Still, in the emptiness between voids.
Searching, I am all out of finding.
Lost? I only wonder
What is to loss, or find.
Soft, in the fullness between void,
I walk between twin mysteries:
life and death, both Being.
Unbeing, the non, lies about me
(lies to me) terrible in its quiet.
Invisible, I only see it
When the lights of cities burn low.
Monologue
Having something to say
is not finding the words
with which to say it.
The line between wanting and needing
is a reed striving
to bend. I said
I would not forget, but
have forgot why I said that.
I need what I cannot give -
Forgiveness.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Early December Poems
[A few short poems. The next series (occupying 3 or so posts) will be poems written on the 13th and 14th of December in one mad rush of energy. I tend to write a lot of poetry on the bus. And explanations of some poems, in brackets like these, will be added from time to time.]
We fail language when
We cannot find the words,
Vocabularies stunted by
The rising sun.
The emptying of my soul
Was a long fall into the dark night
Propelled by lust and longing for
Forbidden lore and eldritch sights.
For this I fell, so glorious and far
To follow time through ruin and wreck
To behold the wonders of it all
And see all the new Star Treks.
A withered arm, hanging spent
From a muscled shoulder,
Its companion obscenely large:
Strength only serving to
Call attention to the wound.
I wonder - which arm is whole?
Searching, I find no words.
Needing options, we make
Making things, we find
Finding ourselves, we want
Wanting only our needs.
We fail language when
We cannot find the words,
Vocabularies stunted by
The rising sun.
The emptying of my soul
Was a long fall into the dark night
Propelled by lust and longing for
Forbidden lore and eldritch sights.
For this I fell, so glorious and far
To follow time through ruin and wreck
To behold the wonders of it all
And see all the new Star Treks.
A withered arm, hanging spent
From a muscled shoulder,
Its companion obscenely large:
Strength only serving to
Call attention to the wound.
I wonder - which arm is whole?
Searching, I find no words.
Needing options, we make
Making things, we find
Finding ourselves, we want
Wanting only our needs.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Dreamers
I’m a modern dreamer, a little bit a schemer
I always have a song if I’m right, if I’m wrong.
A modern demagogue sitting on a log
Straddling the fence, pretending it makes sense.
The only thing I have are words
Trapped within, caged like birds.
And a dream never dies even when a dreamer cries
And a song’s never over, new verses to discover,
And hope holds is through the lies that are true
And everything we wish for that seems to just vanish.
Failing language, we can’t find words
And far away have flown the birds.
I always have a song if I’m right, if I’m wrong.
A modern demagogue sitting on a log
Straddling the fence, pretending it makes sense.
The only thing I have are words
Trapped within, caged like birds.
And a dream never dies even when a dreamer cries
And a song’s never over, new verses to discover,
And hope holds is through the lies that are true
And everything we wish for that seems to just vanish.
Failing language, we can’t find words
And far away have flown the birds.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Two scenes from "Through The Wilderness"
Two scenes, starring Joe Crow, the shaman-to-be who fell into bad medicine (alcohol) and was freed by one of the MCs parents, who are telepaths. He realized what they'd done to him, and promised to aid them. They are, in the first scene, under attack by telepaths trying to take over the town. The next scene is a about three hours later.]
Walking. The old man was walking through it, clothed but naked, letting the wind blow through him in this world, and the other. He was glad it was dawn, George Smith, because otherwise he may have been seen and accused of flashing pretty girls, for he was wearing nothing under his coat, and nothing on his feet. There was only the snow under the feet, one step, another step, pattern, beating, drums. He understood voodoo drums now, and omm, and the use of drums for meditation. Repetition was the key, the thing to keep you you.
He walked, digging his feet in to the solid reality of snow seeping into boots, into the muddy trail along behind him, the play of wind in the trees and his air. Boundaries, that was the key. At some level they broke down, he knew. He’s been in the dream before, where the subject/ object duality broke and all was subject. I am here, everything else is there. He had to remind himself of that several times as his feet tingled not entirely unpleasantly.
No one understands how useful lies are, how necessary, until they’re faced with a truth that is more than personal truth. Walls were important. They kept things inside. That was the real reason for walls, not what they keep out but what they don’t let in.
He’d been doing this forever, and for twenty years. Time was as much an illusion as everything else he thought. Perhaps it was all illusion, but then the illusions are real. He could feel his thoughts, and other thoughts. It was amazing, sometimes, how many things a person thinks of, at so many levels. And so he walked, trying not to think of certain things, to let the pattern, the sameness, wash through him.
He was building walls, because the dams were falling and it was all the magic he could offer in return for the freedom he’d been given from his curse.
But right now it felt like dominos. And his feet reminded him that he was also sacrificing his toes if he kept this up for much longer.
*****
The old man lay in the bed, whispering prayers to the Great Spirit as tubes entered and left his body like strange alien worms. The self-important men told him he could lose his toes, but it didn’t bother him as much as his failure. There had been many times he’d failed himself, but failing others was always harder to bear.
He drew on his strength, what little he had left, and prayed. It was not a last resort, his plea: all magic is prayer, invocation, conjuring. But if nothing answered, he was not sure what he would do. The pigeon came into his morphine dream later as he slept. The fact that it was his totem didn’t surprise him, nor that he was a statue it crapped on.
“You are needed,” it told him.
“Fuck off,” he said pleasantly. He’d have preferred it be a crow, to go with his name, but the universe never worked that way.
“You are needed,” it repeated sternly.
He’d disappointed it, but that was nothing new. The old man chronicled his life as a history of disappointments.
“No one needs anyone,” he said cheerfully. “We are all free. Wondrously, gloriously free to do whatever we want.” He wasn’t sure if it was the morphine that spoke or if it was him.
“People will be hurt,” the pigeon said softly.
“No. This - all of it - is an illusion. Maya. All of that. If they are hurt, it’s their fault and their choice. Not mine. I can’t live anyone else’s life but my one. No one can.” The fierceness in his voice surprised him.
The pigeon laughed, sadly. “Dying in a hospital bed is a sad use of enlightenment.”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Of course,” his totem said. “But that is all you are. Not good, not better than anyone else. Just right. And, maybe, wrong as well. Everything matters, you see. Everything. We are drawn to each other by our natures and our choices, but what we do once we are drawn together is entirely up to us.”
“I tried. I failed.”
“You tried alone,” the voice said, deeper now. “Alone, there is only failure in the end. With others, you may succeed.”
“And do what?” he spat. “Miracles? I know how that roads ends. Mobs. Death. I have no wish to die for anyone, nor for their ideals. Besides, what would I be dying for? None of this is real!”
“No, no it’s not. But the beauty is real,” the pigeon said, and vanished as a nurse put more morphine into his system and he drifted into sleep without dreams, and a dream of spiders and nets and winter tales, with dim memories of Shakespeare burned into his minds by the public - white - school system.
‘I have drunk, and seen the spider’. It didn’t seem funny when he woke up.
Walking. The old man was walking through it, clothed but naked, letting the wind blow through him in this world, and the other. He was glad it was dawn, George Smith, because otherwise he may have been seen and accused of flashing pretty girls, for he was wearing nothing under his coat, and nothing on his feet. There was only the snow under the feet, one step, another step, pattern, beating, drums. He understood voodoo drums now, and omm, and the use of drums for meditation. Repetition was the key, the thing to keep you you.
He walked, digging his feet in to the solid reality of snow seeping into boots, into the muddy trail along behind him, the play of wind in the trees and his air. Boundaries, that was the key. At some level they broke down, he knew. He’s been in the dream before, where the subject/ object duality broke and all was subject. I am here, everything else is there. He had to remind himself of that several times as his feet tingled not entirely unpleasantly.
No one understands how useful lies are, how necessary, until they’re faced with a truth that is more than personal truth. Walls were important. They kept things inside. That was the real reason for walls, not what they keep out but what they don’t let in.
He’d been doing this forever, and for twenty years. Time was as much an illusion as everything else he thought. Perhaps it was all illusion, but then the illusions are real. He could feel his thoughts, and other thoughts. It was amazing, sometimes, how many things a person thinks of, at so many levels. And so he walked, trying not to think of certain things, to let the pattern, the sameness, wash through him.
He was building walls, because the dams were falling and it was all the magic he could offer in return for the freedom he’d been given from his curse.
But right now it felt like dominos. And his feet reminded him that he was also sacrificing his toes if he kept this up for much longer.
*****
The old man lay in the bed, whispering prayers to the Great Spirit as tubes entered and left his body like strange alien worms. The self-important men told him he could lose his toes, but it didn’t bother him as much as his failure. There had been many times he’d failed himself, but failing others was always harder to bear.
He drew on his strength, what little he had left, and prayed. It was not a last resort, his plea: all magic is prayer, invocation, conjuring. But if nothing answered, he was not sure what he would do. The pigeon came into his morphine dream later as he slept. The fact that it was his totem didn’t surprise him, nor that he was a statue it crapped on.
“You are needed,” it told him.
“Fuck off,” he said pleasantly. He’d have preferred it be a crow, to go with his name, but the universe never worked that way.
“You are needed,” it repeated sternly.
He’d disappointed it, but that was nothing new. The old man chronicled his life as a history of disappointments.
“No one needs anyone,” he said cheerfully. “We are all free. Wondrously, gloriously free to do whatever we want.” He wasn’t sure if it was the morphine that spoke or if it was him.
“People will be hurt,” the pigeon said softly.
“No. This - all of it - is an illusion. Maya. All of that. If they are hurt, it’s their fault and their choice. Not mine. I can’t live anyone else’s life but my one. No one can.” The fierceness in his voice surprised him.
The pigeon laughed, sadly. “Dying in a hospital bed is a sad use of enlightenment.”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Of course,” his totem said. “But that is all you are. Not good, not better than anyone else. Just right. And, maybe, wrong as well. Everything matters, you see. Everything. We are drawn to each other by our natures and our choices, but what we do once we are drawn together is entirely up to us.”
“I tried. I failed.”
“You tried alone,” the voice said, deeper now. “Alone, there is only failure in the end. With others, you may succeed.”
“And do what?” he spat. “Miracles? I know how that roads ends. Mobs. Death. I have no wish to die for anyone, nor for their ideals. Besides, what would I be dying for? None of this is real!”
“No, no it’s not. But the beauty is real,” the pigeon said, and vanished as a nurse put more morphine into his system and he drifted into sleep without dreams, and a dream of spiders and nets and winter tales, with dim memories of Shakespeare burned into his minds by the public - white - school system.
‘I have drunk, and seen the spider’. It didn’t seem funny when he woke up.
Fake Chinese Poetry
[a.k.a. I have begun reading a book on Chinese verse today. The following quick poems were inspired by the poems I read.]
i.
I wrap myself in slender leaves,
The winds caress my soul.
About me nightmares pace and howl
But Oh! the sky is beautiful.
ii.
I want to believe
The truth that Master’s say
But if all is illusion
is it illusion
To read the lies they wrote?
iii.
Of late I have come to conclusion
As the night birds sing the dawn
That no teacher but a Master
Ever sough a student’s surpassing them.
For only a Master has wise selfishness
And lets seekers find their glory
Like a moth, straining
To make its own fire.
i.
I wrap myself in slender leaves,
The winds caress my soul.
About me nightmares pace and howl
But Oh! the sky is beautiful.
ii.
I want to believe
The truth that Master’s say
But if all is illusion
is it illusion
To read the lies they wrote?
iii.
Of late I have come to conclusion
As the night birds sing the dawn
That no teacher but a Master
Ever sough a student’s surpassing them.
For only a Master has wise selfishness
And lets seekers find their glory
Like a moth, straining
To make its own fire.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Gearing Up for January, Poem #7
Wanting, and wings
(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod
I want to be with you ‘til the end of time
When the stars line up in their ancient lines
Ashes falling from the corner of our eyes
No disguises, no reprisals, nothing to call.
The wind is in your face
The light is in your hair
In this strange place
I find I do not care
But I’m still waiting for some kind of sign.
Something to tell me about the road we’re on
If it ends and where we’ve gone
Coz I’m walking down a road of my own making
To a castle in the sky and breaking it
With my fears
That have no end
And your tears
That never mend
Because one day your heart just came undone.
And we’re both waiting for a better tomorrow
I wish my fears could be drowned in your sorrow
And your tears could be turned into a fine wine
To let the whole of Creation know you are mine.
The road has an end
As does everything,
Tender time will mend
your heart -- angel wings
Will envelop us and eternity be ours to borrow.
Everyone Knows
(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod
Everyone knows what
long sleeves in the summer mean,
coats that are worn over skin
to stand alone swishing in the heat.
Everyone understands
that the wide eyes are silent,
and the secrets inside
are never spoken even if you limp
It’s a stone, or a mistake,
and never wad deliberate,
hunger desperate yearning
telling you the other side is greener.
the mask over your face
is a hated thing, but you bear it
and no one ever says
a thing, thinking it is for your protection.
The mosquitos buzz, the mask
holds back flies, and they just see
a horse in a paddock, wearing
a blanket to ward off the rain,
never wondering at your secret shame.
(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod
I want to be with you ‘til the end of time
When the stars line up in their ancient lines
Ashes falling from the corner of our eyes
No disguises, no reprisals, nothing to call.
The wind is in your face
The light is in your hair
In this strange place
I find I do not care
But I’m still waiting for some kind of sign.
Something to tell me about the road we’re on
If it ends and where we’ve gone
Coz I’m walking down a road of my own making
To a castle in the sky and breaking it
With my fears
That have no end
And your tears
That never mend
Because one day your heart just came undone.
And we’re both waiting for a better tomorrow
I wish my fears could be drowned in your sorrow
And your tears could be turned into a fine wine
To let the whole of Creation know you are mine.
The road has an end
As does everything,
Tender time will mend
your heart -- angel wings
Will envelop us and eternity be ours to borrow.
Everyone Knows
(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod
Everyone knows what
long sleeves in the summer mean,
coats that are worn over skin
to stand alone swishing in the heat.
Everyone understands
that the wide eyes are silent,
and the secrets inside
are never spoken even if you limp
It’s a stone, or a mistake,
and never wad deliberate,
hunger desperate yearning
telling you the other side is greener.
the mask over your face
is a hated thing, but you bear it
and no one ever says
a thing, thinking it is for your protection.
The mosquitos buzz, the mask
holds back flies, and they just see
a horse in a paddock, wearing
a blanket to ward off the rain,
never wondering at your secret shame.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Gearing Up for January, Poems #6
Sport Poems
Voodoo bowling, with
every pin someone
who has scorned me.
I never bowl a perfect game.
But it does not matter,
I'd need more than 300
To settle all my pains.
Playing pool for souls
We stare into holes
Wondering: what did
It mean -- solids
Instead of stripes.
And was it just hype,
Number 8 my soul
Falling after all?
The white ball was
Innocence because
It kept being hit, and
We refused to quit.
Voodoo bowling, with
every pin someone
who has scorned me.
I never bowl a perfect game.
But it does not matter,
I'd need more than 300
To settle all my pains.
Playing pool for souls
We stare into holes
Wondering: what did
It mean -- solids
Instead of stripes.
And was it just hype,
Number 8 my soul
Falling after all?
The white ball was
Innocence because
It kept being hit, and
We refused to quit.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Gearing Up for January, Poem #5
The Rain
(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod
We lay sleeping in the rain,
The sky the colour of the end of a matchstick
Smoking signals no one can now decipher.
Cipher, you hold me, but not too fast,
Saying: words, but I am not sure those you say
The words you utter, are the ones
I am hearing, and the rain
Obscures your voice.
Thunder drowns out my questions
The only answers found in flesh
As we create a new language
Using old tongues, and write it
In the contours of flesh
And I wonder at the words you say
And to whom you are saying them.
“I love you,” you are saying
But it is only to a dream and no one real.
And I am waiting for you
Waiting to awaken, to wake up, to -
To touch me, and make a warmth
To pierce the rain, and as One
We will be together, untouched by the storm,
No longer sleeping
No longer cold
No longer alone.
(December 2005)
Josh MacLeod
The sky the colour of the end of a matchstick
Smoking signals no one can now decipher.
Cipher, you hold me, but not too fast,
Saying: words, but I am not sure those you say
The words you utter, are the ones
I am hearing, and the rain
Obscures your voice.
Thunder drowns out my questions
The only answers found in flesh
As we create a new language
Using old tongues, and write it
In the contours of flesh
And I wonder at the words you say
And to whom you are saying them.
“I love you,” you are saying
But it is only to a dream and no one real.
And I am waiting for you
Waiting to awaken, to wake up, to -
To touch me, and make a warmth
To pierce the rain, and as One
We will be together, untouched by the storm,
No longer sleeping
No longer cold
No longer alone.
Gearing Up for January, Poem #4
Do you love me, can you tell me
Is it real, and is it fated
Or are we just constipated?
Do you need me, will you tell me
What you feel about anything
Growing in you like the Spring
Do you hate me, can you tell me
If words heal or only hurt
Just don’t stand there so inert
I’m walking through the desert
Looking for a flower to bring
To tell you it’s not too late
It’s never too late when it’s fated.
Is it real, and is it fated
Or are we just constipated?
Do you need me, will you tell me
What you feel about anything
Growing in you like the Spring
Do you hate me, can you tell me
If words heal or only hurt
Just don’t stand there so inert
I’m walking through the desert
Looking for a flower to bring
To tell you it’s not too late
It’s never too late when it’s fated.
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