In tune with the weight of the moon
Even in the morning there is light
A way to pass into the realm of waves
If I stare hard into the twisted shapes
Sense can be made of a day
Sense can be derived from a universe of misalignment
Turn the malformed mass on its side
A new birth awaits every solitary station
Look into the eyes of a statue
A soul is frozen in every stone
Look deep into the eye of dear moon
She is telling us we’re not quite alone
She is telling us there is solace in cyclical motion
Telling us the story of all incantations
That the bright shines behind our eyes
creativity
Socrates Versus Muse
The muse are often a flighty band. Some days they flitter about in far away neighborhoods. Others they will hover in silent stares, casting shadows on my tombstone, withholding all information, letting one think. The inflicted occupation of thinking has caused many a malfeasance. In this neighborhood it spells death. The friction of the feet must generate enough heat to keep the children from freezing. The reflex must be honed as the switchblade sidearm is, ready to strike with fists of hardened bone. To stop and figure is a gesture to the predators of submission. A confident tone and sharp intuition goes a long way here. We are the warriors of understanding, letting the information wash over when it rains, following the patterns that it paints for our sake. And when the sun shines in its unsettling silence, we wait.
Bring in the Wolf
I want to let in the wolf
To roam the halls
To pull a howling believer into me
To savage the pallid flesh
To wreck the furniture
I trust his style
Unrelenting and wild
It can be difficult to get him out
But while his hoarse cry rings
The world is right
In the Absence of Ambition
Sometimes, the voices in my head are so loud, they come out of other people’s mouths. The “should” becomes the theme of self destruction. Wayward desires conspire to confiscate the joy of a passion or an honest vocation. If I heed the voices, hurled from surely loving directions, I may become lost in a dilemma of indecision, self reproach, even loathing. Yes, it can be turned against the host–an autoimmune anti agent of urgency.
If the throttle of messages is regulated, there comes a stillness, pervasive and persuading, to ease the force of steel will. A light and modest unleashing can then take place, in the absence of murderous ambitions.
Shine and Hide
There will be days
When the muses sleep late
I don’t even believe
These mythical beings be
There is a flood
A rush of blood
A cosmic alignment
The assignment suddenly becomes clear.
Who am I to suppose
That these beings come specifically to me
That they only live under my tree
Bearing fruit for these hands to harvest
The stream is infinitely wide
With access on both sides
We all swim, drink and lie
We all shine as we all hide.