ALL RESPONSES |
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| It was just a matter of time before I posted a work by this painter, one of my favorites. Turn on some Beethoven, and think. |
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The Gate
The poisons of death
percolate up and through
soaked and condemned soil
to feed imprisoned roots
and burn leaves before the cold
then twist and sever limbs
Doomed to skeletonized distorted lives
when good living could no longer be had
the oaks of the Abbey of St. Dymphna's gate
invite only the insane or soon to be
Few others are invited and fewer pass through
the stoned yard of the lately disturbed
to hear a wild dog's not too distant howl
to watch the hunger of a large owl's sillouette |
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Who could have known, that crisp December day,
That it could happen? We listened on the radio,
Until it stopped: Earthquakes, hurricanes,
Tsunamis. The very ocean floor gave way,
So there was nowhere for the hills to stand,
And then the following new sicknesses.
The pious thought there was to be a Coming,
Surely, this was the time. But no one came.
We few are left, we few incongruous strangers.
The crops we grow, dug from the blackened soil,
are onions, potatoes. Somehow, we make it do,
Especially since the children don't remember
Cities, or what we did on Christmas Eve
To make our spirits ready to receive
The blessings of an uneventful year. |
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Abbey in the Oakwood
painting by Caspar David Friedrich
What shall I do
with this nightmare?
Turn the page quickly,
color it over,
have a glass or two of wine?
Caspar David, your ghostliness
is not friendly, nor romantic.
Stark and ruinous,
bleak nature calls the shots.
Branches scream to the sky,
not one dried leaf in sight.
Old walls are pitful.
Dark-bodied creatures without faces
scramble without a candle
or even a tiny flashlight
toward reprieve in another life.
I have seen this scene before.
Perhaps I woke from it
last night at midnight,
shivering.
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You lead me through absolutes
a hard glittering like the swimming pool—
in the courtyard of the old hotel
facing the lake.
I want to kneel there beside abandoned water.
Sometimes I come running from the forest edge
longing for the eyes of another.
But the shrine is empty.
The abbey and graveyard crumble.
That priest with a cell phone no longer
stops there, the hands of the angels
missing, the head of the saint on the ground.
I can't go far into the dark—not like Orpheus
who followed his love as far as possible
before turning back.
I stumble onward, avoiding branches,
shaking off flies and spiders.
If I walk deep enough into the alphabet of trees,
I hear the half-taught names
of other lives
scrolling the burden of language—
not statues but the roses left there
not little sacrifices but the thrill
of returning.
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I cup my hands and hold
the memories
your life was a blue horse
on a cold metal merry-go-round
I pray now
I pray now candles will burn
cleanly
My hands fold and quiver; a sigh
feels its end even before it is
fully born
snow falls on autumn leaves
and quietness hangs like webs
that still cling to my heart
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Why do some people hide themselves?
Not only people. I have a begonia a friend gave me,
a yellow begonia, a beautiful plant, and it hides
its flowers under the inevitable brown and withered leaf.
A church doesn’t hide itself but says look at me.
The bells say remember me, it’s time.
The graveyard says, it’s time, remember.
The oaks clustered around the church tell
a winter tale boldly, each twisted branch
creeping along the sky like batty words.
Grave stones don’t. They slouch in a place
where the only appropriate color to wear
belongs to a dark winter night’s spectrum.
But a church stands erect as if it descended
from a long line of mothers who harped,
Straighten your shoulders, stand tall.
Even in ruins, it’s a formidable neighbor.
In ruins it’s see-through, obvious to all
there’s nothing inside. All that substance,
a life of voices, has disappeared.
Where are comfortable chairs? A human face?
The windows? Someday the woods will
consume the church, will slowly break apart
the stones with the persistence in their roots,
but they haven’t yet. The church is staunch.
And on a dark rainy date in late autumn,
it’s as cold as the parishioners who use the grounds
as a short cut through the woods. Maybe colder,
since the church doesn’t move, has no arms
to swing. Does this make it look humble?
Does this make it hide itself in the shadow?
I don’t think so. How can it hide itself?
It’s too big. There’s something admirable
in anything that is slow to collapse into rubble,
that defends its position until the last stone
cracks and oaks grow out of its skull. Even
when when it has no door left to be locked.
Even when someone passing by pisses into
a stone corner. Even when the weather
looks dark and threatening, and you’re in a woods
you’d never want to walk through alone.
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pain runs through
generations
of this family
like a river
i see my anguished reflection
in dark waters
and your shadow
too heavy to lift
ever present
we see it coming
we know who's next
but we're powerless
to stop it
calm on the surface
it’s the undertow
that takes them
one by one
in memory of our latest loss Craig Ross Barden 12/19/82 – 9/27/11
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I watch
light giving away to dusk
soon to be night
while the sand bar gets larger
at this end of the river
The bird reunion before the migration
their laughter, their plans and goodbyes
echoed through the woods to our lives
a reminder that routine has its reasons
So much life everywhere
yet so quiet and humbling;
The false immobility of this river mirrors the peace
that is so completely absent in me as I talk to you
this peace - my own ivory-billed woodpecker.
We've known each other for long
I've seen you walking
watching
like I do now
so much of you wrapped around words
so much of me wrapped around outside of myself
You told me about the flow
the pattern designed on fish skin
the dog chase;
a simplicity so heartfelt it hurts.
I hear you, I hear it
the order in our minds
hiding the random steps of our fears
knowing this is it but not quite, not yet...
How many skips have you taken with the skipped rock?
How many trips downstream with the floating branches?
This family that staples us together
These anchors we try to hold on to
are so damn impermanent
so much like water...
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Hush The snow ceases to fall the trees are already
dead and the people dressed in black file through
an archway leading to more snow and broken limbs
The trees are already dead and three abbey walls
are limbs in the snow the sound of footsteps
crunching, smothering and laying a new path I said
there was an abbey now only a façade surrounded
by dead trees Still the brothers march from sleeping
quarters to the cathedral entering as though
it is whole as though they are whole and the trees are
alive Then the snow refuses to fall and there is only
howling wind and brothers dressed like corvids
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One: Deal with the horror of those dealing with the horror of dealing with me.
Two: Walk the interstice between knowing and ignorance, never knowing where it begins or ends.
Three: Locate shadows, mine and those unknown, wavering in moonlight.
Four: Share thoughts, my own and those of all I’ve heard, read and seen, and how they’re shared with all the others before they reach me.
Five: Know how yielding, how boring it could be for the dead, how death might not exist or may be worse than life, or may be nothing to worry about.
Six: Make a magic wand, with hopes of using it to comfort humanity, bless them all, so that I can sleep.
Seven: Convert sunlight into water, and water into life. Love it. |
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Only the window still stands
to let the dead pass
I cannot travel through transparency
Such smooth stones are not natural
made by human hands to display
the permanence of finality
The clouds disagree,
they do not know of solidity
or an end
They shroud the flood of light
that is always in the distance
From my vantage point
I can never stand on the horizon
The bare forest wraps
its bony fingers around me
I blame the light
for such twisted shadows |
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the moon
sleeps..
dark is the
night...
light looms
through
the window
pane...
a candle's
dreams drip
slowly
still...
flames glow,
and with
patience
wait...
serenely
soft
in
silence...
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A cold morning I saw the tree of life hanging from my ceiling
With the holes of the black darkness scattered in its branches
And its trunk glowing like a giant fire by the summer sea
‘’I am Aivan, the Dancing Monk of the Pearl rooms’’ I said.
I described how at nights I transform into the wise blood
that sails the seven seas and carries all seven worlds
I must not tell you that I left the tree where I first found it
But that’s what I did. Because I am Aivan the Dancing Monk.
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Groves of emptiness stand there,
between what we've been, and
what we now are.
The entrance, now, is open
to infinity, and beyond that
lies only what's possible - the what
we'll be.
Who are we then, walking up on this?
Variations, only, of reality;
a subtle difference in the season,
the shade of leaves,
the color of sky.
The way our eyes smooth over our heart's desires
and change this scene from miserably dreary
into full of expectancy, life:
the way we want to spend the day.
It's a terrible place to try to keep paper dry
for writing,
but terrific
for taking photos of small things, here.
So next summer, in a storm,
a lightning bolt will strike
one of these tree carcasses down
with the noise of tearing cardboard;
crows will be swinging through the windows' skeleton,
mushrooms will be sprouting from spongy wood
hooting new colors into the light;
moments of future caught.
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Everything hangs
by threads
even the time it takes
to earn infamy
Fortunate are the few
who enjoy an end
to this bitterness
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To deal with the horror of those dealing with the horror of dealing,
walk the interstice between knowing and ignorance,
never knowing where it begins or ends.
Locate shadows, yours and those unknown, wavering in moonlight.
Share thoughts, your own and those of all you’ve heard, read and seen,
shared with all the others before they reach you.
Know how yielding, how boring it could be for the dead,
how death might not exist, or may be worse than life,
or may be nothing to worry about.
Make a magic wand, with hopes of using it to comfort humanity,
bless them all, so that you can sleep.
Convert sunlight into water, and water into life. Love it. |
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I wish to close
my eyes
and awaken
new with you...
immersed in
universal bliss
angelic peace
and mystery
Alas,
my soul
is
chained
to this
cruel
world
I weave...
Grief
consumes
my soul
tonight
and
anguish
never
leaves..
Visit me
in
looming
darkness
where I
choose
to
roam
and
waste
my numbered
days
Oh...
glimmer
of light
wash over me..
Speak to me
as you
used to
dear..
Sing our song
out loud
so I may
softly hear
Dance
with you..
I
must
You,
whose
spirit
lingers
in
between
clock's time
and space
Am I to
survive
this
Hell..
constructed
out of
stone
and glass...
Let me
see you
in my
dreams...
Give me
wings
so I may
fly...
Save
me
from myself
tonight...
Bring me to
eternal joy
found only in
the morning...
No one
knows
despair
like I
a wife
without
her husband's
love...
A bright
young life
drowned by
the sea..
Forever
lost
in
mourning...
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Touch their hands. The ones behind the light, in front of darkness.
Old people you met and missed, who gave you what little they had left
And departed into memory. We can touch the stones we erected for them.
We can leave flowers on their birthdays. Brush the leaves and vines away
From their names, so little attended, dusty, asleep. Rotting caskets,
Buried deep, full of sacred powder, scraps of someone’s vocabulary.
Touch their hands, reaching out to you though the dusk. Parents, children,
Uncles, cousins, friends. Soldiers buried in foreign fields. Saints. Sinners.
Kings. Dancing around the fire, just beyond illumination. Vague profiles.
But spirits, nonetheless, wishing to speak, and tell us about our past,
Or our future, if time makes a difference tonight, if it ever tried.
Beyond the screams and whistles of the fire, fingers of truth touch us.
Engaged. Living and having lived, accepting truce, cremating judgment.
Notions perceived from the corner of the third eye, throwing back cowls,
Gazing into steady, blue, bleeding sensors. On one side, warm water,
On the other, cool subterranean souls, sinking into comforts only the dead
Can know, but not fine enough to make them forget light, love and hope
For something other than a dark imitation of all that exists on the other side. |
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Everything hangs
by threads
be it the time it takes
to earn one’s infamy
or the time it takes
to surrender it
Watch a man walking
on the flush of a mountain,
his silent smile,
his ease of breath—
Watch a man weeping
in the darkness of cemetery,
his silent grimace,
his soul compressed—
Each has prayed “dear God”
under breath a thousand times,
and each time conveyed,
a different meaning
Each day is just beyond
their fingers
Fortunate are those
who enjoy an end
to this bitterness
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Only a door is left to
remind us of Light
in the creeping grey
of a winter month.
Do Angels keep watch here?
A silent hulk, shadows
fill the sky as well as cover
the sparse rocky ground
unkempt, unloved, but sanctified
by centuries of prayer.
The steeple of our longing for
what is beyond our mortal form
points skyward. The trees gesticulate
with broken fingers,
and we shiver
as the unknown wraps
us in doubt. The terror of what lies
beyond keeps us from
coming too close, ghosts
whisper of an unbearable
journey but the angels,
we are told, will take
our hands to lead the way.
The empty sky will
be filled with song.
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What do you think about having a Northography table at the Dead Poets Party this Saturday at Kieran's Pub?
Sponsored by The Loft, two years ago it was really fun. I won second prize dressed as La Llorona, very spooky.
Come dressed as your favorite poet and bring a poem to read, yours or theirs. It starts at 4 pm. Suggested donation $5-10
Kieran's 601 1st Avenue North, Minn
I am reading a Neruda poem but can't impersonate him; I will go for a Spanish style, so look for the red fringed shawl.
Hope you will come to keep me company! Wendy
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