The dark spindrift reverb

Of grey traced it's way through every Silver lining.

The autumn’s secret of declining. The webs of azure light.

The secret inwardness of insight.

The leaves blue shadows that cascade with wind. The beryled dawn.

The melody of branches swinging, the beat that is hid within.

The secret of grey inlying. In melody of shadows. They are deep as the rippling pools, these copses absent shallows.

And everything seems to take place beneath them. And the heart's balances even. And

restore. In the calm of the world.

What is hid within, is what the wind can only speak indirectly – its ghostly and primeval flowing through these leaves and branches.

Reminisce;

How the realms formed within the reddest mist

The simplest twist of smoke had its destiny,

Operculum, Red Myrhh, Styrax

For;

In you all scaffolding of dreams is folded

And grows through the seams of

Simple things, burrs bursting

Even now in all the distant kingdoms

It is twisting through the air- the lattice

Of this new reality.

And your are here interweaving

Subtly in the fashion of the new formation,

All the moods and the passions of the

Air- you exist folding the pulses of the

Wind, the secret channels through which

It carries space within space, distances

Across distance,

In the indrawn cave where

I first met you-

Operculum, Red Myrrh, Styrax

Were the offering to the fire

Which burnt beyond the

Lamp of time- and as your

Form began to rise- I could

Tell it wasn't of nature

Reminisce;

How the realms formed within the reddest mist

The simplest twist of smoke had its destiny,

Operculum, Red Myrhh, Styrax

For;

In you all scaffolding of dreams is folded

And grows through the seams of

Simple things, burrs bursting

Even now in all the distant kingdoms

It is twisting through the air- the lattice

Of this new reality.

And your are here interweaving

Subtly in the fashion of the new formation,

All the moods and the passions of the

Air- you exist folding the pulses of the

Wind, the secret channels through which

It carries space within space, distances

Across distance,

In the indrawn cave where I first met you-

Operculum, Red Myrrh, Styrax

Were the offering to the fire

Which burnt beyond the

Lamp of time- and as your

Form began to rise- I could

Tell it wasn't of nature

"Taches Solaires", "Geometric

Messenger From the

Three Poles" forever

Echoing-- echo and

Dislodge: in my eyes

You became the solar

Secret of Fumage

And now I am become

As Anaximander-- this

Secret day-- For I am turning

In my hands the seeds of

Worlds-- the ambrosial

Seeds of flame, which are

Shifting and dancing in

A voluble grace-- I make

The spinning wheel of all

Time, trace shapes of a

Gyre within itself, letting

Cycle spin unto cycle

Moment melt unto moment

Blossoming- as time also

Dissapitates, stands still

All that is raw in earth

Becoming pure, shifting

Patterns of these worlds

Alchemical Cycles-

Spin cinnabar to jade

To gold

You are what is hidden

In the Pays Interdit-- the

Inward vessel, the shimmering

Pearl, the heart and the pangs

Of it- the war in which

Many worlds are born

Rising above all of it

You are- the "Ciel De Peurve",

The "Harpe Astrale"-

Become depressurized,

Expanding and interweaving

In many horizons of silky

Smoke, and above as

Sunlight glints upon the

Golden and resistant

Stratosphere- the clouds

Themselves synchronize

And float, with patterns

Of this smoke below

And as you rose

You were the spirit

The spirit of all art - it was as if

I took had taken thr Visage De Profil,

brought it

To your heat, so that the

spirit emblazoned

Upon it melted off leaping

And danced in freedom, growing in

Its true form and shapes, well beyond

The picturing and the imagination of its

Creator, and flowed

Pulsing in patterns

Rotating within each other, in many

Inward, dancing, cycles of the

Repeating form each a of the next

Mandalic repetitions of

The forms of your mist split off

From each other splitting

Into new shape and form

You sink into the earths core

In order to revitalize it

There are many multitudes

Of vert and of emerald in

My spirit that you send

Thrilling- your spirit

Swims the air--

As the Jade and Malachite

Of you smooths and soothes

You the burnt off residue of

Despair and of happiness

You dance the "Eight Silk

Brocades" -- you dance the

"Looking over your shoulder

To the moon"

As you started to rise

I could tell your form wasn't

Of nature- Taches Solaires,

Geometric Messenger From the

Three Poles forever echoing

You were the solar secret of Fumage

I am become as Anaximander,

For I am turning in my mind, the ambrosial

Seeds, the flame -- of so many unborn

World's

You are the secret of balance in all

Things which is furled

And

With hands cupped to the eyes

I become as Appolonius--

Seeing inward, all patterns melt into the

Darkness of those cupped spaces--

And then eyes quivering upwards

Flicker open the vision attempting

To surf upon the twisting torrents of

These flames- which split from one

Another and each echoing the patterns

Of the other's rapid pulsing and writhing

In increasing sync

An almost unbearable wave of heat

Forces the eyes to close- and then there

Comes- the coolness; eyes

Now strobing between scrying

The fire- where beings and forms

Beyond imagining are

In all patterns of the smoke

The space inward-- behind the

Eyes goes from the black emptiness

To the charged darkness of the

Starry sky

Yes

I closed my eyes, and mapped out

In you the pantomime, Thick Realms

In you the sinuous shape of time

The sinew of time, static form

Now sinuously given unto the new.

I marked it's structure, and from

Whence it was-- the cresting

Spirit of the dove, hidden in the

Passive stillness- caressing the

Spirit and healing it

As you come back out- rearising

I can feel the gates

Within me opening- the flow from

"Magpie Bridge" to the "Jade Palace",

Turning to the middle Dantian -

Floating down the ladder- "small heaven"

And "small earth" interlinking

In me love and solace and peace

Crests, ever interkneading.'

Forever

Echoing-- echo and

Dislodge: in my eyes

You became the solar

Secret of Fumage

And now I am become

As Anaximander-- this

Secret day-- For I am turning

In my hands the seeds of

Worlds-- the ambrosial

Seeds of flame, which are

Shifting and dancing in

A voluble grace-- I make

The spinning wheel of all

Time, trace shapes of a

Gyre within itself, letting

Cycle spin unto cycle

Moment melt unto moment

Blossoming- as time also

Dissapitates, stands still

All that is raw in earth

Becoming pure, shifting

Patterns of these worlds

Alchemical Cycles-

Spin cinnabar to jade

To gold

You are what is hidden

In the Pays Interdit-- the

Inward vessel, the shimmering

Pearl, the heart and the pangs

Of it- the war in which

Many worlds are born

Rising above all of it

You are- the "Ciel De Peurve",

The "Harpe Astrale"-

Become depressurized,

Expanding and interweaving

In many horizons of silky

Smoke, and above as

Sunlight glints upon the

Golden and resistant

Stratosphere- the clouds

Themselves synchronize

And float, with patterns

Of this smoke below

And as you rose

You were the spirit

The spirit of all art - it was as if

I took had taken thr Visage De Profil,

brought it

To your heat, so that the

spirit emblazoned

Upon it melted off leaping

And danced in freedom, growing in

Its true form and shapes, well beyond

The picturing and the imagination of its

Creator, and flowed

Pulsing in patterns

Rotating within each other, in many

Inward, dancing, cycles of the

Repeating form each a of the next

Mandalic repetitions of

The forms of your mist split off

From each other splitting

Into new shape and form

You sink into the earths core

In order to revitalize it

There are many multitudes

Of vert and of emerald in

My spirit that you send

Thrilling- your spirit

Swims the air--

As the Jade and Malachite

Of you smooths and soothes

You the burnt off residue of

Despair and of happiness

You dance the "Eight Silk

Brocades" -- you dance the

"Looking over your shoulder

To the moon"

As you started to rise

I could tell your form wasn't

Of nature- Taches Solaires,

Geometric Messenger From the

Three Poles forever echoing

You were the solar secret of Fumage

I am become as Anaximander,

For I am turning in my mind, the ambrosial

Seeds, the flame -- of so many unborn

World's

You are the secret of balance in all

Things which is furled

And

With hands cupped to the eyes

I become as Appolonius--

Seeing inward, all patterns melt into the

Darkness of those cupped spaces--

And then eyes quivering upwards

Flicker open the vision attempting

To surf upon the twisting torrents of

These flames- which split from one

Another and each echoing the patterns

Of the other's rapid pulsing and writhing

In increasing sync

An almost unbearable wave of heat

Forces the eyes to close- and then there

Comes- the coolness; eyes

Now strobing between scrying

The fire- where beings and forms

Beyond imagining are

In all patterns of the smoke

The space inward-- behind the

Eyes goes from the black emptiness

To the charged darkness of the

Starry sky

Yes

I closed my eyes, and mapped out

In you the pantomime, Thick Realms

In you the sinuous shape of time

The sinew of time, static form

Now sinuously given unto the new.

I marked it's structure, and from

Whence it was-- the cresting

Spirit of the dove, hidden in the

Passive stillness- caressing the

Spirit and healing it

As you come back out- rearising

I can feel the gates

Within me opening- the flow from

"Magpie Bridge" to the "Jade Palace",

Turning to the middle Dantian -

Floating down the ladder- "small heaven"

And "small earth" interlinking

In me love and solace and peace

Crests, ever interkneading.

Solace of soul never leave

Moon and sun in the single

Sky are breathing. And my

Spirit explodes a second

Time into its being.

Before all things you were the

Dance-- a cadence and cadenza

Without form --

Like water and

Air in brass are born -- to be

Nourishment and to become

Song-- edelweiss white like

Keats' dove swimming without

Reflection -- the language without

An inflection of sadness, you are

Like the lillies coursing on

The surface-- but already passing the

Shadow of their flame long eidolons

Into these depths

You come to me shade-like in days

Of relaxation, days of duress

The curtailed mesh of the Firetrees

Falling in unison over the Cyperus

And the fireweed-- above in

Whisper is the flanging

Orange of blossoms and their

Fruition

They fixate the light- transparent

They lance the dusky shadow

Of blue-- lucid, my mind's

Language moving through

It in minuets

Flaring on the sea the algae--

The cambric of your moss and

Mountain meadows

And cooling - the Cyperus and

The vert Eucalyptus

I make of my heart like the brass

Waiting for another song of you

To blow through. I ache without you

Before all things you are

The cadence and the dance

You traffic to me in dreams

You came into being

Older than Adze prior to the Lance

Before the pen- supposed arrow - had to become this

Blunt axe in the hands of these poets

Shifted, before the poets before the

Quinzana and quincunx-

You are ancient as purple maize

That dots the earth wave upon

Wave, interlave into one

Impression

I have wagered my way to find

You-- for always is the Cuneiform

Of your language weaving through

My dreams-- you the formless

Language before being, words bow

Before you-- like the wheat

Bows to wind -- original and

Invisible force born within

Sheaf upon sheaf of me

Courses with evidence of

Your presence

Oh-- and neither the concave

Shelters of wake or dream can

Wreck it. Warmth of the sands piling

On sands and knowing what rest is.

Beneath the artifact of a hidden

Message. Will it ever be found?

Sometimes silence is

Everywhere -- and reading

A poem is all that

Can break it. Then water

Molds the clay, the unmakes it.

That is the intent with which

I ask you to read this poem.

Wherever the lucid day is

Whatever the lucid day is

Before all things you were the

Dance-- a cadence and cadenza

Without form --

Like water and

Air in brass are born -- to be

Nourishment and to become

Song-- edelweiss white like

Keats' dove swimming without

Reflection -- the language without

An inflection of sadness, you are

Like the lillies coursing on

The surface-- but already passing the

Shadow of their flame long eidolons

Into these depths

You come to me shade-like in days

Of relaxation, days of duress

The curtailed mesh of the Firetrees

Falling in unison over the Cyperus

And the fireweed-- above in

Whisper is the flanging

Orange of blossoms and their

Fruition

They fixate the light- transparent

They lance the dusky shadow

Of blue-- lucid, my mind's

Language moving through

It in minuets

Flaring on the sea the algae--

The cambric of your moss and

Mountain meadows

And cooling - the Cyperus and

The vert Eucalyptus

I make of my heart like the brass

Waiting for another song of you

To blow through. I ache without you

Before all things you are

The cadence and the dance

You traffic to me in dreams

You came into being

Older than Adze prior to the Lance

Before the pen- supposed arrow - had to become this

Blunt axe in the hands of these poets

Shifted, before the poets before the

Quinzana and quincunx-

You are ancient as purple maize

That dots the earth wave upon

Wave, interlave into one

Impression

I have wagered my way to find

You-- for always is the Cuneiform

Of your language weaving through

My dreams-- you the formless

Language before being, words bow

Before you-- like the wheat

Bows to wind -- original and

Invisible force born within

Sheaf upon sheaf of me

Courses with evidence of

Your presence

Oh-- and neither the concave

Shelters of wake or dream can

Wreck it. Warmth of the sands piling

On sands and knowing what rest is.

Beneath the artifact of a hidden

Message. Will it ever be found?

Sometimes silence is

Everywhere -- and reading

A poem is all that

Can break it. Then water

Molds the clay, the unmakes it.

That is the intent with which

I ask you to read this poem.

Wherever the lucid day is

Whatever the lucid day is

Am I. At the dais cast by light

At this point I watch

Waiting for our hearts to

synchronize.

THE STARS:

The dyad of agonal dawn-

Beyond the peace of dusk

Where hang the trellises of

Constellations- there is the

Square motion of lifting flags

The accelerating billow in

The interstellar clouds- as

If the the lifting of wings- the

Sussura of all angelic beings

In crowded assembly- the

World and the “ten thousand

Things” they are all drifting–

They are the world in many

Blossomings of shape- and

They are hanging on an easel,

In a background–

Receding, all strokes

suggesting–

There is another easel

behind it–

And this is the one onto which

All time is bleeding,

Into a single painting

Severed beyond our

Eye's seeing; all of

The moments which were

Lost; they hang

Amidst the cotton fields

And yeast of Stars. Wreathing

And saturating all the

Oort clouds - - oh how

Their volume hangs;

Against the dark–

Annointing them and

Staining them– in hues

Of Stanton Macdonald

Airplane Synchronmy in

Yellow Orange they

Swim across; our

Bluest veil– our sky -

UNDER THE STARS

What are we to do- we who

Cannot see them? Tragedy

Of birth

Beneath all of this we are trapped

On the collapsed

Pillars- foundations OF raptured

And Dying - EARTH, and must

Be trapped here all ways. As in

Cask of Amonticello. And so

On the fissile shaped missile; earth

We scream tragically- across

The sky and in Jejune autumns

Of our universal death

The martyrs advertise- in Halle

Boppe comets- the only easy

Ticket– off this unprime real estate

And for moments we can cross

In the Autumns of Jacob Zoet

Or in the God of Small Things-

Bevy our soul across the veil

Beyond this earth– in text just

For a minute. And for a minute

The soul may seclusively

traipse itself

In the papery taste of

Books, like the papery

Taste of Locusts from

Which John the Baptist

Drew sustenance.

And all this reminds;

That in this dark wood we are

Entering, there must always be

The Crocus of remembering

And ammonia of forgetting.

And all this must be why,

Must be- -

Why, Sophocles must

Make Oedipus blind

Itt must be why

Gilgamesh must die.

It is why, though it is

A Tragedy, for others

To be blind – it a blessing

To the poet. For since Homer's day

We spend our being calling upon the

"Wine-dark sea" making

Efforts not to witness

The sea's shimmering blue

Evaporation of resistance

For us there must be hope in high heavens-

But here upon earth, there is

Only work of

Bedlam

And there is no silver trumpet

Of angels- lovingly arched, there

Is only, to play the tunes-

Of all the aching and

Of all the wistful hearts

The tin whistle- and the

Blues harp

With which can idle

Away– the mystery

Caught here– upon the earth

As the tilting foundation plummets

The fingers of the lovers clutched

At the summit

May share only the mingling

Resistance

Of bitter distant numbness

WE ON THE EARTH:

In spring the heavy weight of all

This tragedy is falling

But with nothing to feel its weight

Either it effects it is lightly as two

Snowflakes upon a tongue.

And reels, and so there is

Nothing to stop us– from seeing

The falling of Helicopter seeds

Dancing like spinning Sufi's,

Apart all our questions –

In helical symmetries.

And so all spring rephrases

The daring question:

Not now, not now-

"Do I dare disturb the

Universe"

But do we dare rehearse-

Our existence,

with bliss

Still with hope–

In a universe too big

To be disturbed by

The human comprehension

The mountain stream

Mounting in extremis;

Grandeur the pinnacled

Light dappling the pines

The needles crossing through

Each other, each becoming

A new pattern for the light

And the shade to beat through

The pulsatile, invidious, and

Piercing light of these days

The trees are huddling:

Branch throwing friction

Against branch

Wind that whistles through

My trance, through the days

Spent in these high places

Now the warm mug is pressed

To my lips, above the teeming

Wildernesss: it's violence becoming

A patterned peace

What is hard in me begins

Softening and unravelling

To the world outside

All that is dark in me is

Uncoiled into tranquility:

And there is no darkness

At all that is not touched

By lignt

I am not just myself I am

The heights and I am the

Wilderness and

I am the

Wind blowing

Structure, Semblance, Garnet

sonnet. Idyllic

Gamete of form.

The Mediation of mind

Machination of time

Crystal as solid as anyone other.

In the turning of these spheres

In the turning of Saturn

Music of your spheres

Chrysalis, crystallus

You are a pattern

Perfect since the

Dawn of time

Telescoping,

Never before caught

In the mind of

Any distant astronomer.

What epicycle do you trace away from us

Quintessence, obstruction. Dark second

Moon of time. Beautiful and still sublime

What epicycle did you take, when

You hint your essence at me

In the echo of lakes. Galileo am I

What secret music are you tuning

In feathers of the Cosmic Swan?

In aa you hide. And the

The dawn-annihilated eyes

In which I sigh and watch.

There are feathers also

Your fire burns,

The hybrid of the Phoenix

And the Lyrebird.

You are

Forged in distant

meridians of light

Cosmic fire, what distance do

You ford from us? What is

This loneliness upon all

The earth.

Stilted in drops of dew

I heard the cosmos's refrain

I felt your secret as a child

And would feel you

In the petrichor

Crescent birth-

The quiet chord of earth.

Even the earth's hardest

Core- must in some way,

Have been in tune with

You

You are the

Mystery of the life-giving

Rain of earth, announcing

Itself in your resolute

Dawn-banners

You must have been grass,

You must have been all

Jupiter, you must have

Been voice that spoke

The first Vedas, quicksilver

Demeter, how quick

You slip and fade.

My sedate wit, did

Not encompass the

Fall.

Reverberative.

And I am afraid

I have fallen apart;

Since this.

Why do you return?

To me you were

Pools of

Dying Ichor

I thought I watched you

Sprawled dying. In the death

Of every minnow, in every minute.

Raving I thought I watched

Each minute of your life

Pattern patent Finish.

Why do you return again?

What heart could there be,

To dart in grace of, then to mend?

What gravity did you claim

That space you bend?

Your mystery

Existing in magnetic

Compasses.

Vernal, diurnal

Eternal

Yes- Liquid Autumn of my childhood

How quickly, I watched it slip

Through the cracks.

Magellan could not

Circumference it: flowing Quicksilver -

How can I encompass it?

Secret finder of paths

In timeworn compasses.

Roar of your Auroras in icicles

These starborn boreal castle

Steppes, my soul races

Through with every circular

Step

And now you return,

Secret saccade of the

Flakes of your silent

Flame turn galaxies

To brilliant burning

Bushes

Oh,

Ionian night; without pillars

The earth standing without

Any atlas beneath

All the streams smoothing

Into their gentle movement

The surf of the white noise drifting

In: streams without outlet begin

Merging into one another

Ceaseless movement of

Their roaring calming into

Nothingness.

The mountain stream

Mounting in extremis;

And in extremest

Grandeur

The pinnacled

Light dappling the pines

The needles crossing through

Each other, each becoming

A new pattern for the light

And the shade to beat through

The pulsatile, individous, and

Piercing light of these days

The trees are huddling:

Branch throwing friction

Against branch

Wind that whistles through

My trance, through the days

Spent in these high places

Now the warm mug is pressed

To my lips, above the teeming

Wilderness: it's violence becoming

A patterned peace

What is hard in me begins

Softening and unravelling

To the world outside

All that is dark in me is

Uncoiled into tranquility:

And there is no darkness

At all that is not touched

By light

I am not just myself I am

The heights and I am the

Wilderness and

I am the

Wind blowing

Hush the pinnacle!

Trammeled in this horn— is the secret sound of existence.

Jailed in the metal of this silver pipe that is longing

And to nothing in the universe there is–

Belonging, the blowing of the pearlesque– trumpet

The centerless angels thronging and descending

En masse— the secrets of gold, that the Lead and

Cinnabar have hidden mercurial– it shifts away with

Heat– emptied the metallic which sings, belated

Tunes which are empty–

Do not exist, never fall to the enemy’s slanted

Encounter with envy. Keep secret when there is the hurting of the

Heart- and hurt even in memory. What is atlantic is the soul– the

Blue blue of it holds all resonances falling into it, and many are the fathoms

Full of it– the painful truth of it, troubadour of every minute of the truants hearts

Ticking. That was supposed to be silenced in the beginning– but keeps on

Moving

I want the metal shadow of a Modigliani. I want the metal shadow of the Modigliani, Moving over me, the shadows wake– oh pray at dawn against the strict lutenancy over

Being– praying at dawn for the dusk that scrapes above like a descending curtain of the dusk, like a curtain of iron, the charged charred dusk of it– the shadows flit.

Going summiting stubbornly over things. The

The auburn beings’ of Naiades, that exist to sing the soul of moss to being

Everything that moves is the seagrass and the sweetgrass and the wavy moss is wreathed to life by the waves

Wrought to being as life– the sea moves the bodys like a straight straw

Truancy– these are the empty weaves of sea which spins to vortexes-

I want to cast the sun ahead as a thick stone– then follow it. And my heart will see it skip. To see what it is to shadow it as momentum following fallowly onto dawn –fallowly onto dawn, the strict motion of simplicity. To hear the motion as it moves the soul

The soul becomes as the whole sea rippling. The black holes like iridescent oil in pent up dais of black black sky are trickling– a pond in single fluid movement.

A stadium of applause. The apples of Hades. The comments echo the profound symphony

Appall the chalk chert of the roots pushing themselves into the ground.

The pert peat timpani— the aspersion of shadows shadowing shadows that move like

Stalks of the elms, when at night their ashy legs rearrange in single movement

A symphonic extrusion of shadow hands.

And I am everywhere the shadow lands, and am its movement. And I at a moment of the entrance of all influent

Why in all red is there the sweet ring of the purple plum dawn,

The turnstile of the dilating movement of the days the shadow waylays. How many times have the mountains of slate rippled with light. Tell me not how many ways have the mountains of these felt the glance of the light against all remnants of the

Slight-leaned obsidian that holds the mirror of mottled purple dawn. The plump ash-tree’s yawn long-hair.

Tell nobody to keep count of the days I have watched the rainbows saccades in obsidian. I always feel secrets in the count of the days that I have and have not seen them. And tell nobody of the secret of all the days on which my mind is split in ways between the two perspectives.

I wish for silver of all the Atlantic that traveling prow ramming cuts.

Call to being call to being the darn of those silky sails in secret traveling of circumferences!

And so many days,

I wish for all the light in the world to percuss against all the mountains in the world. And to melt all the shadows in the world and to fuse one last

Image

In the world

Of them– and burn

Them away

A cinder unmoving across the ground is all that remains— it is a trace. At the passing of it. And all I see is the light entering and calming them.

Ask that I will not fall again– the dappled light that enters into all the shadows to warm them. They will not fall again.

They will not leave a trace of weight when they fall again. They cannot have it. And I wish that the shadows could disappear for everybody.