Ailill, 18 december 2013
Through an open window
these eyes behold
pinches of wisdom
sprinkled on a poem.
Rewinding the road
separating work from home,
it's settings betwixt and between.
Rehearsing for the stage,
I turned into a dream,
reflecting:
'an image is not easy to create,
but once made, difficult to break,
effecting our roles, what to uphold,
what we let go.'
Coming home,
thoughts of being alone,
turned off the radio, t.v.
and the telephone.
No expectations,
trials or tribulations,
Just me on me,
Deprogramming.
Like a saxophone player who missed his cues,
turning jazz into the blues,
yesterday,
the rain clouds were overburdened,
little cause for celebration.
Teardrops
invoked shockwave echoes
rolling out of the singing bowl
of the cosmos:
'Our thoughts create a spell,
sending our minds spiraling
on a journey to either
heaven or hell.'
Waking up on the other side of the rainbow,
like Chuang Tsu's butterfly, I no longer knew,
was I the midwife? The leavening of the bread?
The coffee roll down at the local Greasy Spoon?
Or Deja Vu, am I you?
These feasting eyes peering through
an open window,
forgetting again
what they once knew.
Ailill, 18 december 2013
Transformation is in the air,
celebrated everywhere,
written in human history,
in every mythology
an ancient theme that we all share,
In this season, as we prepare
For a day that has been declared
A holiday, remember the key:
Transformation
Spirituality when compared
promotes this common prayer,
contemplating the Christmas tree
a mystery, its meaning holy,
this time, let us be aware, it bears:
transformation
Ailill, 7 december 2012
Problema
A priceless pearl, she was daddy’s girl,
until she was lured away from home
by the temptations of the world.
Her dad, a retired policeman, was loyal
to the law, and dutiful to his girl
up to that fateful, stormy night
when he caught her in his sight,
forcing him to make a choice, choosing
between love and his ideals of right;
trading love for the law and its duties.
She had hidden her habit for a while
behind white lies and an innocent smile,
but ruled by the dictates of desire
an endless, unquenchable fire,
each day, its flames growing higher,
she couldn’t keep herself from her games,
and in life everything has it’s price,
to pay the tag for her using ways
she would have to make a sacrifice,
betraying her dad for the pusher man.
She had planned on the sly with cash stashed
but with the loss of each nickel and dime
she ran herself further into a jamb,
until her bank account was bone dry,
savings drained away by king cocaine.
Costs mounting, she didn’t know what to do
except to break into her father’s safe
and make off with his cache of jewels,
one at a time, sure he wouldn’t miss them!
Excusing herself into his bedroom
when he was napping or in the basement,
fooling around with his machines and tools.
She had gotten by, but with the tick of time
nothing can hide, it all comes to light.
Maybe it was the storm brewing that night,
but dad, he forgot something upstairs
and that’s when he found her standing there,
his clown’s hand caught by the cookie jar,
breaking her dad’s heart, lives torn apart.
He called down to the station, turned her in.
Cuffing her, they hauled her off to the pen.
Shame doubled by another tragedy,
in jail, she learned dad had lost his sanity.
The absurdity made him lose faith in life.
For love, he committed suicide,
breaking in pain, his life lived in vain,
for upholding the rules of it’s games.
Daddy is now out of the picture,
but not his girl, held in jail,
her life hell, she is left to suffer.
She sits in torment over her sin,
betrayal of herself as daddy’s girl.
For her, will healing ever begin?
Or will she burn slow in the heat of her woes?
Reflection
While reading Kierkegard’s ‘Fear and Trembling’
and writing my memoirs, I fell to reflecting,
mind meandering into a rambling
incoherent state, I became stuck between
law, faith, life and all that it dictates.
Life is like trying to snare a fox,
full of absurdity and paradox.
Since the opening of Pandora’s box,
only hope leads us on, but the law
sees our flaws, and life is a poem,
with no easy solutions. We come and go
like the rain’s ceaseless cycle,
and the catch is loving these passing shapes,
while realizing they are but charades.
This life that we all participate in
has held us imprisoned since
our beginning, through our suffering
we hope to gain a piece of heaven,
paying lip service to codes, regulations,
maintaining the illusion of control,
afraid to break the mold, secrets untold.
But is the law our salvation?
Maybe dying before death is the key,
but how, when it’s this life tempting me?
Upon living, reflection
is easier than participation.
I for one, feel unworthy
of the task as it is given.
Now that I have spoken,
old crow laughs at the joke.
Ailill, 10 july 2012
Yesterday’s rain drops
bloom butterfly wings breathing
dandelion sparks.
Cherry moon in flight,
chickadee's shrill notes echo
bullfrogs’ rumbling drums.
Cloaking shadow white
blossoms picked by the moonlight
word play in the way.
Being becoming
moths gracing a lilac bush
during a full moon.
A break in the storm,
April’s hickory leaves splashed
against morning sun.
Ailill, 6 june 2012
Greystone highways,
scenic byways.
Caught between William Blake’s
Songs of Innocence,
and Sun Ra’s
Sounds of Dissonance.
The hills are gold tonight,
under the blood
of setting sun,
as curtains draw
upon Phaeton’s
fallen star.
Imagination?
Car hums,
world spins.
Tired eyes
see signs
of
Applebees,
Holiday inn.
Glimpses of what is,
what could be.
No resolution,
just other horizons.
Ailill, 23 march 2012
‘Will the real Ailill show his face, please?
imposters such as these
leave me ill at ease.’
‘Sorry my friend, but Ailill died long ago
of his former glory only bones are left to show.’
‘Then how can these imposters claim
to be what they are not?
Have they given much thought to the costs
of their claims and the false path
upon which they walk?’
‘Maybe there is a reason for their mask
and their self-effacing act?’
‘But why is there this need to lie,
to hide behind false eyes,
true selves kept out of the limelight?’
‘I presume you are under the assumption
that you are real whereas they are not?
If so, how do you carry out your daily tasks?
Do you tell the truth, or do you act?
In this event,
how are they different
from the rest of humanity
hiding behind its mask of vanity?
Don’t we all have secret lives,
hidden motives and drives?
Acting out roles behind social masks,
wearing more than one hat?
Also, if we are all created in the image of a higher man,
how can we claim to be masters of this, our dance?
Therefore, who are we to deny these imposters their claim
to a pen name, when
we play the same games?’
‘But why hide behind the image of somebody else,
when they can claim fame for themselves?’
‘Maybe it is due
to their philosophy,
does it lend them the strength of creativity?’
‘But what about the double bind created within
themselves,
when hiding behind the image of somebody else?’
‘Yes, I understand the questions that have been advanced,
but could it be that these poets are in tune with a
different plan?’
‘Why, what do you mean?’
‘To answer that, we must ask,
what is creativity?
Does it come from ourselves?
Is it a gift of something else,
emanating from another place,
Given freely to be used wisely?
Or do its fruits come with a price tag,
of which we can brag?
Your reaction to this question,
determines your actions,
the ways you use your mask
to carry out your daily tasks’
‘So let me ask,
is this your defense of the mask
these poets wear in order to share
their verse and image laden words?
How can you base your premise
upon this circular reasoning nonsense?’
‘You think life to be rational?
Haven’t we already shown
that we wear the mask,
caught up within our act
accepting consensus reality,
and the absurdity of its banalities?’
‘I guess so’
‘Then out of life, what do you hope to gain?
Fame? Your name chiseled into stone,
A chance to sit on a throne?
Or do you seek to change the games that we play,
games that estrange us from each other,
and Gaia, our earth mother?
For a mask can either be used
in the service of inner truths,
or to hide behind
self serving lies.
The proper question is not, who is real,
or who wears a mask.
Instead, it is what do each of us do
with the role in which we are cast.
For if it is given that life is a comedy,
with us deluded by illusion, no reality,
then should we give in
to cynic narcissism,
ethereal mysticism?
Could there be a middle way,
to see life as play?
To the poet, creativity is the highest pursuit,
in his quest to bear fruit to the melody of the lute,
a follower of a different drum, seeking outcomes
that are not the same as his fellow man,
his way is a different way within this eternal dance.
For it is art which speaks to the poets heart
and to his self, he gives no regards
sacrificing his identity
as a gift to the muse of creativity
in honor of what she has given
as a token of his payment
for the visions that she has lent.
It is pain that leads them to embark on this way,
this way of the heart.
Seeing life from the bottom of the well
makes one cherish the glory that was once beheld
for hard times makes a heart wise.
Setting eyes upon the first blush of a new dawn,
lends the strength to carry on,
with the tasks as given.
Remembrance of life’s inner rhythms
in a comedy without end,
each moment,
merely a new beginning. ‘
Ailill, 6 march 2012
‘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
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, 23 january 2012
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.
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