43-How Many Aprils ?
56-Under The Moon
Poetry isn't finality.
It never has made that claim
It's an ancient ship on an endless sea,
giving the ports a name.
Poetry isn't an absolute.
It's a song of moving mortality.
Played on a guitar, or played on a flute,
it's a constant birth, not fatality.
Poetry isn't arrival, surcease.
It's endless investigation,
knowing camps on the Journey, not final peace.
It isn't a destination.
Poetry lives, and grows as we grow.
It blooms, and it comes to seed.
It has seasons and tides, as Life in its flow.
It changes with every need.
When we come to those Halls, where Light dispels
the mist of our doubt and care,
and music of vaster dimension swells,
Poetry will be there.
Poetry lives in us, weeps in us, sings,
and it's sometimes a saga of strife.
From the heart of humanity, poetry flings
our Soul to the stars ! It's Life !
A semblance of memory drifting here -
not to be caught - fashioned of air.
Finer than spider-silk. Fleeter than wind.
Why can't I let this memory in ?
Some ancient vision quaking the depths.
Not to be captured. Not to be kept.
Just exhaled in living; worn in the eyes.
Why can't I let this memory rise ?
Down through the ages, treble and clear,
a far note of summons floats in the air.
Pierces the soul with bitter-sweet pain.
Only the wound, and the wonder,remain.
Steadily drips the rain.
Leaves of Autumn fall.
A violet aster flames,
against the garden wall.
Birds have spurned the chill.
They favor the shining coast.
A mist across the hills,
drifts like a wandering ghost.
Through the waning hours,
heart and memory sing.
They will weave the flowers,
that blossom in the Spring.
O Time, who winds around our heart
these intricate threads of Life,
lend us your slow, industrious art,
but spare us the tangles of strife.
Ah, but you answer , with shuttle flying,
"How shall the bird ascend the sky
with no resistance for thrustward plying ?
What you ask is a lie !"
O Love, let us learn our grip to lessen,
that we may accept you, and yet live free.
Spare us the pain and the ancient questions,
that linger uncertainly.
"You poor child", Love smiles in compassion,
"how young and untried to ask for such !
Love is a baptism, not a fashion !
You cannot love and remain untouched. !"
O Wisdom, who brings to the soul a peace,
come and abide in this troubled mind,
that it may rest in untroubled ease,
no longer to wander blind.
"You speak of illusion, who comes when you sleep,
and lures you to lay down your load,
not of us, who the Vigil keep,
and together walk the Road."