Transfixus Sed Non Mortuus

Here I Stand, Pierced and Transfixed

Browsing Posts in Poetry

Lashing Your Pride

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Our entwining hopes and dreams
seem to be lost in this tide.
Swirling away, lost in screams.
I’m drowning on this fate ride.
I’m changing my perspective,
to refocus my heart’s lens.
I’m living with broken ghosts
I once knew as my friends.

Why do you lash up your pride
as you curl up alongside
and shoot at me broadside?

Why did I make a choice
that only causes me pain?
How can I get back my voice?
I just want to be with you.
I want you happy and free.
You are laying your incense
at the altar of ego
This heart breaks with pain unseen.
Is there anywhere to go?

Why do you lash up your pride
as you curl up alongside
and shoot at me broadside?

You struggle, you always do
but think it’s different;
that I always will be too.
But I,
I am diffident.

Always be drunk.
That’s it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
time’s horrid burden
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
But on what?
Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish!
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind, the wave,
the star, the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that whines
rolls, or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind, the wave,
the star, the bird,
and the clock will answer you:
“Time to get drunk!
Don’t be martyred slaves of time,
Get drunk! Stay drunk!
But on what?
Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish!”
~Charles Baudelaire

This poem smacks me with a great understanding of who and what I am. I can get drunk on alcohol or any other physical thing, but I can never stay that way. I can get drunk on poetry or any other mental thing, but I can never stay that way. Those things can be beautiful, but they haven’t the lasting power of true life. I think that I could get drunk on virtue, AND that’s the one thing that lasts. It is timeless. It has merit and value to myself, my hopes, and my dreams. If I chose the former options, I’m just avoiding my own existence in my physicality or mind. Instead, I must choose the latter. I must strive to be drunk on virtue. Drunk always!

I wish for you all the Spring’s dances.
I wish for you all the Spirit’s fire.
I wish for you hope’s loving glances.
I wish for you wings to soar higher.
All these things I wish for you.
All those moments, time unending.
I wish all this for you.

The Red Ribbon

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A red ribbon
sleepily in the quiet lulling night.
Tied tight
the porcelin
I wonder whether it could snap.

At play here
is the
rummaging solitude of her skin.
What fills
to the very
is the red ribbon’s knot.

What are these feelings that I’ve looked at where the shadows of sound
cast away the light in the cool damp of evening?
Are the secret fires of golden ceramic kings laughing lightly
where the rage and foolishness idly watch the solitude and the silence?
Great are the eagles that hunker down into their giant nests of calico and sticks.
Yet even eagles can fly to the heights of fear sometimes!
Sometimes, sometimes, the empathy drives me to the shadowy turrets of a long forgotten mood.

Notice this silence?
It’s not for you.
It’s not for the treatment.
It’s not for the joy.
It’s the laugh that hangs just outside of my reach.
It’s the dance that I had hoped that you would teach.
It’s the great fall and the trippling jagged way.
It’s the horror and the healing.
It’s the young love and the old fears.
It’s the way you glance at me as I draw near.

You’re all I see. You’re all that I want to know, but if you bend me, I will break.
If you graft your fears on my shoulders,
the tree that grows isn’t the one I was made for.
If you grace my heart with wreaths of thorns, don’t be mad if I scrape them away.
What’s the watchwords that dance before the olden shepherds
where the fields that golden rays saw play?
Where’s the griffin and the unicorn that used play before the king
in the shadowy garden of olden gloried hearts?

I Cannot

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Those pesky desires –
drunken disorded lullabyes
that wafted from olden skies –
a May king’s fires.

I can’t make the change
I can’t be the change
I can’t make the change

The range is set.
The die is cast.
Will it last?
Make the bet?

I can’t love better
I can’t live better
I can’t love better

Only time lends wings
Only hope rings clear
through the voice of fear
the old song it sings

I can’t sing harmony
I can’t sing melody
I can’t sing harmony

There’s a quiet subtleness
where the lilies grow red.
I can frost what she said
or wrap it in cuttleness.

Why can’t the Earth ring?
Why can’t the Earth sing?
Why can’t the Earth ring?

This tree captured my attention in Clarkston, MI

This tree captured my attention in Clarkston, MI

The fields are sown in treasures of light
and the skies are blanketed by birds in flight
The dawn is taking, breaking the inner reach
of the auld and failing memory I used to teach
The soft and gentle mists are wrapping all things
in the color and sap of dismality and grey.
The cunning and baffling are all that hold sway.
But the sun rises and the dove reaches
as the world is wrapped in the new day.

Like Rivers

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I miss you like the river misses the mountain.
I leap into the sky to rain on you again.
In my leap I see where your peace and waters flow
from all that you have seen and all that you will know.
I wish to be near to the heart that I have seen
in the place where water’s blue meets the meadow’s green.
There must be a moment: two hearts run free and true
like a river flowing to another in queue.
There is a line of symmetry in all that flow,
but it requires the water to fully know
where the wishing and the wanting end in the dream.
That green place is at the end of a sacred stream.
On that flooded altar where the waters end up,
the hundred thousand flowers that drink from our cup
float softly in your hands and gently break away
like a sunrise at the newness of every day.
So, I miss you like rivers miss the mountain
I leap into the sky to rain on you again.

Small Seams

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If there’s any hope in the light of day,
let it wrap and enflower all that you say.

May the skies dance with dragon fire
into the deepest shadows of your ire.

Let the rolling respectful glances free
to give another the joy to live and see.

There is so much light and love here
but you have to let go of all your fear.

Silence whistles and words aren’t wise,
if you listen, you’ll hear the music rise.

Gratitude trees and unbroken treatises nearby
if your eyes will only begin to run dry.

Flint-soaked axes and cutthroat decisions
will not stand before your soul’s incisions.

There is a space to be free and cut away
the lies and the foolishness in each day.

So, take it and run it out to the seashore
Cast it away and the waves will bring you more.

There lies the beauty and the painful gift.
There is the sewing needle and the rift.

A glance, a word, a hope, and a dream
can re-enter through the smallest seam.

So live it and love all that you are not
That will help Time’s gardener weed your plot.

Two lovers stand before each tomorrow.
They have nothing but their love to borrow.
A heart of gold does not line purse strings
and oaken souls can’t bow to broken kings.

These two loves live in the prime of their lives.
The sky glows blue as it dances and strives
to break their legs as they prop up the dawn.
In that light, they learn that truth is not gone.

But a stranger that walks in the misty light
owns a fallow field that’s filled with dark might
Those two light hearts wonder to each other
if they could face such darkness together.

There is longing in the words that hope speaks.
There is a brokenness that ebbs and peaks.
But inside them, there is nothing but light,
and one soul won’t move from the other’s sight.

This is the way it always runs through us:
a broken word filled with a bit of trust.
It’s a silent prayer wrapped in a new song
whose beat moves these two souls further along.