Rhapsody of Art

An Ecstatic Vision


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Returning to the Blog: Two Poems from an upcoming revision

Hello Followers! I’m returning from an unintended (but needed) summer break. Spent my summer working with at-risk teens. A rowdy job! I’m returning now with inspiration for revising my latest collection of poetry: The Archer…

I’ve condensed the book into Ecstatic Poetry, only (omitting the short stories), and added new poems that have debuted on this blog, and some that haven’t…

I chose to revise the collection for the sake of its message. This poetry is an internal process, first and foremost, and in the end, I don’t think The Archer was completed in myself, so it always felt short of its mark.

Creative license is the beauty of being an Independent Author… for any of you who are aspiring writers, Indie Publishing is a sound solution, if you’ve not found acceptance in the world of publishing otherwise.

Here are two poems from the new revision… I’m hoping my next post will announce that “The Archer” is ready for readers! Enjoy!

 

Authenticity

 

I don’t know how to navigate

where to go from here.

 

The defense I put up for pain

separates me from everything else.

 

Something in me brings me

back to the hand you put in mine…

 

Can we reconcile the paradoxes

of loving another person?

 

I must forgive myself for living half-hearted—

we live in portions

 

until we become free of division.

Stay with yourself. Don’t follow anyone

 

who expects a miracle from you

or expects the same of you…

Keep authenticity as close

as closeness.

 

Bond with your authenticity

 

and do not give it for ransom

to another feeling inside your skin.

Heartsword

 

When the path grows difficult

I become a cloud casting rocks

I retreat into dense earth, packed

and stoned into deserts and mountains

until my neighbors become foreigners

and friends strange beggars.

Lightning never struck such a wondrous fear

as the unknown.

The Sun never dispelled such a lovely darkness

as the nights we’ve been alone.

As old as any Soul remembers

we have unlearned lessons pouring our sorrows

into heartbreak’s poor broken cups.

I could only hear what I wanted to hear

my thirst was following a sweetness

in the sound of water.

The mistakes have been my own—

from this glitter of silver

I sold all my belongings for a dream of treasure.

What happens to a Man who misread Himself

and stumbles into a dark meadow?

 

 

Someone has been teaching birdsongs to the wolves.

There are teeth waiting in the grass.

His heart quivers in his hands

but a moment is coming

that will awaken both edges of his sword.

 

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Love and Empire

 

I see worlds spinning around fools.

I have also known myself to sing

the praises of broken cups.

 

Just as quickly as I loved you

my horses laid down at your feet—

I broke the wheels of my own chariot

to walk anywhere with you…

something once persuaded me to send

a thousand fleets to bring you home—

now I am at war with myself.

 

The breaking of the night, eventually

reveals the rebellions that were gathered

while I slept.

 

Their voices cry out about republics

and love.

They expect me to fight these battles.

But like all lovers

and empires

they begin in the light of fire

and go down again

in the flames.

 


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Marble in your Temple

There are ten thousand worlds of longing.

Every fire makes a pearl, something beautiful

that a thousand scorching hands

want to own.

You are a sweet diversion, my dear

but your skin

and your needs

cannot touch the coals of my heart

where visions are brooding in  constant change.

One day these visions will throw themselves into the ring

among other gladiators of gravity

and one day

it may even pull your oceans

into me again.

But love has made fools of men greater than I

and desire has become a war

that no one is winning.

But my soul cannot become the marble in your temple,

I cannot become the ghost of my dreams…

I need to exist.

 

 


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The Sweat Lodge

 

The womb wraps us together

with stones of fire in each heart

every sister, every brother

brings the heat for the healing.

 

Under a hood of fertile darkness

we join the company of ourselves.

Through waves of burning breaths

we are revealed again.

Realize, that we were born to cooperate

to do the hard work outside

our shoulders shining red

we see one another, as brown as the earth

and respect our connection

to the same ground.

And as we suffer, as one

we recognize necessity

in the hardness of a shell, we accept

the hidden stones

that sometimes breaks our tools.

We show tolerance each day

because a good knife needs daily sharpening.

We slide our broken edges

against the wet-stone of comprehension

Our souls and our bodies

are a wet fire– the stone carries the flame

and water strikes the conversation

One Voice

with endless tongues.

 

Lie down, children

and let the Land hold us.

She takes us deep into the soil

where slowly,

slowly,

our bodies learn to understand

that birth—and death

are the same place.


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Only You

You can let down your guards

but do not let down your eyes.

Despite going through the blood-shed of failure

and the romance of intentions

stay close to the accumulating truth.

It is yours.

It is only a handful

but it is what you have brought back

from what you were born knowing

from the dark swim to the bottom

in a drowning world

you have brought back an island.

 

Take that fistful of yourself

and do not shake any hands

do not make any deals

for love or shame

to give yourself away.

 

There are many waiting

who would love you

until you love them too

who would favor you

until your trust is earned

because they are gambling empires

for a handful of that truth.

 

I urge you to believe in yourself—

however, there are times

when believing will unfold such a deep wound

when believing will unravel every seam

that I would not blame you

for turning away.

Our strengths are furrowed with weakness

sometimes our graves are closer than our dreams

when we are flat on our chests

we can kiss the ground.

 

The ones we love may not swim with us

and as we plunge into still darker waters

it is not their fault

only a chance disaster

arranged by fate

because sometimes our own strength

keeps us swimming in circles.

 

I am sorry the way is not easier for you.

As a poet, I will never become a preacher

I will never thrust meaning onto your chest

not when I when I know, all too well

the burden we already carry

and the value of open arms.

 

Walk the path of your own

blood-filled drum

drink the sap of your own heartbreak

the spice of crushed attempts

 

keep one hand empty

and the other full of that piece of life

that came from you

that was born of you

that is

gripped from a thousand deaths

only you.

Only You.

 


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The Bargain

 

When someone comes into your life

do not gamble your power for Love

and it’s many messengers…

common dignity does not ask for such a sacrifice

what could love possibly need from you?

Keep your power always brimming

to the rim of your bone cup, drink

the vital juice of every cell

admire the mountain ranges that stand

when you enter a room

let the whimpering and the cowards

feel uncomfortable around your truth…

Undercutting your true will, or your dazzling intelligence

your epic wonder,  or your star-shot clairvoyance,

is not love.

Be a samurai with your tongue, undress the world with your eyes

carry your dreams like children

because it is not in the budget of loving anyone

to sacrifice yourself

and if they say anything else

then they are bargaining for a profit, guaranteed.


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Searching

How did I come so far

with only half of myself?

One eye staggers awake

the other— a companion

deep inside the roots of light.

I have been burning this country

down to its knees

begging for love

every stack of flames, my pain

every pillar of smoke, a village

looking for someone else.

This has gone on through every shell

of boyhood— every burning muscle of manhood

blanched in the heat of work

clearing trails through thunderheads

of white ash

I forget why I’ve wandered so far from home.

I search for hilltops, to sit

and take a breath

reminders

that the seed is no longer broken

that these orbits of confusion

are a wonder

and I will someday find myself

growing in the world.

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