In the afternoon

I' m not one for mushy Christmas poems and such, but since this is the Eve I am posting a poem that I believe captures some of the spirit. When I think about Christmas the greatest feeling I think it conveys is that of peace. So here is a poem about peace. Take it for what you will.

In the Afternoon

Some cycle forgotten, words and meanings misplaced
The toxic air invades from all over land,
Comes funneling in through mountain passes on wires of cable,
From satellites orbiting the Earth
The people before, stumble and briefly falter,
Knowing terrible things are yet to come
Wars and rumors of wars,
Are raging in firelight on the morning dawn
Conquering peoples and imperial might,
Flexing muscles of incredible power

But, peace stirs also in the autumn breeze,
As alder leaves fall,
And birds call along the shady creek
It is a restless peace,
One bound in tiny spaces,
Wishing, pushing, yearning to be released
This is the peace of Hu-man and Wu-man,
The peace of dreams and sleep,
The blood courses that feed each cell of death and life
The kind that holds the overstructure entwined
It is the peace of plants and vines that top crumbled order,
Civilizations savagery,
And bring new to what has fallen, Breath

Wind chimes sound,
Some questions arise in the lazy afternoon,
About wanderlust and creativity
The restless soul finds a restless peace
The ever-vigil kept at night through dream power,
Watching the world with psychic eye,
Third eye, bearded eye, cradled eye
A banner of smoke, a blazing universe,
Fertile with life
Ever present the sunfolk, treelight and garden,
The greenhouse of seedling souls
Buried in earth misunderstood,
Deep caverns hold ancestor arks of entombed nature
Beleaguered creatures and estranged shrines
Capering winds in fire swept plains, taken to dying,
And taken to new life

It is time to hibernate and dream boldly
Of peace
It is time to dwell in the belly
Of peace
It is time to unravel the thread
Of peace
It is time to move the word
Of peace
It is time to speak the truth
Of peace
It is time to sow the seed
Of peace
It is time to be peace
It is time to know peace
It is time to hold peace
and love peace
Because I am peace, and you are peace
And peace
And peace
And peace

I said every week, and already a second post...

Yeah, not bound to happen all the time, but hey it's my blog. This poem was written during my travels in South America...

Siempre Cielo

There’s something about an open stretch of highway
Something of a poem,
a song from yesterday
Sing the clouds down till sky touches the foot of road
A hitcher could wait for days,
with pancake clouds his only bread
And then a light, a truck
Argentina in a wind blown cab,
the pampa passes by
A lake and sheep, tableland mesas,
shrubs clinging to hollows
Andean peaks and glaciers,
like Atlas support the vault of heaven
Wind, a good conversation,
half interpreted half gleaned with intuition
Dreams are born on the speech of breeze,
dreams are borne on clouds
Carried drifting under sky, always sky

I would call this blog the golden apple, but...

since another has that name Tide Eyed Eris will have to do. I feel it is one of the more creative lines in the poem titled "Golden Apple." This poem has an interesting history. I wrote it in high school and sent it, and another poem, to our school literary magazine. The editor of the magazine liked it and decided to give me "the editor's choice award." However, for the first time in the history of said literary magazine the new principal of the school decided that he would like to "take a look at all the entries." I was soon asked by the editor if I would remove two words from my poem so that the pricipal would allow it to be published (just so you know, the magazine was published entirely from donated funds and those collected by its sale, and the school paid nothing for it). I said no. Thus the editor published only my other poem, and wrote a wonderful piece in the beginning of the magazine saying in no uncertain terms that the magazine had been censored. I was not alone in being censored. Several other artists were asked to remove words or passages or face not being published. Many chose not to change their pieces. In fact, there were so many pieces censored that the magazine was a little on the thin side. Courageously, the editor of the magazine decided to self publish her own magazine and hand it out along side the school one. This magazine included all the censored pieces, as well as a few more pieces that students had not previously sent in (probably because they were already doing some self-censoring). This magazine was called the Golden Apple. Here is the poem of that name.

The Golden Apple

My cabal moves faster toward
the tide eye’d Eris
we drink vodka and sapphire moons
and jump into the wild nexus

We are war taut youth, that ache
and mix in wry awe of the new acrid phase,
if before us came stardust
then we are as raw starving wolves

Our jest hides gaiety, but
we hunger for the fullfillment
of grotesque quintessence
inside the brilliant burning matrix

We crave, the saxophone of sublime piety,
kings half drunk on Zen,
fairies, and the hallucination myth
the grandmother of funeral pyres

We feel, that busy voyeur desire,
video envy, the oath of the web
nothing, as we say, the Magi
can’t liquidate or exploit

Wooed by the influx of weighed gold
our civil wizards, reverends of ecstasy,
provide unwashed episodes
to sadistic gimmick junkies

We are alive in the ether,
we think to outwit our age
and ascend the hulking tower of Babel
to reawaken the whore