Saturday, July 18, 2015

The Waters of Bermuda

I had heard the talk about the waters of Bermuda and believed it. They were colored with the kiss of turquoise and clear like mountain springs.

But when the ship approached the eastern end, I saw the talk to be mere words and my belief a phantom of the operatic mind.

Oh sure, there is a turquoise hue in pools and places, but even turquoise isn't turquoise. It's just old French for Turkish,

and the colors range through Persian Blue, Black Spider Web, Dark Green Damale, and Yellow Ivory Tortoise,

as well as ten-thousand variations on that painter's theme. It's like the classic difference between religion and the truth,

thinking and experiential witnessing, rationale and love, the pointing finger and the bright full moon.

Here rise the waters of Bermuda, and yes, they are amazing.



Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Sea Legs

The ship was rolling in a Beaufort Scale of nine and I was in the bow when the center of our gravity went missing.

It took a week on land before I found it once again.

But meanwhile vertigo suggested that the world was in my mind and every movement I anticipated was met

by corresponding movement of some so-called object,

that there’s only this subjective space and gravity is magical illusion which without the waves are seen to be the sea

and all attachment is expelled like vomit.


Saturday, July 11, 2015

Bermuda Illuminations

Between two massive igneous formations rests a turquoise cove with ocean waters warmed to a Bermuda summer glow.

Ten thousand years of blue incessant waves have undercut the old caldera stone to thunder crashing with each coral tidal lightning show.

I'm in the water with my thirty-something year old daughter and we're snorkeling and looking at the unknown world

beneath the surface of the sea. It's paradise revisited for me.


That's when I saw the angel fish, or what I like to call an angel fish, although a little later on I'm told it's just an everyday Bermuda sea chub.

You see they change their colors like a mood ring, silver being their default, and black their warlike tint.

But white is their harmonious and peaceable embodiment.


Amazing, like an underwater Prospero, I am conjuring a show that never happens, although I know this spontaneity is looking

through this looking glass and seeing far into the past when my Miranda came to being helping with my seeing,

like this angel fish of my imagination, focusing a world of waves into a sea of self-awareness.

Bermuda is the truth and even someone sixty-something is illuminated in its timeless youth.

Monday, July 6, 2015

Clifton of St. George

There’s a black man in Bermuda who asks each tourist he encounters this specific question:

how old should someone be before allowing them to drink?

There’s a tourist in Bermuda who answers if they’re old enough to die.

There’s a black man in Bermuda who's asked if he remembers being born and answers he recalls that original swimming.

There's a tourist in Bermuda who knows the only knowledge is I am, yet in the deeper water asks his ginger beer and black Bermuda rum:

but who am I?

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Formalism

I was nurtured on the teat of sweet belief
creating what I call myself. Unique. Good grief!
My personality is like an onion made
from all these other second-hand beliefs conveyed
to memory and accepted as a god’s own truth.
And so I fade from infancy to bitter youth.

But ask myself this question most see most naive:
do I remember being born? I can’t conceive
a moment never being. That is what I am.
The rest is just some evolutionary scam
the absolute unknown intends so I may know
I am the absolute unknown. No pain, no rhyme.

Friday, June 19, 2015

The Last Thing

Alone again but more alone than ever I have been since ever I have been me.

Most would say I wasted all my talents on obsessions, circumventions, and preoccupations.

So I’ll repeat my psychological evaluation here: my father never introduced me to the world; my mother was completely fearful of it.

This left me with one simple task while in and of this world: to tread upon the tiger's tail without alerting it to my inquiring presence.

I could write this story now as if this character possessed a choice in plot, development, or setting. But I didn't.

So let me end this introduction with my lifelong findings: there’s no world to introduce except a false one. And fear is why the world itself is false.

The world will never tell you this because it doesn't know it. And the ones who really know it know there's nothing to be told. I’d listen to them.

Oh to be sure, there are religions that will sell the sea to every wave within this ocean but religions are the world’s own fears personified and organized to hide them in some other hell.

And please do not misunderstand me. I'm still going further. The only reason why I'm writing is this entropy of poetry. This form enjoys the rhyme of dancing with the beauty of the truth it knows to date.

First, there’s only love. And if we listened to the Beatles back in nineteen-sixty-seven, we'd already know this. Then again, if John and Paul were listening, they'd never write the song, or I, of course, this poem.

Love is what we are without the need for wanting love or making love or needing to be loved and once this faith in love is truly followed, there’s no ‘we’ or 'me' remaining. Jesus Christ, just listen to his message.

Last, the only thing you need to know is there is absolutely nothing to be known. In fact, the thinking that there's something to be known is why one never knows that great unknown. The Cloud Unknowing says: unknow and know your—no, that—yes, my—unknown.

I'll end with just this other way if love is not the hard direction wired within your brain. Deconstruct the world as now you see it: tread upon the tiger's tail without alerting it to your inquiring presence.

Sometimes I'll talk to me so I will listen to myself. Like a rolling stone.

The Ballad of Long Division

In the land of long division
our denominator is the king.
And in the world of yin and yang
she may be queen. Or anything.

In the land of long division
war is our default position setting.
War may be defined as worldwide
or a little bit upsetting.

In the land of long division
answers always end with more divisions.
Taking sides will always lead
to new improved sky-high collisions.

In the land of long division
genuine nonviolence is the hero.
Long division ends when one
denominator sets to zero.

Thursday, June 18, 2015

Memories in Triskaidecameter

They're cutting down the woods again to build another house upon the hill that overlooks the river valley.

They haven't reached the woods I see directly out my window but I know it's just a matter of the timing.

The world is always changing and we love it better in the memory than the one we see before us changing.

A memory is a work of art creating something out of nothing freezing form from endless transformation.

The past is always being lived again because the past that's in our memory always changes with our living.

Today the woods are lush and green and yesterday the woods were empty and tomorrow never really happens.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

mahatma summer king

in the territory of gray
squirrels, red ones
hightail branches
going sixties
steve mcqueen

dead vines
tumble down
a tamarack
like waterfalls
whipped with time

do not ask
the woods
for whom
the tree
is falling

everything
is
for the benefit
of knowing
this unknown

a rose-breasted grosbeak
finally arrives
from somewhere
southern, innocent
and full of pure potentiality

every living form
appears to be obsessed
with summer’s near arrival
disregarding every clue
it comes and goes as never here

sleeping means
seeing something is happening
awakening means seeing
nothing
ever does

great ones only
go beyond
division
by dividing anything
by nothing

there’s nothing
to say
that needs to be heard
except
it’s nameless

the leaves are green
the space is green
and my interpretations of
my dream is green
that’s what i’m dreaming

the summer’s here
and time is ripe
to contemplate
the transformation’s later light
and sing what no one’s saying


Tuesday, June 16, 2015

following after poets

filling the birdfeeder 
with sunflower seed 
watching the splash 
little blackened shells 
big bang fireworks

a red-winged blackbird flies
across the empty road
a man is walking a dog
a dozen boats are floating
on the late sunday river

books of ryokan and saigyo
robert lax
on the coffee table
birdsong coming through
open windows

the light above
my shoulder lighting
purple ink on paper
reflecting in the picture
window

like a moon
in space between
the wall and green face
of an evening
summer wood

manifestation
is
the translation
of revelation
into mind

bliss
is
the revelation
as felt
by body-mind

as evening deepens
reflection of the room
deepens in the window space
basho walking through
the woods

poetry is
the inspirational
reflection of the revelation
seen in words
and dancing

in the dark leaves
appear like clouds
shadowing deep images
although I know
they’re nothing

spoken silence
saying something
leaving
someone
silent