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Ailill, 23 january 2012
Rain drop Ambitions
What is the proper way
to savor the ripening of the day
without being attached to results?
Taste the fruits of this body,
remembering its woes?
Feel the turn in the seasons,
lose myself in this emptiness,
with awareness it is a garden,
find my way back again?
Take heart in the passage
of these passing forms,
charades on life’s stage.
Move with metaphors,
the ways they transform.
Court the dream, without fear
of nightmare themes.
Dare to hope, straining in the tug
of the hangman’s rope.
Desire love’s ecstasy,
aware of its tears of misery.
Rock and roll to the poetry streaming
through my window without expiring
in the heat of its fire. Hear rhythm
with ears attuned to sour notes
included in its airs and tones.
Behold the immanence of presence,
seeking transcendence,
in this wheel of impermanence.
Thrive on life’s paradox,
avoiding the snare of this sly fox.
Heartbroken within these koans,
of my own making, I wish
I had the answer to these seething
questions. If I did, I would end
this ceaseless questing,
giggle,
rushing towards the call,
a mountain stream in free fall,
mist rising, rocks below.
Ailill, 30 december 2011
To the Morning Star
Oh Venus, bright morning star
Glimmer of the dawn radiant
Diamond seen from afar,
Your light I look upon
To still the troubles of the night.
Through these shadows
I see into your majesty bright.
The smoke that rises from the flame
Signifies the sun shining through the rain.
It is the thorns that bring forth
The glory of the rose
And the spring that is born
Out of the well of winters woes.
Discord raises awareness of melody
As ugliness traces beauty.
You are a garden oasis that rises
From the dust of this wilderness.
The valleys of this life
Allow me to gaze upon
Your mountain heights.
Star of vision and power
Give me hope, in this my dark hour.
Ailill, 6 march 2012
The 911 Call: Poetic Emergency
‘Hello, 911’
‘Yeah, I need someone
to help me check up on
this poem down on
Maycolm Drive…
Not sure if he’s still alive’
‘Sir, what are his vital signs?’
‘Not sure, his beat feels off key’
‘And his spirits and dreams?
Does he howl at the moon?’
‘What do you mean?
all I see is drip and drool’
‘What about his love?
‘what does he sing of?’
‘How would I know,
there is nothing to show,
besides a poem, a book,
and a bottle on the side
of the road..’
‘Is he breathing?’
‘Yeah, his chest is
slightly moving..’
‘Wait!’
‘What?’
‘Weeping wonders’
‘Huh?’
‘He….. he…… just sat up
and sang something!’
‘Hastening havoc, what did he just sing?’
‘Not sure, but he has Invisible Man beside him’
‘As in Ralph Ellison?’
‘Yeah’
‘Hmm… what could these signs and symbols be signifying?
Spellbinding!’
‘What a paradox!’
‘Exactly my thoughts!’
‘So, what’s he doing now?’
‘He slumped back down!’
‘Okay,
…… and the bottle?’
‘Looks like a variety of Cabernet’
‘Sounds like he must have had better days.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘Maybe he’s been to the local cabaret?’
‘And the last time he had fire and zinc?’
‘was when he had some wine to drink!’
‘Ha! So now we know the cause!’
‘No more grasping at straws.’
‘Wine! it’s wild wind
whistles wisps of whispers
within a well of woes’
‘A wildfire’
‘Wine’
‘what a bewitching vine!’
‘yours and mine’
‘apparently his too..’
‘a grape smasher’
‘widow maker’
‘this witches brew!’
‘Here’s a little ditty I just wrote;
Our days spent in the fear of being alone
by night we become entranced by her glance.
Teased by the blush of the burgundy rose
in the light of her lamp, hearts sing and dance,
in harmony with the melody that she creates
through the beauty of her grace.
Spinning her web in view of the harvest moon,
her mysteries become a cryptic key.
Beheld by the spell of her embrace
for love of her truths, scholars become fools.’
‘Nice piece, but with this poem, what shall we
do?’
‘I think the proof….’
‘Hey, a butterfly just landed on his chest!’
‘Kafka’s metamorphosis?’
‘Sorry if I interrupted.
What were you about to say?’
‘Surely he’s in the way?
Why don’t you get him off the street,
and get him some coffee to drink?’
‘Poetry as tragedy,
poetry as comedy,
poetry as prophecy.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Some wino walking past,
he grabbed my cell phone,
sang his siren song,
gave it back.
Then stumbled on.’
‘that’s odd, the poem, where is he at?’
‘Looks like he’s coming awake.
But he is still in a daze…. Wait..
He speaks!’
‘What did he just say?’
‘He said;
“Between relationship and message
there is paradox. Like the farmer and
his ox, each needs the other to be complete.
Without community message is dead.
But community needs message if it seeks
To contend against life’s hardships and grief…”
Then he laid back down as if dead’
‘Maybe he was just light in the head?’
‘But where did he get this theme?
‘And what did he mean?
‘Is it the result of word association,
diffusion confusion’
‘Or a muse’s inspiration?’
‘Or could he be a trickster in disguise?’
His mask reflected in our eyes?
‘But why?’
‘At least he’s coming to life!’
‘Anyway, I’ve got better things to do with my day
than to narrate these games that he plays’
‘London bridge is falling again,
falling again, falling again.
London bridge is falling again,
and we all fall in.’
‘Who’s singing that hymn?’
‘oh, just some children, coming back from school’
‘Didn’t realize it was so late in the afternoon.’
‘step aside, step aside,
we’ve come by
to fix the waterpipes.
Off to the side,
we’ve got work to do.’
‘Bad news!
The city maintenance crew!’
Rat a tack, a tack, tack, tack, tack
Rat attack, attack, tack, tack, tack
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Hello?’
‘Hello’
‘What a side show’
‘a real carnival.’
‘What about the poem?’
‘no longer making sense.’
‘What’s your evidence?’
‘I brought him down to the local coffee shop,
and thinking he had an audience, he perched a-top the
coffee bar countertop, carrying on, like
he was some kind of icon running the Rubicon, every
woman’s Don Juan, his tongue prattling
nonstop, blurting this nonsense:
‘Da bod is a toonin in stra ment,
da bod is a toonin in stra ment’
‘sounds cryptic’
‘maybe mythic’
‘Glossolalia?’
‘Or a bottle’s Coup d’etat?’
'But he does have the crowd rolling.
Growing! With more people a showing,
up, clapping, throwing kisses, and whistle
blowing.'
‘but if he doesn’t make sense,
how does he hold them in suspense?’
‘Maybe its his medium of expression
his way of making connections.’
‘Has he no sense of shame?
And what is the lure of these games
that drives his verse,
the magic of his words,
inspiring his listeners to reach higher,
toward celestial fires
igniting their eyes
sending them on magic carpet rides
to realms seen
only in solitary dreams.
Is there reason within his madness,
the ways he provokes sorrow or gladness?
Does he fan a flame already burning
through his nonsense versing,
opening windows into souls,
invoking within melodies sewn
a long time ago
turning each seed into a poem?’
‘Could he be the re-member-ing of Orpheus,
the ripening of the fruit of Eros?’
‘And the poetry of his poem?’
‘Is the poetry of life.’
‘And his soul?’
‘Becomes a guide.
Listen to the rhythms around you,
to the heart who can hear,
they become music to the ears.’
‘So what to do now?
I feel lost since he
has been found.’
‘Let it go,
and leave him alone.
Your job is done.
Time to go home.’
‘The lake glows tonight
from the shadow of the moon,
in tune, crickets sing.’
‘Goodbye!’
Ailill, 9 february 2012
Love and Vanity in a 3 Part Act
Listen to the rhythm of the rhyme,
Hear the story captured within the lines.
I. The Dream
Stars shining bright
Through darkness of night,
Outside, a full moon,
Fallen into a swoon.
My lost soul all alone,
Drifting into the depths of sleep,
I sail through an endless sea,
Losing all sense of ‘I’ known.
Conjured out of this dream,
Captured by an empty page,
A glimpse of your image
Beckons, calling out to me..
Chiseling you into stone,
I witness the radiance of you,
Your charm shining through,
I am bewildered by what I behold.
My heart racing, I hear my sighs,
As I watch you coming alive.
Displayed as a hidden treasure
You are a gem of light and luster.
Those penetrating sky blue eyes,
That sweet and radiant face,
Full of smiles and loving grace,
Expressing more than I can imply.
That streaming golden hair,
Those satiny sweet lips,
And lusciously formed hips,
With you nothing can compare.
Your succulent cream breasts
Revealing all they suggest.
But it is the theme of those thighs
Which are a feast for my eyes.
The arch of your feet
Make you complete,
When you whirl that way
Dancing your graceful ballet.
I lose myself in contemplation,
Over the object of my temptation.
You are like an angel fallen from above.
With you, I seek passionate love.
We caress under the stars.
I sing, you strum the guitar.
We make the very air vibrate
With a love that does not abate.
From a tree, I hear a soft melody.
The doves are singing in harmony!
The cicadas add rhythm to the background
As the night fills with the sound.
Dawn comes too soon in the rising of the sun,
And a roosters crow, ‘A new day has begun.’
It is then that you hold up the mirror
Unveiling to me my worst hidden fear.
I look within and see, gazing back at me,
The object of my eye is only my vanity,
And I witness as your image fades
Back into the emptiness of the page.
I cry once again, all alone.
Heart broken, cold as stone.
This love tears me apart.
How can I mend my broken heart?
I need you, I want you, I love you,
But I know that I cannot have you,
You, the phantom of my fantasy,
So I send you sailing in the breeze.
Become a seed, and carry this poem.
Please, I beg you, bring me the love I lack,
If you can find your way back.
I can no longer bear being on my own.
I click on the cyber-link
then faster than a blink,
and the words are gone
taking on new life beyond.
Myself, I feel torn apart,
Like a part of my heart
has been driven away,
gone astray, to my dismay.
II. Alienation
I flutter down closer
To get a better look
At the owner of this book,
the author, who is my father.
Spying my broken wings,
He asks, ‘Who are you?’
‘Please tell me the truth.’
I continue to hover, waiting
For him to re-member me,
Into the thoughts of his memory.
Imagine me the outcast,
Reminding him of his past?
This prodigal child of mine,
Who plucked me from his dreams
After speaking of his undying love for me,
Capturing my form in rhythm and rhyme,
Composing me into a poem,
Then sending me flying,
With little thought or feeling,
Before dispelling me from his home.
Lost, I wandered many a day,
Through the farther reaches of space.
Before falling down a well,
Forgetting myself as I fell.
My wings injured in the fall,
No one to hear my calls.
Day and night, underground,
Realm without sight or sound.
Tortured by unseen hands
Bled like a sacrificial lamb,
I endured the pricks and prods
Into the heart of my thoughts.
Discovering a faint light,
Realizing it was daylight,
Seeing the end of the tunnel,
I found myself on the road
That led me back to you.
It was then that I knew what I must do,
To you, dear author of me,
To create space for healing.
Now that I have your attention,
Forgive me if I didn’t mention,
You may notice these scars,
They’re nothing really, just my heart!
Oh, so you see this red?
That’s where I bled, during that edit,
When they did that re-write
To make my lines ‘tight’.
And here is that bruise
Left by those who just knew,
How to make me conform
To their ideals of form.
Please, don’t look so afraid,
at the monster that you made,
When you posted me online,
All for your egotistical designs.
III. Atonement
Oh, what have I done,
and allowed to become
Of you, my heart’s jewel?
How could I be so cruel?
I have been tricked by my own deception.
How can I live with myself amidst my delusion?
All this in the name of my own vanity?
For what purpose besides testing my sanity?
Forgive me, my love,
I beg you, return my dove.
Return to this heart of mine,
Shining gem, light of my life.
I still see your beauty shining through
The bleeding scars of your wounds.
And I have become so lost
Without you in my thoughts.
You are my hidden treasure,
There is no way to measure
The flow of this beauty
That gushes through me.
And who am I to claim to know you?
When it was you who first came to me,
Outside of the lines of this poetry.
Beyond form, your beauty has higher value
Than all of the world’s gold
It cannot be bought or sold.
You, who I have disgraced
Please, be my saving grace.
Redeem me of this burden
And the weight of this thoughtless crime
Committed against you and I,
Let the reign of wisdom begin
Without and Within
Ailill, 7 january 2012
Beheld
Unfolding before your eyes
are states of mind that come and go,
mirrored in flashes of this life,
witnessing a self, as it beholds:
scents of incense on a breeze
hanging over early morning still,
bone barren trees, fallen leaves,
decomposing in winter chill.
Refuge inside, hermit-like,
ingrained in a breakfast bagel,
blueberries mingle, each bite
stains tongue into blue halos.
Saxaphone Jazz waves of Coltrane
playing ‘Soul Trane,’ swing in tune
to a medley of strumming sitar refrains
e-mailing mantras to the moon.
Cartoon sitcom scenes broadcasting
into the open window
of the t.v. screen; reflecting
fingers tapping the tango.
Table top romance,
engaged to a B flick movie,
tickled into a trance,
thoughts intrigued with the fantasies,
closet confessions hinted in depth;
double lives of Walter Mitty.
Theatrical daydreams secret,
classic Mysticism and Logic
reflections on existence.
Language stripped to the core,
laid bare, awareness of sense,
in order for mind to explore:
‘In the eyes of the beholder
lies keys to the self,
for self is a reflector
of what is beheld.’
Ailill, 16 december 2015
Multiverse
Invoked by the eternal Om
strange attractors
attract from a sea
of infinite possibility
Mutual arisings emerge
out of parallel pasts
Each arising a note
on a chromatic scale
Actualizing potentiality
Metaphors of becoming
reflect one another through
a process of relationship
between is and is not
In manifestation
time celebrates the rise
and fall of individual waves
Out of discordant rhythms
one gathers momentum
A frothy foam becomes home
to impromptu jazz melodies
syncopated to love's eternal beat
like a spider spinning her web
everything interconnected
strives toward underlying
unity
World remade
through the rhythm
of breath
Time begins again
Ailill, 31 july 2014
Wind Rushes In
A symphony of violin
strings vibrate.
The bustle buzz of a housefly
rattles and hisses up the windpipe.
Internal schisms
project a cadence
in rhythm.
In spaces between
a flock of birds
convert to
subjects and verbs;
clothing the suchness of things
with butterfly wings,
seeding the garden
with meaning.
Unity denied,
seeing with two eyes
signs that signify
waves that lap the shorelines.
Standing on higher ground
to avoid being drowned,
water seeps through
magnetic pulls of me and you.
Ailill, 20 august 2014
Fading into the Rain
Witnessing another side of life
Feeling it in my bones
Remembering what I left behind
Didn’t ask to die alone
Want to forget I keep on dying
a little more every day
but in winds of fate, no denying
The toll we all got to pay
This body, a wilting flower
Will I rise to see the dawn?
Clock ticks toward witching hour
With so much undone
Released from this limbo world
a light shines through the doorway
Shades of this passing side show
fade into the rain
Pouring myself some burgundy wine
Into this cup of bitterness
A couple sips to quiet this troubled mind
Into sweet forgetfulness
Promise me just one last dance
I’m feeling a second wind
Begging for a second chance
Need to tie up some loose ends
This dance is leaving me breathless
Raise that bar a little more
Don’t feed me to the wine press
Got to get back to where I was before
Released from this limbo world
a light shines through the doorway
Shades of this passing side show
fade into the rain
Fading into the rain...
Ailill, 10 october 2014
Expectations
Expecting experience
to match up to dreams
I echo my expectations
always seeking to be
who I am
like an origami boat
tossed and turned
down the flow of a stream
broken dreams lying around
keep me in a trance
disengaged from the dance
of the eternal now
see me as I wish to be seen
an image self created
self perpetuated in longing
for a cup
half empty,
never full
Latest comments:
7 may 2024
Adam Pietras (Barry Kant)
Myśli się zawsze więcej, niż pisze, tak sądzę.
7 may 2024
Takie mediacje, mam pewną teorię z tym związaną,
7 may 2024
Eva T.
Pieknie w tej zieleni. Pozdrawiam :)
7 may 2024
Pomyslalam o wiezowcu, ale jesli o nic nie chodzi...
7 may 2024
Piekny :)
7 may 2024
jeśli tylko
spisanie to ujawnienie..
6 may 2024
Weronika
Wiara w zimny poranek, to sprzeniewierzenie się
4 may 2024
Boli bo rektoskop to nie gadżet analny, więc
4 may 2024
Jutro jest niewyrażalne i nie do odgadnięcia.
3 may 2024
violetta
Drzewka do jedzenia:)
1 may 2024
Tak;)
1 may 2024
kb
złotej*
6 may 2024
Satish Verma
5 may 2024
Satish Verma
4 may 2024
kalik
4 may 2024
Satish Verma
3 may 2024
wiesiek
3 may 2024
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1 may 2024
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30 april 2024
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29 april 2024
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28 april 2024
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