The House of Forever & The Poet"s House (7-Poems)
1--The Muttering Souls I awoke from a dream, dark and somber (I was back in the arctic again)-- profound it was, to find out a single arctic door, with a cryptic murmur (muttering souls) stubbornly opened up--all filled with pillars and ice cold floors: adorned me evermore.
Layer, upon layer: laid, stood, and paced, were the dead!...
(With folded arms and sunken in chests.
) Half frozen in the halls of hell; and thus, I feared the wisdom of each silent shape! (For I knew my life was complacency.
) #1084 1/18/2006 2--O Quiet Dust And so we changed at last! Ah! From changeless years we seemed to have had noisy with life, we grew old).
O quiet dust, have you settled yet? Life gnawed at heart and soul,-- And you bore the pain (if so).
Are we not all a mystery--? Here comes the: day, hour, minute-- Ah! who will meet me at the Pathless gate...
? #1084 1/18/2006 3--The Land of Forever More [Dedicated to the aging with dignity group] Wholesome snowflakes of winter blow And squirrels hide avoid the snow, In this city I roamed as a boy, Carefree and many years ago.
Strange even to myself, am I! For the lads that roamed with me, (Years ago); are changed I see Like me--gray and some are dead.
And now as I look out, from my porch Memories haunt the hollow past, And yes, I still hear voices, echoes, Old dreams, old friends vibrating back.
I wait now for the path and sunrise--.
I who will journey, beyond the stars; I notice the light is not so very far: I see it now, in a land called--forever more! #1083 1/18/06 The Poet's House 1--A Lone Poet A poet is a gift from God (I heard said once); listen to him said Jeffers (back in '63); but for the sake of God, let him be...
donot kill his art, his play, like you did to Keats and Hemmingway.
A poet is one who has learned and whispers back what Faulkner dare not say! And thus, lost his way.
#1083 1/18/2006 [Inspired by Robinson Jeffers] 2--The Basalt Hunchback Death, the black basalt hunchback (The Poet of Volcanic realism): Strolls through the countryside, City pathways: servant to no man, Avoided by all men who want to live? You sits and watches us labor--victors go home, while others stay.
No one but death knows their fate: Except Christ! #1083 1/19/2006
Layer, upon layer: laid, stood, and paced, were the dead!...
(With folded arms and sunken in chests.
) Half frozen in the halls of hell; and thus, I feared the wisdom of each silent shape! (For I knew my life was complacency.
) #1084 1/18/2006 2--O Quiet Dust And so we changed at last! Ah! From changeless years we seemed to have had noisy with life, we grew old).
O quiet dust, have you settled yet? Life gnawed at heart and soul,-- And you bore the pain (if so).
Are we not all a mystery--? Here comes the: day, hour, minute-- Ah! who will meet me at the Pathless gate...
? #1084 1/18/2006 3--The Land of Forever More [Dedicated to the aging with dignity group] Wholesome snowflakes of winter blow And squirrels hide avoid the snow, In this city I roamed as a boy, Carefree and many years ago.
Strange even to myself, am I! For the lads that roamed with me, (Years ago); are changed I see Like me--gray and some are dead.
And now as I look out, from my porch Memories haunt the hollow past, And yes, I still hear voices, echoes, Old dreams, old friends vibrating back.
I wait now for the path and sunrise--.
I who will journey, beyond the stars; I notice the light is not so very far: I see it now, in a land called--forever more! #1083 1/18/06 The Poet's House 1--A Lone Poet A poet is a gift from God (I heard said once); listen to him said Jeffers (back in '63); but for the sake of God, let him be...
donot kill his art, his play, like you did to Keats and Hemmingway.
A poet is one who has learned and whispers back what Faulkner dare not say! And thus, lost his way.
#1083 1/18/2006 [Inspired by Robinson Jeffers] 2--The Basalt Hunchback Death, the black basalt hunchback (The Poet of Volcanic realism): Strolls through the countryside, City pathways: servant to no man, Avoided by all men who want to live? You sits and watches us labor--victors go home, while others stay.
No one but death knows their fate: Except Christ! #1083 1/19/2006
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