Easter I sit in the soft breast of a blue jay as it flutters about, jumps, rests in dry roses by the door. A dusk of seasons has set on those poor, never watered roses, yet they linger in death's antechambre, the death of green things cruel and patient as our own to which our bloodbeat sings obeisance while we sleep. I nestle in the blue jay's breast to hear its bloodsong's surge, something no death may keep Easter II For Milton Christ had set us free of Death An empty boast: Death's teeth were perhaps slightly dulled Small matter when a soul is soft as sin and thinner than the tip of Death's long claw
Breath Erath flwowers, the proscenity of the equinox sunshort threnody pistil and stamen dance antique roundelay lounder the winged bees wild winds of May willows red essenine so refulgently echo the sanguine sun in their heraldry Roundels of sanguine else clept in Turkish eye on fields purpure or veld a fess argent see ----------------------------- Now quick to the a->g 3,4,3,3 (ac#d gbdb ac#d gbd) play x4 then sing. also it plays maybe 1.5 or 2 times faster ----------------------------- Quick! to the window dear, I think that I've spotted the hounds that all ran away from Farmer McGillivray If we can catch those mongrels, oh! They will be so pleased down at the McGillivray farm out past the Cherry trees Do you remember, dear, how we used sneak out of our homes under the moonlight and meet beneath those trees There in the cool dark we'd press our faces together twine together our hands and whisper of fireflies ----------------------------- Now the 2,3,3,2 (df#,ceg,df#g,ce) ----------------------------- Eos brightens the dusky vault of the sky in search of her old lover Tiphonus, Cosmic cricket lost, foundering in the foss that girdles this galaxy vaster than ... Suppositions walk garbed in our sinews with their wretched grins and their malevolence ----------------------------- Now back to the a->g 3,4,3,3 ----------------------------- Foundering in the foss that girdles our galaxy drowning like a leaf in a pond but filled with ecstasy
Five Faces of Love I. I was in the burning of love's error, in the moon's blind eye transfixed unsubject to the dark earth's indiscerptible languid oceans unremonstrated and chalky earth, girdled star bemoaned at the hour of gnats love's withered fingers released me love's wilted tongue despatched me to the wind dreaming of bitter unripe olives and dusty fields broiling Spanish mornings unkissed by rain or the benedictions of grasshoppers You, you, I must not always say 'you' sticks like a yellow plumb between my teeth before II. The sun was a blister my head burned with fever I longed for cool Autumn my memories tore each other to shreds like rabid dogs and thoughts died stillborn only ghostly echoes ever returning, returning I, returning, I longed only to clasp your hand in a thousand grasses in shades of the sun to pick apricots by the road and not begrudge the creek's contented chattering III. Does this a puncture look You weren't pink clouds at sunset I wasn't high tide against pale cliffs Pecans and almonds are our birthright Do bees like almond blossoms do bees like cherry blossoms do bees, do blossoms? IV. At night I fear a crumpled body in the road has not less grace less grace than goodwill and kindness, shot through with their tendrils of blank-eyed cruelty icy cores of malice that spring from nowhere let us, let us pray be good be good to one-another in every waking moment let our lips hold the sign of the sun the heat of the sun sing benedictions to us, to all V. Cool cottonwoods and aspens soon shall sing the changing season soon shall soothe chapped lips and breathe the winds down the valley The wings of moths shall stir no more me from my slumbers the ghosts of dry gullies the ghosts of tres orejas shall love with the ghosts of pakistan shall revel in arroyos and spook the goats The ghosts of many countries many lakes and streets and mountains shall swarm in joy and then depart like rising stars over cities and then the night will sigh.
Where once the fog of Hampton grouped and tottering vagabonds would stoop to pick pennies like peonies from the street, where peddlers with clergymen would meet The oldest Coffman poem about pique Heirophanies of dusty moons bespelled in the sparrow's kiss plumeria and nightshade smother the crumbling gisants of the necropolis
Verse I Hair red as the willow trees that grow beside the river beds, eyes bright like cygnets 'lighting on a lake. Eyes that host the flashing heraldry of laughter and of dread Watch as they contend in her sloped smile. She arches an eyebrow as She twirls down sunlit cooridoors leaving motes of dust dancing in her wake. In the spring when the clouds hasten, joining and parting cross the sky she'll look from her window to the sea, watching the play of light upon the waves turn them to copper, and I hope she'll spare a thought for me. Chorus A# F (G)G# cm When I was still a young lad We'd row in the summers Out into the bay And casting out the fish nets, We'd trade tales and riddles To while away the days Or fall silent for hours As the circling birds Or the surf captured our gaze Ensorcelled by the rythm of each crest Breaking on the boat, The sun sparkling in the waves Ah to be young and idle, In love with the sun And the breeze over the sea Ah to be young and idle, Kindred to the clouds Sailing swiftly and free Verse II For many years the sea we've roamed; this narrow bow become my home; The creaking wood's the sweetest voice we ever hear. Our souls turned leather like our skin, blasted by sun and whipped by wind, stung by salt then frozen through the nights. Watching the stars I think of home and try to summon forth you features, but I find the memories growing dim. Perhaps you've moved far from the coast So that the wind won't carry your soft voice the many miles to my ears. For oft I swear I heard you speak as if you stood direct beside me, as on those nights (years gone) I stood a watch. You must have married years ago and settled down to raise a family. I shouldn't dare imagine otherwise. And yet when still I picture you you're young with all of life before you; and time has not begun to ask its tithes. Chorus II When I was still a young lad We'd race down the strand, Sea-spray blowing in our eyes Or hunt amongst the tidepools; What marvels we'd discover Neath the water's placid guise! Or hunt amongs the tidepools, Discovering many marvels left uncovered by the tides. Ah to be young and idle, In love with the sea And the clouds lit by the sun. Ah to be young and idle, Borne aloft by the wind When down the dunes we'd run. Alternations: Eyes springing like cygnets from a wooded pond. Before time has begun To take it's toll
Overheard: Musings on the Soul People say a soul is a bird. No. A soul is more the space around the bird, the space that lets the bird pass freely by. People say the soul is a mango. Yes. They are right. They are exactly right. The soul is a mango. And if the soul is a mango (which it is) then it's also an avocado. That's simply how the soul works. My nephew thinks the soul is like a salmon: pink and sparkling as it darts through cold waters. I laugh I tell him the soul could never be that slippery. The soul is not round rocks clattering under the surf. That would be nice, but no. There was some question, several years ago, about whether the soul could be a cabinet full of china. I can't remember what the verdict was. And some folks still insist the soul is a small pocket sewn into a sleeve, a place to hide a little thing.
Solipsa I. Echo, voice, oh carry through this void whose edge I desperate grasp; fly fast and far before my fingers lose their grip and I should fall out into nothing and be nought; rebound and bring me back myself redoubled: A hundred voices chorused in a paean, joining in praise reverberant, granting strength to vault me from this harrowing precipice, back towards the center and to safety, free my way to make then, never more to wander out among these jagged limns where all does sudden cease, a drop from darkness into darkness darker, emptier still, resounding silence thick as stone, a flowing syrup that seeps between the sinews, coils itself about the bones and freezes up their marrow. To save me from this inverse maw whose airs, whose vapours supplant the warmer blood in me, weaken my will and ever weigh at me, I'll sing me to myself, my circumstance describe, declare with virile words, phrases able to reach, to puncture through into some idle, waiting mind, some fertile field unsewn, thereon to strew their seeds, impregn with burgeoning thoughts, to bloom and bear forth seeds that scatter on the winds and propagate a thousand other fields in divers climes in disparate districts, scattered as these seeds across most high Phenomi's wide demesne, Phenomelä whose borders want no fence, no foss, and need no warders on patrol, being thus bounded by the endless chasm. O'er fens and brakes, all desert spaces fly my dimming voice, and sing these into life. Make populous the barren lands and build, oh catena of words, yourselves out of yourselves, build up inside the breasts to spring from every tongue into the air and swirling like some wanton wraith,-though yet not carefree, of a dreadful aim possessed, purposed to succor me in my foolish plight where I peregrinating lost my way and stumbled almost o'er the edge of all-- do you my will: I thus entrust, beseech, command you, do as circumstance prescribes, raise up whole races like to me, whole realms, vast emperies gilt in artifice, glutted in lavish splendor if these you beseem propitious to increase, to promulgate, but do not else the mean, the lowly way disdain. To spread along the trammelled ground like creeping vines or stretch toward the heavens like towering pines atop far hills: Either may fit our pressing end, to free and to Phenomelä its Regent Queen return, its sole inhabitant besides, and spin me subjects, retinues of me o'er which my sceptre sovereign might rule. I long to step back from this edge, regain my footing in the realms of Phenomi. II. Before proceeding, this I must describe: As fruit of seeds planted in sundry climes take on the aspect of the place so they may better serve as supp those dwelling there, thus this song's myriad syllables and words, abundant phrases, bearing fruit will match the temper of the region, of the time, so in a thousand forms, one for each tract, for every county of Phenomelä phrases and syllables will bloom distinct, images fitting to the field its soil, the song transmute itself to fit the vessel and from the vessel be distilled like spirits aged in the local style, ripe to share amongst the kindred of that place. So as the song ages, more congruous in tune and harmony to local trills it will become, discordant though it was in those first unripe sips before it could ferment. As sunlight through a coloured pane assumes its shade upon the sanctum's plastered walls, alights the curling palls of censer smoke, so shall these words take form behind the eyes, as sense from unsense blossoming in the gloom. Now let me speed my song, propel my tale at last, echo my words unto the void. I launched out from a spot I'd deemed a centre abaft a coracle of woven thoughts, cast out with oars upon dark waters still as stillness that I'd found inside of me. From that sure spot, that certain, central shore I rowed my craft in longing and in search of waters more swift and novel airs more brisk, to rouse me from my endless languidness, my torpid listlessness and slumbering. So little and ill do I recall of ought before my setting out; I scarce recall the spinning, the careful weaving of my thoughts, persisting with deft fingers o'er those stiff, those sluggish thoughts that seldom deigned to stir until at last the work stood sculpted on the shore, all of a piece, a congeries of dream and idle fancy calcified into the craft that bore me on my way through distances vast, through calms and savage storms. Less light then air, though lighter than the dusk of water over which I rowed in calms and later sailed in gusting winds that craft has proved, whose gunwales were my dreams, whose keel was my desire, whose every beam was born of me, from bow to stern, from port to star, from hull up to the mast, even the sail sewn from my ken, my old imaginings, the sparks of light that in awareness flicker and currents form coursing all of their own, though parallel to those surrounding waters. In dark I rowed, in dimness and in murk I raised the sail and trimmed it constantly in those capricious winds, those swirling airs that sped me where they would, them trusting since I had no certain course nor sure design except to heel before the wind, to glide o'er waters obsidian and find myself other and else than I had hereto been. III. After some unknown span of time a light, a faint star far ahead illumed the dusk I had not prior known burdened the air. A light it was, though then I knew it not and lay confused and awed inside my skiff as I drew nearer and it brighter burned and flickered inside my eyes, my starlit gaze. It grew until it compassed sky and waves; until my boat, myself, swiftly enveloped and frozen still I stood, girdled in warmth, suffusing warmth whose touch I had not dreamt and blazing light no eyes ever beheld. The winds died off without that lambent sphere, their strength repelled, inside the center of that place leaving me calmed and raimented in cloths of brazen air, glistering garb the like of something in myself now heard anew, ringing, resounding with the air in timbre sweet, in mellifluous tones. Beyond the sphere where never light was known nor shadows e'er had grown was now become adumbrated and dim, and saddened me. Loth then I was to leave this radiant space, cast out again upon adumbral waters, surrender trust to the capricious winds wanting for star, compass, or other light to seek, bound ever to peregrinate over the featureless water's glossy sheen. My craft whose woven thoughts were aureate gilt, whose every beam lustred and from whose mast the sail draped down in thin-spun argent folds, my wondrous craft would become dim as those surrounding watery wastes, so I surmised. I looked about. I could not here remain. With new resolve from nowhere sprung, I then purposed to leave and yet not leave the light, to means devise to bear the light with me wither I went. Myself resolved, the rest could not but follow. I reached out from my craft and drew it, fragile as a flowerbud, up off the water's sheen into my hands. Its surface shone and from intricate curls droplets of water ran like dew o'er petals. A spot was ready made within the bow and there I rested it, secure from harm, fixed so to blazon forth and light my course. Now, finally, the world would not be dim. I'd sat in emptiness, floated in void for ages long. I'd lost and senseless lain while gathering up my strength and all my words then wove them into wings to bear myself wither I would upon the limpid airs of that desert and formless place. Ere long I'd sailed a pinprick broke the void and towards it's novel gleam I'd steered. It was the first one, mostly vacant of those rich and various marvels wherewith many isles of light later were lavishly embued. This one, this weightless, purely gleaming thing I set upon my brow, I wore it as a stone set in a diadem, delighting in the rays it cast before me through the dusk. Even this light I've lost. But like my wings, my coracle, it served me faithfully. IV. The first reverberations of my song returning back I think to now make out though still far off and faint, piteously faint. They stir in me new thoughts and words, pictures refleshed, remembered from my peregrines through endless realms of light, through storms of sound, through void, through heat, through fragrance blossoming and hues cascading, shimmering in falls in soaring seas, in thunderous arcs that burn the gaze, bursting from pits of syrupy night, demesnes of pure sensation where there was no need to go in flesh, only to drift as floating self and soak its substance up. These worlds, these regions of Phenomelä I next shall sing, and singing honor them.
The Bee Once when riding in the hills a bee flew in her ear and spun in her head a honey of golden thoughts
The Birds In Autumn small yellow birds peck at the rotting plums strewn in the mud outside the window while raindrops fall lazily out of the heavens. The wind that's been travelling south breifly howls down the road then is still and the birds are untroubled, they carry on pecking the yellow plums. These fragile creatures with their yellow breasts and their miniscule wings belie the bleak landscape, as out of place as ripe plums pressed in cold mud. Too friendly, these birds, they don't flee when I near them; I worry for them, and realize I don't know the lifespans of wild birds, ones such as these. Wild to think of the finches and sparrows, the titmouses, robbins, and other such birds as descendants of creatures that, ages ago, would flit among branches, alight on a limb near an overripe fruit, primordial fruit of the trees of an unruly orchard, the fruit of unpeopled wilderness, bearing no name but the ones that the birds bestowed with their chirrups long ages before first our voices were heard.
Unhinge the sound of whirring unhinge it unset the sound of mapleing leaves of leaves of leaving and unleaving unwhirr the were of sounding unsound unsound the fathoms exfathomed unsanguine excising the sillibant elems the elems were element eleming what, what, to the scent the scentence the of-dust the to-dust to the serpent head heading-off prophesing rapt wrapped the undove the dovelight the baptisming johnhands and lords of clearwater and waiting of upto and fathomless sunshimmers pond-rippled rifening redfruit the grapefruited lasses untethersome mooringscut cut from the easyspeaks greenergrass unrainwashed of sowhishedfor forests of wide hazy vistas the longvalleyed oldpaths those glacierghosts many so many unsettle your glasshanded comprimse comprimose moisting each trebleleaved hollyhock hildermere meres tarns and meadowlarks hoarfrosting winterbreath decking the columbine rams in the morningmist clouds gorged on mountaining gorge ripping openplains cliffribs and whistlelungs witteling wonderspawn if then the aspenlimbed maidens whose moonglow eyes risen rove copse to dale hill to cove corpse of the cockcrow the ravenstaste ribbonstate lungred and rivetted.
V.1 These visions of a lady who rides the cemetaries on a horse, binding the fresh dead with her silvern tongue... On her wrists gold bracelets catch the light of the gas lamps and her eyes, on certain nights reflect the moon's. Ca.1 Through the red hills Toward the rusty sea, There lay the longboats Waiting us merrilyyyy ... .. yyyy D 11th or whatever Waiting Merrilyyyy To bear us to sea-yyyy V.2 Oh she is motherlike and sweet binding with grave-dirt each, their feet, wrapped in oils, for them to tread whilst trimming the sails.* "Moon over the yardarm", She whispers and pulls from her cloak thick libations stoppered in crystal, the blood of the moon. Cb.1 Through the red reefs, On, out to sea, my bones are borne before her In their lead ossuary. (a-f-a)
56 Amaj + gd Gmaj Fmaj Gmaj Fmaj + gd D#maj + gd Dmaj Cmaj
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