Thursday, September 5, 2013

i made of my son a citizen of the world - a poem

The night street is different

Than that by day,

The night boat cutting the wave,

Beneath the pulling moon

Sees differently than by day,

And dawn, when stayed awake,

Is but a hazy blur

Compared to magnificent

When one has slept…

The sun takes you by surprise,

More so than the moon,

When in the wee morning

You have fought slumber away

Deciding to brave the day sleepless,

But if you ride the cycle

Of natural night, then day,

The world will remain yet as it should,

You will wax with the sun and moon

And wane with them in time,

For the sun has his coming and going

From tropic of cancer to Capricorn….

Alas I tell you everything

Again I already taught you,

I have pushed you into the world

As it’s citizen,

For it is a fool that looks for a country,

When beyond this world lies your oyster…

the crossroads - a poem

I’ve been to the crossroads

More than I care now to admit…

Even in cross currents

In the deep-winged ocean,

Lying at the horizon of riptides…

It is always a trixter figure waiting,

Yet beautiful…

They may be a devil, a siren,

But the answer is always the same:

Death….

But at ninety degrees lies the road

Usually ironically dark

Filled with thorns and brambles

That I must take to live….

It truly is straight and narrow,

This gate to life if one is to survive,

Though Nature be so liberal,

At these times

She commands we be conserving…

A night boat hugging the shore

To conserve fuel is what I’ve done

That life may continue for me

That the sun may still conquer

My tropic‘s humid and beautiful skies….

out to sea, adrift - a poem

Out to sea, adrift

No star to guide me,

They’ve disappeared,

Gone to the land

I’m in when asleep,

Perhaps they mark no time

Now drifting

Through the silken skies,

Maybe they finally melted

One into each other,

Back to their pleroma,

With everyone in the world,

Me left adrift

On this deep winged sea,

Time is non existent now

I the lone sailor

No boundary

For referencing distance,

I lie motionless

While gliding this ocean,

Aware I’m dreaming

Not lucid like day,

Yet self conscious, aware,

Of myself and my boat,

Nothing more,

Just nothing evermore…

in the plane of the desert - a poem

In the plane of the desert,

Arid airs burning my lungs,

I cry for her beneath the rage

The sky has turned malevolent,

The deep azures

Swallow the horizon,

The line blurred,

Mountains forming

Where plains lie in repose…

Deep waters wing

From beneath

To the cirrus floating,

The pressure

Is that of beneath the seas,

Compressing, no quarter,

Like nitrogen,

The available airs

Suck the life

From my bony cells….

Cacti bend in perspective,

The iron oxide, martian,

Rusts everything it touches,

The green melts verdigris,

Everything accelerating in age,

Motionless, beautiful,

I too bend with the light…

A small visitor

Landing on an alien plain,

The moment caught

In the aperture, my mind’s eye,

Burnt permanent

In shifting synapses,

A forlorn image rising

The wave, not the water,

That yet perturbs

My sweetest dreams….

entropy bright and alive - a poem

In the lunatic sky

The humid airs compel

The disembodied light

To spread in waves, falling,

Impossibly reaching my shoulders,

I feel the weight of it,

The night itself prescient,

That the moon fills

The lunatic with pulling dream

That he cannot rest,

And pushes every maternal water

To flow and then ebb,

Nocturnal wanderings of liquids,

They adjust to the lunatic clock,

The calendar, solar, dishonest this night,

When the moments, haunted, flow…

The second hand ticks

Lying, seemingly metronome,

The sound a drip of water,

Filling a vacuumed basin,

Pushing the minute

Into the hour,

The clock slowly winds down

Like everything this night,

Entropy bright and alive,

The sheen of lamplight

Falling on a sickened orange…..

come to us, saint - a poem

Come to us, Saint,

We dreamt of you

Arriving with new revelations,

Our hands of dried blood,

Were clasped on our chests

Before becoming clasped in prayer,

The blood of the fathers

On our hands, we cry,

Come even now, saint,

We know now what we do….

the consciousness of william james - a review of his writings

this book is worth the price just for the writings on consciousness, of which only i will comment, as an entire review would take pages and pages of text.

james, in his articles on consciousness first points up the classic view, the radical divide between mind and matter. the world around us, subject to entropy and the arrow of time, works in one direction. there is a birth, maturation, and death in everything surrounding us. known through the senses, there is an objective world we shoud seek to grasp and understand as thinking human beings. however, one quickly discovers the mind is not as 'mechanical' and predictable as the world we observe. we know that fire burns, yet we can think strongly on a fire in the winter cold, and not be warmed. further, we can think strongly of a fire that does not burn us, and water that does not douse it's flames. finally, we can reverse the arrow of time, thinking strongly again, of an apple leaving the ground and floating to the stem of the branch of the tree. obviously the mind is separate from matter in it' operations and laws that govern it, correct?

well let us now behold something beautiful, truly beautiful to us and not be moved by it's beauty. here, james brillianty discovers, the mind merges with the object world to the point the experiencing subject is the same as the experienced object. we melt into the object of beauty, forgetting ourselves.....

this is but one expample of pure experience that destroys the notion of the dichotomy between the subjects and objects of normal consciuosness james points up.

interesting read, a bridge between the views that came before; either a radical distinction lying between mind and matter, that the universe is dual..or that of the unifying kind...that the world can at least tenuously during 'pure experiences' become One...

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

current philosophical musings

That there are trees, forests and rivers, valleys, oceans and rocks to trip ourselves on, all testify to a world that is real, substantive. Through our senses, we perceive this universe composed around us, seemingly fine tuned to human and any life. Composed, when looked at in a miniscule way, of dancing quarks and leptons, subatomic particles that appear and disappear with observation, we never can know the absolute position or velocity of these small building blocks that unfold into the larger world.

There are some philosophers in the distant past who felt the essential substance of life was water. Heraclitus, the ancient thinker, said we can never step into the same river twice. He was correct there are constant changes occurring, eddies and flows, pebbles moving this way and that, rocks overturning from the push of waters, and erosion of the banks, all make it a fine example of the foundations our universe springs from.

The miracle to me is, as the very small, water-behaving, or even fire-behaving essence congeals into matter, it congeals and becomes stable, predictable on our human scale of things. It’s not like the first break in a billiards game, where the potential of the paths of the balls are almost unpredictable, it is more like mid game, one ball sitting on the edge of the cup which when approached by a cue ball with back spin, will drop right in every single time, with no scratch ball even.

Perhaps the most interesting facet to human life is our ability to perceive and reason. Before us, lie great thinkers who recognized a great divide between mind and matter. We may have an idea of the perfect chair and even attempt to manufacture one. But that ‘matter-ed’ chair will eventually break, or chip from wear, while the ideal chair will live on permanently, forever almost. Besides ideality, there is the time factor that poses a divide between mind and the world around us. We see that due to the arrow of time and entropy, everything in our universe has a definite birth, a maturation, and a ‘death’. I use ‘death in the particular, as all energy is conserved and really the matter is just transformed into something that transcends what it couldn’t achieve in it’s previous state. But I digress. The point is, in our minds, we can strongly think of an apple rising from the ground, floating to the branch and twig of it’s tree, when in reality, we know this is impossible. A man who is aging to his fifties can recall his childhood, even imagine things in the past or future. The arrow of time doesn’t apply to mind, and I say thankfully! How static things would become, how uniform and bland, if we were stuck in the moments of passing time. It would be like viewing individual frames, still lifes in slow succession, as opposed to being allowed to make of reality a movie being played at willed and various speeds. We know if we want time to pass, we can get busy doing something, and if we want it to slow, we can calm our activity.

But wait. Are there two main facets to reality then, as opposed to one, those two factors being mind and matter? William James found certain pure experiences to be absent of this duality. If one is stabbed by a sharp object, the experience and thought of it are the same. Painful and unpleasant. If one beholds something beautiful, they are always moved and lifted. In both cases, the outside objects, objective, line up with the interior subjective experience. There becomes a common consciousness between the knower and the known. Thiis, what James called ‘pure experience’, to me is a unifying bridge between the wide gulf of mind and matter.

Though pure experiences may be limited, and the rest the time we have the gulf between perfect ideal thought of chairs, and those manufactured, on perhaps more occasions than we admit, reality becomes One, not dual. Our inner reality tunes into our outer reality, destroying the perceiving subject an perceived object. These then, are moments of clarity, although they can be as unpleasant (being stabbed) as they can be pleasant (beholding something particularly beautiful.)

Friday, May 17, 2013

a prayer - a poem inspired by the roofless church in new harmony, indiana

Perhaps it was the wings of the dove

Beating the airs and conquering them,

Able to move from Heaven to Earth

And returning again with ease,



I sat in an open air temple once

Squared in a great expanse,

Walls but four feet high

With no roof, just the vaulted dome



In the nave, a sculptured dove

Graced the altar of stone

Beneath an inverted flower-bud

Which cast the shadow of a mature Rose



And there in the shadow of the Rose

I made my silent prayer

I prayed for understanding and Peace

Perhaps ignorant one could have both



And just as the boundary walls

Marked off the sacred territory

From the surrounding wild countryside

And the Rose’s shadow caught my supplication...



My prayer vanished into the ether

The vast dome Round,

And I had faith it had reached it’s destination

As a child can find his way home…

we, in a meadow - a poem

The meadow was not green we tread, but brown,

I suppose the season was fall, beneath the Capricorn Sun

There were stalks laid over where others before us

Had traversed, how long, how long, we didn’t know



The windswept trees showed the wind moved East

While the grand River below eddied along in its current

Slowly eroding the silt the ancient mound builders had left

When they left so long ago….



As we moved further in, to the forest

Our backs lined with the thistles from dead flowers

The Sun began to fade and the day moon popped up

Hovering over a sycamore tree, heralding a new eve



There in the trees, deciduous and new

We felt the dew of the night raining down through the leaves

Unafraid of the appearance of sprites, or the gas of swamps

We trudged further in, unafraid, only naturally vigilant



Night was in full bloom now, the air warmer with swamp dew

trees made the sky opaque, just silver bits of Moon shining through

we had made a pact to make our destination

whether in one half hour or whether it took all night



hiking through foothills, finally the deep pool in the center

appeared as silver as a quarter in the hand, gleaming

we let go our packs and undressed to our shorts and tops

and dove into the cool, cold water, depending on how deep we dove.



No other reason for our secret destination.

Just children living vicariously without even knowing

Unafraid, uninhibited, we made our way back, now stronger

As each journey will do, make one stronger that is….



Sleep, sleep, now in our homes separate, apart,

But friends’ dreams often overlap when children,

And the next day we still held hands

As we made our way to school,



Best friends, lovelocked forever, now more dangerous

Than any pond in a forest…..dangerous as a love of thirty years,

That is.

what falls through the cracks - a poem

What falls through the cracks

Are the bits we should pick up and observe

A glimpse only in a reflection of a mirror

A slightest sigh between words almost not spoken



These are the half-lives we always must lead

That we can’t fully take it all in,

That we never know what was around the corner we turned

How memories compress into what we consider meaningful



Leaping like does through our field,

Our thoughts constantly racing to some future

Promising to be brighter, Brighter in some new Sun

That will lighten our Tropic in some new way…



What falls through the cracks

Are the realizations of the hopes we dream of

The realities that can change lives Now, this instant,

Gleaming like embers in a dying fire on a distant hill.



When I was a boy, I played outside in the yard

In the dirt, knees scraped by brambles I ran through

Blood seeping down the ankles to form tiny clots

And healing immediately.



I didn’t reflect on what I did, but experienced life in the fullest

My very body propelling me forward into uncertainty I knew as certain.

What a golden age to return to, the unconscious youth-years ago

When the lifeblood was rushing through to the very bones.



This is what falls through the cracks,

That if we just pause but a moment to drink in a drop more,

That quiet drop that rings between the finger and the wine glass,

We truly can melt into that same harmony, the rings of singing fingers

And the songs of the ancient spheres…

That sounded before birth, now drowned out by our comings and goings…

O that that song would sing on it’s own…

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

the game - a poem

it is a game we play,
my beloved and i,
just when the air is coldest,
we snatch the cover from the other
the victorious sleeps in warmth
the vanquished in the chill of night
the cold one always pines away
'let me in' seeking the warmth
of body and cover,
and as wicked as we are
we deny the other such comfort
but when morning comes
the victorious prepares the breakfast
and covers the vanquished in blankets
a small reversal of warmth and chill
like the warm air frosts on the window sill.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

the drowning - a poem

the seatide, pulled by moon,
rips at my ribs, pulling me further
into the ocean, beyond the wave
and to the deep calm

arrived, i am at the gentle pull
and swell of water,
pushing me further
to the dark-winged depths

where light filters through perturbance
dappling all it touches till everything sparkles

it is not frightful, this drowning
i don't ache for air
i want to be swallowed up
and denied the terrible expanse of skies

peace, peace, as i sink through this earthen mystery
'the last frontier' once that it was,
now mine, forever understood.

Friday, December 9, 2011

the photo - a poem

is the beauty the curve of breast,
the line of neck, the toussled hair of head?
is the vision of you caught in some poet's words,
the slight terror of your form captured in picasso's brush?

the memory, that memory is all i possess,
where before i held you, i grasp at images, phantasms,
of your half-forgotten face, the white of the shoulder,
the point of your knee,

these are the details i seek to hold in my mind,
the perfectly flawed face shimmers like moonlight
on some perfect midsummer's eve,
yet at times, comes clear at the unlikeliest moments...

for i knew you then, i thought, but didn't really
otherwise the vision would be complete,
and my heart could be full of the polaroid i hold,
yet it's just a snapshot of you on a Spring day
and the embers on it's edges are you melting away...

Friday, December 2, 2011

words - a poem


i know they are just words
but they have the power in them
to raise me to the highest peaks
and crash me to the lowest hells

i know you take them as literal
and i certainly did when young
but with the onset of a little age
the words began to melt into truth

the truth that we must face the week
the people in it and all the events
that obliterate the words into monatony
of repetition and ever present misery

i know they are just words
but the impressions they've made,
the currents they have activated
are rushing courses through my mind...

who gave you these words?
or even the right to repeat them?
have you no clue their power?
on a young and impressionable mind?

so i offer dull silence
i make no promise other than the heartache
that won't blossom into full deppression
as long as it's ever felt in the chest

at the hunger of the world, the poverty of the rich
the poor who will always be with us
the yet to be born child
the stray in the alleyway

this is the law i have observed,
that words eat words,
and the saddest song is the sweetest
the one that rings most true

and if there be a ray of hope
on a cloud-filled day,
it's that in honest temperance the prize is won
though true happiness be denied....