beyond the origins of prayer…the underbelly of poetics

I live my life in widening circles that reach
out across the world.
I may not complete this last one but I give myself to it.
I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I’ve been circling for thousands of years
& I still don’t know:
am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?
poetry pushes words through a sieve that topple the mind over to the soul… sees feelings, tastes music, & touches the source of creation… is the spiraling path to a place where nothing but life can go…..the pathos of blue hearts & the golden gush of impulse….a tin can filled with stars….like describing the perfect egg….the fluttering of tentative possibility….poetica extraordinaire…..
i am running into a new year
and the old years blow back
like a wind
that i catch in my hair
like strong fingers like
all my old promises and
it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twenty six and thirty six
even thirty six but
i am running into a new year
and i beg what i love and
i leave to forgive me

….Lucille Clifton

to encrypt a life into beauteous folds of origami rhyme….

I have finally concluded,
maybe that’s what life is about:
there’s a lot of despair, but also the odd
moment of beauty,
where time is no longer the same.
It’s as if those strains of music created
a sort of interlude in time, something suspended,
an elsewhere that had come to us,
an always within never.
Yes, that’s it, an always within never.

….Muriel Barbery

we seek out an instinctual greeting to each other……it looks like dust & rain, smells like sanctuary & prayer, feels like wool & doves & shadows….in spectacular shades of calm….

Lights filter down

through ghosts

and time.

The hat on the bed

shifts its pose

from the window view.

Lightly tossed,

this beautiful gesture

frames a memory;

a simple folly and

dusk’s trickery?

Fragments whisper of

layered lives, then drift from

one room

one touch

one fabric

(feathers to silk to wool);

flying cartwheels to

curling child’s pose.

A gallery like snowflames bloom

into sweet, hot, roots-

white shawls and cowboy boots,

mother and friend,

ladybug and maple tree,

nymph and tomboy.

Exigent wings,

beatitudes and curiosities

lift as easily as a wide brim.

Coquettish and wise,

the recherché soul that

flits and flaunts in roles and glib mantras,

folds in golden streams of shelter.

self is not The Self…rather

a nimble lilt of mood like

a lightly tossed hat on the bed.

…In Blue

6 thoughts on “beyond the origins of prayer…the underbelly of poetics

  1. You should call this poem Always Within Never … The mystic searches all the corners of life to know its reasons, it’s raison d’être … The writer wraps that discover into a novel, like Dubliners or Anna Karenina, the poet weaves the mystery into epics like Homer’s Odessy, or simple yet profound works like Frost’s The Trial by Existance, so that we the readers, the individualized souls searching for the same thing, are oven a light upon the path, not to reveal this greatest secret, but to help guide our steps toward sacred place inside of eternity were we find what never was has always been …
    May there be light on your path today …

    • beautiful tangential connections……off to ‘find what never was has always been’….and let’s not forget the humble poets like us who light it all up, do the work, and carry each other along….all for the rich beauty of a sunset etched with the perfect word….poem blessings to you g.f.s…..

  2. Poets seek the extraordinary in the mundane ~ the magic in the cardboard. A favored quote ~ “Poets are simply those who have made a profession and a lifestyle of being in touch with their bliss.” 😉

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