Posts tagged ‘voices’

voices, poem

The Hierophant

We’ve waited hours

in this dusky, dusty place.

Anger and fear

are mixed in our breasts

as we wait on,

kneeling, heads bowed. (Perhaps

the blindness

is hardest to bear. I think

I’ve memorized

this cracked patch

of floor.)

Or perhaps

these hours

have been my life.

As I wait

for meaning.



October 20, 2008 at 8:45 pm Leave a comment

poetry, voices

the hippy

The  hippy’s woman
spends  an hour, in the morning,
her  tired and frizzy hair, vainly attempting
to hide the scars

that  clown her face,
distort her smile.

Gentle she seems, meek
(but the careful avoidances
mask a thing
the hippy knows too well):

her words wander,
refracting sometimes strangely: hebephrenia,  perhaps:
may be,

she  carries scars too
in her brain.

…having outlined and
emphasized, I say,
she goes out to assume the burden

of another day.


The hippy rises early,
most mornings. Brandied
coffee, joint fuming brain,
he starts the fire…

and what will he do
today. This home,
this house; a symbol.

He made the money
selling pot. (say
that softly, now.)

He built  it himself:
hoisted  each beam, shifted
each plank; this ‘place’

is no  place, it is part
of his self, writ large
and quite wordlessly.

He has  missed the city at times,
to be sure. He has few visitors,
here on his scrubby hill.

But he knows this hill
as once he knew lovers;
each curve recalling a secret,

a private experience; he hasn’t
had so many paths
since childhood.

The land knows no lies,
no portents, no meanings:  the deer
do not cry of justice,

struggling against that
long vaguely sensed, and suddenly familiar spectre.

He has known, at times
a mysterious calmness: “all things,” he says later,

“made equal and thus all
things one, no division
any longer visible

“whether of self or other, whether
of gain or loss, where
there is no word nor separation.”

The knowledge, you see,
is quite quiet; nearly,  in fact, silent. I say, he
becomes more silent.


They greet me as a friend
each time they meet me.
(But each hearing
can breed echoes, with some.

Perhaps somewhere
i lost my sense of time:
i think
i have never been touched.)

Am i  my own friend?
At  times this same insight
is self-directed, pauses each
word and swallows each act.

I have  never been, in a sense
other than a stranger
to anyone, at all. The price
of poetry is silence: but of  its lack, noise. I have
learned silence,
by now, fairly well.
But how do you speak
a lack of words?–we say

little,  really, the hippy
and i. Shadows…
this next time, I’ll sharpen
his knife.

has many forms)


Fugitive  images and
vain  vague images: once,
I can remember, I hoped
to be free.

I lived  on the hippy’s
land,  for a while.
It  was bad for my art
and not good for me;

we drank  those months
away.  Yet still these visions
of some esoteric brotherhood
will not resolve

to vain  dreams
and  self-deceptions.

–i have described myself
quite often

as a voyager toward
truth. but, to be honest,

i’m  not at all certain
how to stand it, should i find it.



October 10, 2008 at 6:38 pm Leave a comment

Journey to the West (in honor of Herman Hesse)

Journey to the West

this sightly, seemly road


set out upon: at times


bewitching, at others merely

a dull trudging, day

to similar day, no new thing done nor mountain known,

one unrefreshed, thirsting

for some unnameable liquid. (let us state, for the

record, that Lamb’s blood and milk left only that


at times, to the side

of our path,

or before, we can see


vague intimations of some goal, or ending-place.

…Shapes that sway

in the fog of a moonless night; peripheral phantoms,

never quite visible, straight on.

At times i think the journey means more than its end.

Without this shifting, dimly-seen path–where would we




October 3, 2008 at 5:09 pm Leave a comment

poetry, voices

meanings (4)

all you can ask of me

is meanings: and all

i can give is words.



(remember, poetry from voices really is at least 20 years old)


September 25, 2008 at 6:14 pm Leave a comment

poetry, voices

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the mourner

here, in the moment

you’d thought to think timeless, time

has never been more present.

your mind has become

indifferent, as your body struggles, lost in the thing

called love.

later you discover

you desire her most when she won’t

be touched, unable to want

that offered. only the

untouched, the unknown and mysterious. and when she

is gone

she is most truly

your loved one, hugged close like

a nearly unbearable burden

of selfhood. your chains

made your meanings, you cannot (ever)

let them go.



…In the context particularly of recent events (and most particularly political), this seemed quite fitting.  It’s odd that we have so many professions and people who prate of truth and do everything in their power to avoid it.  It’s also blasted amazing how much alliteration I’m doing.  No more!

September 24, 2008 at 9:44 pm Leave a comment

poetry, rainsong, voices


i have stood

on hillsides, staring

at hills

half-hidden through

the rain, the mist

(the mountains

are hidden today).

some things

still clear, the distant rendered obscure

some reminiscent shadowshape…

i have few words to say. The world

is but a word.



September 22, 2008 at 9:55 pm Leave a comment

poetry from voices





it had been so long

since i’d looked through

the attic window, i

spent the whole day there.




September 18, 2008 at 11:39 pm Leave a comment

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