me back

I said my prayers to God
He gave me but a book

The voice I sought to guide me
Paternalistic hidden

I now wish for a seahorse
To carry me through the flood

A pony express through time
To the man who heard my voice

And under jealous eye of goddess
His naiad I would be

Dancing on the moonlit lake
From which the horse does drink

Waiting to carry off two lovers
In memoriam 

Crypto Cat

Suspicion frowns upon the black panther

Whose myth resurfaces four times a year

Like a season of fear when the woods won't breathe

And its creatures won't stir to brave stalking death.

When somewhere in the backwoods

Two hunters meet, eye to eye, breath to breath,

The two-legged speaks, "Your black coat is mine."

The four-legged smiles a Cheshire smile, "You won't want to go there."

And each released from sudden blindness, brothers part,
Contenders for a greater truth
As elsewhere the debate goes on:
Puma jaguarundi or melanistic cougar crypto cat.

And renewed the mistrust and spewed the disrespect

Between the experts of the ivory towers

And woodsmen of the virgin bowers

Contending the range of the elusive beast.

Posted at Poets United Poetry Pantry #153.

The Weather Channel

God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh

my God oh my God oh my God oh my God

oh my God oh my God oh my God

oh my God oh my God oh my

God oh my God oh my God

oh my God oh my God oh

my God oh my God

oh my God

oh my God

oh my

God

oh

my

Believe

Lose religion

Find faith

Add your god

To the pantheon

Fill your cup

With philosophy

Crucify another

The god gene pounces

Cat and mouse

Hold this rock

This unhewn stone

This burden

Fuels your flight