Choral Coloured Windows

This morning, as I sat drinking tea, the shadow ofMy neck found the book in my lap.
Sunlight falling upon my head and arms
And I could see the shadow of my pulse
Beating
Pulsing—and the tea steam had a shadow too.
How common.
Life and dissipating steam.
Something vibrating
Plucked—sounded for all
Or some to hear.
Then harmonics. Sympathetic vibrations.
Then still till music finds again.
Or else ever still.
From windows come music
Or steams
Or seams of life or merely
Light.
“Lord thou pluckest me out.”
Here are glistening strings
Past windows and pulse.
His Spirit
Sunlight passes through
The Shadow and these shades
Listen.

Misspoken Understanding

Crushed by memory that has by chanceWrought disorder grown late of living.
Captured symbolic logic and the glance

Forward into fate or happenstance,
A tireless dreamer forever giving—
Crushed by memory that has by chance

Counted a means unto advance.
Tearing the bit from lover’s chiding—
Captured symbolic logic and the glance

That measured distance an infinite expanse
Without patience and no understanding.
Crushed by memory that has by chance

Caught the unaware in timid stance
While bold step into unhindering.
Captured symbolic logic and the glance

That may without words weeping entrance
A spirit upon edgeless seams of dying.
Crushed by memory that has by chance
Captured symbolic logic and the glance.

The Last November

“Therefore we thank Thee for our little Light That is dappled with Shadow.”

I think these thoughts are not my own; Except for lucid whispers From faint dreaming Or day-long nightmares tearing away. But we are all aware now; The Dreamers will awaken me Though we never sleep again.
I think these thoughts are not my own When memory comes without my bidding Or ability to forget. For endless moments listen Without attention to diction Or need to fear any consequences From the chance of any meaning.
I think these thoughts are not my own; Thought spoken and kept as True—sheltered from my own understanding I repeat what voices say Without pause or notation—Simplicity Is too Difficult to comprehend.

I think these words are not my own; Without description Symbol or History All message is rhythm—and The act is one of tragedy.
I think these words are not my own; A passage without subject Cannot edify even the most perceptive Or hold consequence to any departing hero.

These words –Without—
Are not –Meaning—
My own –or—
Voice –Voice— Beyond the Sound Of Paper burning; My own pages to the Last.

Mirrors

Here we
look
out
into
Mirrors
and view ourselves
And others
Only once our
self
but
Twice the image of one standing by Who sees also double— Reflections and original.
From that vantage Standing near to both, Able to discern Apparition from Reality Presentation from Truth Choosing between mirrors These gazing forms Reach out through reflections And embrace Or else press upon the Image Until all our Visions break away.

Is It Morning

or Breakfast of the Birds I
Is it morning?
They must mourn that
Chilly sunrise—
Spring color on frosted branches,
I am warm
Behind the pane.
They are framed fitly—
By a window—
(Also once a tree)
I wonder.
Does it pain them—
Having no home to shelter in as I?

II
It is morning.
Does it mourn—
Hidden from our sunrise?
Pale, thin—feathers plucked?
Is it chill within—
Behind that hard air?
It seems trapped
In that mangle of dead limbs
(Also once a tree?)
We wonder.
Does it pain—
Having no branches as we?

Unspoken

When part of “True” Remains
Unspoken—and every Passing day becomes the next— Though lingering; All of
My known and what may be Right—if only silent—then Sadness.
When is the remedy for “True” now spoken partially? Every day becomes a Burden to damaged spirits Then Sadness—“True”
Faith, Now spoken—I’ll listen Lord.
Let someone speak “True” And none become bitter Through lingering Between these days Till the next—and Ending.

So Near, My Love

So Near My Love
Too close again to see That one—alone May never know the Touch Of Trust Or any closer Than the Distance Of most Kindred Kindred Spirits be— Closer still— As God will allow— Did He not make One? But it is His choosing of The two— The same That moves this Spirit between us— So near— My love So close that we may see That each—Alone Must know this Hand Of trust—upon us Before two may closer be.

Call to Forgetting

Every sentence, every thought,Every word a crafted moment.
Hard is the time for loss,
Harder still the time for memory.

I

A warrior roused for conflict
His weapons sleeping
And weary limbs draw him down.
Yet the ranks fall quickly about him
To a deeper sleep beyond marching
Or the call of any new battle.

II

All silence is an act within
A carried item of weightless luggage
Once forgotton, it is difficult to find again