1992
My Mind Wanders With Direction
February 25, 1992
I am freer than the darkest night,... when I bleed with pen;
For somehow my mind detaches from the shore, floats to a solitudinal island, and strikes anchor.
My mind wanders with direction,
Errantly, yet in cause;
The wonder of a supplication,
Married to a pause,
Holds solid homes in tempest-weather,
Sweeps lead-brick burdens with a feather,
Keeps sanity and itself together,
Till they are one --- in peace (and only peace),
Never to be wrenched apart,
Or suffer esteem disease;
And when a blow comes to the heart,
It's overcome in natural ease.
Live to Mull and Weave
March 18, 1992
Mull and weave; mull your own words, then re-weave them into new ones; new combinations, new orders. With one grain I build out, adding variations, until filling the shore.
Live to weave;
Malleable words,
They fit my grip;
With these clay words
I build clay worlds
Or a tabernacle;
Tub, urn, ache;
To burn ash;
Two burnished swords in my hand:
Wit is the one, the pen is my brand,
Fashioned ashore a beach of sand;
The words slip through my fingers,
Not even one grain lingers.
Words are like that.
Eis o Poema
May 17, 1992
Eis o poema
Que nos estica, estendendo-nos como uma teia entre dois pontos extremos.
O poema efectivo faz com que saiamos do abrigo emocional e enfrentemos o que antes era impensável.
O poema deseja-nos moldar;
O poema quer ser a nossa escritura pessoal;
O poema é o bordão mágico do poeta,
Sendo-lhe um meio de auto-declaração.
O poema é personalidade em papel,
Coração palpitando na fina madeira.
(Behold the poem
That stretches us, extending us like a web between two extremes.
The effective poem gets us to leave the emotional shelter and confront what was once unthinkable.
The poem seeks to mold us;
The poem wants to be our personal scripture;
The poem is the poet’s magic staff,
Being a means of self-declaration;
The poem is personality on paper,
The beating heart on thin wood.)
The Spirit (Im)Pulse
September 5, 1992
I quietly ask myself in anything that concerns me, “Which?” or “What way?” and my spirit (im) pulse helps me see the good choice. Often the choice has supposed unappealing consequences, at least temporally (temporarily); but I don’t care as much, because I followed my Heart’s pulse, and I rest assured that things will eventually result in good. And they do.
I’m constantly experimenting with this, or have been for the past week or more, and the results have been very good.
It all seems to work when I honestly, truly detach myself from the numerous influences and temptations and selfish desires telling me what to do. When I am completely, wholly honest with myself to the point that I know when I’m exercising God’s will over mine in my life, then I am sufficiently sensitive to be guided.
A key in being guided by God is to stop and listen to your mind in all seriousness. Listen to your mind! Turn off the music, stop talking, stop planning, stop reading, stop exercising,… stop everything and think in quietness.
A Death Confronts a Living Person
September 26, 1992
A death confronts a living person, by surprise, and forces all other base preoccupations to dissolve as mist. Every line points inward, every element, every particle of the soul, centers; true focus descends.
True issues arise:
"God help us!"
"I must cleanse my soul!"
"I love my family!"
"My loved one is dead but shall embody again someday."
All masks are removed around a death, and we see each other and our own selves as we truly are; no façades or concealing can exist; we see truths everywhere and in everything for a brief moment.
No make-up, or concerns about appearances
No machismo
No bickering or social gossip
No social manners
No acting
No money worries
No obligations or appointments too important to break
This My Brain
October 23, 1992
This my brain, some sort of sort of sort of train,
Making way through hill and plain,
With energy I can't explain ---
Bursting bursting bursting on the scene,
From foliage thick to meadow green,
With no one thought to solely preen;
My thoughts are not sure what they mean,
But wordsthoughtsfeelings all explode,
Whenever they can't hide;
At times I can't refute this mode,
For doing such I'd be denied.
This Soul It Loves
Late 1992
This body's soul white as shewbread ---
Refutes the baking Son ---
My carapace a browning crust:
Sepulchre less sin.
Once dead, now leavened,
From chamber home leavening oven,
I made to rise a vow ---
Sacramental Jesus given
E'en to unacknowledging Jew.
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