All Souls

Something different happened last night:  My two usual poetic measures combined.  They weave in and out of each other here, which may make a first reading a bit stilted.  The lines do scan, if the right emphasis is found.

The content springs from some very important understanding that is just now, after many years, becoming clear.  We are more and more profoundly convinced that there is a type of sentience in the stars, and that some degree of access is possible.

Right now the veil is very thin indeed.

1 November 2015

1

A More Than Up-Turned-Bowl

One little word held so much secret knowledge there, where we both wept.
I shall lie awake all night until the knowledge souls have kept
between them hidden, words in lines that always offer lonely terms
to one who’ll just keep reading, reading on, till holy love confirms

that this was made as love kept watch, and secrets hidden lay revealed.
I can know my own self but a little; so much love lies sealed
behind a wall that’s deeper than the grave I’ll never lie within.
Burial fires all down wide shores, won’t you wake up to rebegin

the choirs of anciently mindful lore that hum through the maze a mind can be?
I’ll only go around, around, around once again if we all agree
that this has to come to an end in time, and then stare well forward as stars align.
You shall be loveliness held by stars as beauty’s owns standard. Most shining mine,

we met where the rushings of rivers together came deep underground to a cave that glowed
more radiantly than a liquid bowl in which stars were mirrored. Our old work owed
a debt to the place from which it came, but now it flows freely, rich and thick.
One little word kept all alight, the candle with all the next world’s wick

I heard you as you lay not at all as fast in sleep as you are in mind,
and something deep underneath the breath you knew you breathed reached out to find
that mine nursed the touch of skin it prized, and why it will always turn again
toward the sung light this song was made by, here in your presence, by rite of pain.

Under the bed: It’s clay, it’s metal; it’s full, if you want it so; and it smells
the luminous air of the coming-to-being that used it to house an idea that wells
with such benediction, our old words fall silent, and all the sighs coming to live with us—just—
don’t want to remind us of how we fell down. This well’s all a maze; we are word-wells of lust.

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About J

Just poetry, in several forms.
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