ĐĎॹá>ţ˙ °˛ţ˙˙˙ŞŤŹ­ŽŻ˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙ěĽÁ5@ đżĐbjbjĎ2Ď2 °‘­X­Xľ˙˙˙˙˙˙ˆÎÎÎÎÎÎÎDVOVOVOVT”ęTL­śBZBZXZXZXZXZXZXZ,......$cžRľ ŒRÎvnXZXZvnvnRÎÎXZXZgž†ž†ž†vnÔÎXZÎXZ,ž†vn,ž† ž†ž†âxš¤ÎÎhœXZ6Z TűTÉVOJt˜›,}0­2›6AĄâ…dAĄ,hœÎÎÎÎAĄÎhœÄXZîF`<ž†‚ddćgXZXZXZRRDJVOF†XVO IT ONLY TAKES A SPARK Austin Walker Boyd, Jr. Copyright Š 1978 By Austin Walker Boyd, Jr. All rights reserved Published in the United States of America By Pensacola Graphics, Pensacola, Florida. Illustrations by J. Robley Tucker, III DEDICATED TO CAROL LYNN RANSON It only takes a spark To get a fire going, And soon all those around Can warm up to its glowing. That’s how it is with God’s love, Once you’ve experienced it; It’s fresh like spring, You want to sing; You want to pass it on. Christian Song PREFACE To each of you who receives this book, I am indebted. For indeed, as I present it, you may know that somewhere, at some time, you have touched my life in a very significant and special way. And, as we are sum totals of all our experiences, do does this book reflect the contribution each of you has made to my life. Some experiences of you are reflected outright, and you will recognize them as you read the book. Others of you are encapsulated in the less obvious subtleties of the styles, themes, and images of my poetry. Yet you are all here, as inspirations to write, to mature, to strive, to love, to learn, to create, and to compile this anthology. Please let this gift be a great hug, and a sign of my love; a thank-you for all you have given me. I can now give to you. IT ONLY TAKES A SPARK is an anthology of all of my poetry, beginning in September of 1967 with IMAGINATION. At that time, my family encouraged me to retain all of my works. And now, over ten years later, these poems are brought together to reflect my growth through those years; they are a reflection of my experiences in La Marque, Hurricane, and at Rice University. I encourage you to read the poems slowly, and carefully, to extract what each has to offer. I am forever concerned that the reader will miss my real meaning. Perhaps, as you peruse these works carefully, you will not “sight meanings in contract”, and you will not miss those poems of which you may individually be a part. I encourage you, also, to reflect upon the verse which preceded this preface. It is part of a song which I have to identify with through many times of Christian fellowship during my years at Rice University. I have extracted its first line for the title because I feel that those words reflect much of my philosophy and that of my poetry. To begin with, the title tells us that it only takes a spark… a small effort… to accomplish a feat, and attain your goals; it only takes a little imagination to begin. Yet life does require an effort and imagination. So often, it seems, it is our inclination to shirk the burden of producing a spark of effort, and consequently our lives grow stagnant. Strive then, to show a spark of interest in others; lives, and in your own. Make an effort to help others until it hurts to do so, and then continue helping. This “hurt” will be short lived. Also, this title is my way to speak out for Christ; a means of witness of my faith. As the title, and the associated song convey, “it only takes a spark, to get a fire going,” and that fire is the warming and the growth which accompanies the inflow of God’s spirit and love. God has many blessings and a great deal of love He wishes to bestow upon each of us. To accept Him, and His love into our lives takes very little effort, yet it results in blessings that are unbounded. Christ tells us that He waits at the doors of our lives, knocking, but that we must ask Him in. I made that commitment three years ago, asking God to come into my life and take control. Since that time, mine has been a richly blessed life, full of countless answered prayers, His unerring guidance, and an overwhelming inner peace and happiness which I had not known before. My living is a fresh and happy adventure each day because of Him, and through Him I have a strong sense of directions and purpose. The Lord has a plan for my life, and it is my greatest goal to be available for His use; to glorify God. In closing, then, I wish to thank you each for all you have given me, in whatever way you may have touched my life. I want this book to be a thank-you for your part in my growth. And, most importantly, I want to share with you, through this preface and our contacts, the love I’ve known which flows without ceasing from the Lord. I hope you will consider what place God occupies in your life, and if He is not present, that you will go to Him in prayer, asking Him to come in. Indeed, keep Jesus Christ at the center of your life. It only takes a spark, to do so. And now, with those words of introduction, I want to pass it on… Austin Walk Boyd, Jr. NEXT FARM June 16, 1978 CONTENTS 1967 IMAGINATION 1968 KITTY LIFE’S GREAT MOMENTS HAIKU 1969 PAESTUM BAMBOO SHOOTS ENDYMION HERBIE THE GNAT THE NIGHT THAT GHOSTS AND GOBLINS STALK A DIVER’S DREAMS MILD MOODS OAKEN HOME ARTCTIC MORN CHRISTMAS FIR APPALACHIAN TRAIL 1969 A HIKERS BEST FRIEND MY VINE SHORT ACQUAINTANCES MISTY FOG FIERY DISCOURAGEMENTS * WATER HOLE 1970 A WINTRY POET QUINTRAINS A POETIC DESPAIR CHILDRENS HAIKU A BOY AND HIS WAR 1971 ONE SON SANDY, TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF DON’T TWO BROTHERS GOD SAVE THE GRAPH A SPACE OF RIVETS CLR MARY 1972 I WISH I COULD ANCHOR A SILKEN GRAPNEL PSUEDO GULL FROM A COLL BENCH˘ IN TRUCH YOU’RE ONLY A CAT SUNLIGHT CASTS THE BRILLIANCE ONE HUNDRED FLOORS OF MARSHMALLOW ASHLAND, KENTUCKY UNOFRTHODOX CHRISTMAS WISHES A MEANINGFUL MOUSE-AN MATERNITY 1973 IS THERE VICTORY IN DEFEAT? THE HARVARD PROJECT HASSLE 1974 IT’S A GOOD LIFE AT THE INSTITUTE RICE WHAT THREE BOOKS WOULD YOU TAKE? POSTAGE DUE 2˘ TO CAROL 1977 TO ALL HIGH EMPRISE CONSECRATED PHEIDIPPIDES PAIN IS SWEET SUNSET SHELLBACK DAWN WACO ARROWHOUND UPON YOUR LAWN I CAN WAIT FOREVER ASK THE FLOWER PETALS 1967 IMAGINATION The state is set; the battle ready, The troops are lined to fight. The cannons wait to utter Booming fire and light. The horses stand so stiff and rigid, Awaiting the bugler’s call, To rush to battle, and fight and fight, Until one side should fall. Our troops are tin soldiers, Our cannons, pencils, Our horses, plastic toys. You ask yourself, how can we fight, With troops belonging to pre-school boys? The answer is a simple word, That all should vividly possess; Imagination is the key, Like knights and bishops in a game of chess. Oh, can’t you see the tin men marching, In neat and orderly rows, With guns all raised To shoulders strong, To destroy the approaching foes? Can you not see the cannons flashing, Throwing forth their metal balls, Through dim and smoke-filled battle air, To land upon the enemies walls, Of paperbacks and old rag dolls? Is there no room in your thick head, To see those horses galloping, Across the candy-colored carpet, wide, Like rushing foam in a sunset tide? If you can’t see these pictures here Of fighting men and horses, And flashing, deep voiced cannons, Then for you I shed a tear; For there’s nothing like imagination To stir a thinker’s mind; So I hope that you can see it now, Because the enemy has hit our lines! September 1967 1968 KITTY Oh Kitty, she roamed Through our jungle that night, Of mop handles, Broom sweepings, And soapsud foam. She climbed tow’ring mountains Of babies’ toys, Got caught in the meat grinder, And made oh, so much noise! She romped in the dishwasher And slept wet in the dryer; She ate in the frig; And got fried in the fryer. Kitty rode in Tim’s train, And flew, oh how she flew, In Rob’s aeroplane! She circled the world On my relief map. Then she hopped on my bed And of all things, Took a nap. March 1968 LIFE’S GREAT MOMENTS Life’s great moments Come much too infrequently, For the moments of life Are full of war and hatred. But, too, Mother Earths; Seen many great days… Abe at the hearth And the Wrights at Kitty Hawk. What a Day! Washington made the first president And Byrd at the Arctic. But still, war and hatred Have made a dent in our lives. HAIKU As cherry blossom As chased by a butterly Flutters to the ground Petals open wide As the sun slowly wakens In a mist of dew A robin flies high Over mountains towering In the fading light. March 1968 1969 PAESTUM The waves sleet upon this obsidian beach As quietly as the whisper of Athena, Eradicating the sole impressions of man Hopelessly awash… Alone a lone, black stretch of beach, I walk, Feet crunching on the entrails of Vesuvius; And Sol, slipping silently To the ocean’s depths in the horizon Reflecting golds and reds On the shimmering Mediterranean. The waves sleet upon this obsidian beach As quietly as the whisper of Athena, Expelling the final reminders of Sol Hopelessly a wash… A browned messenger of Posiedon Creeps along God’s threshold; A clump of meager seaweed venturing Upon this pure, deserted Roman shore; After navigating mean seas It has reached its rainbow’s end. The waves sleet upon this obsidian beach As quietly as the whisper of Athena, Evoking the weary messenger of Poseidon Hopefully ashore… February 1969 BAMBOO SHOOTS The canes begin With meager shoots Reaching down With tiny roots, Into the soft, warm Springtime soil While other canes Grow, die, and spoil. The days pass on With slow, slow tread, The other shoots Are cold and dead; But one survived The winter frost, To live more years At Nature’s cost. Now seven years And seven feet, The cane has weathered Sun and sleet; But still it grows, Its grandeur great, To greater heights Where waits its fate. The times increase By ten score years, Its height suggests It has no fears. But one dark day The sun blots out; The cane stands high, Its stature stout. The wind begins To blow and blow Against the cane’s Tall trunk. The animals run To hide in holes; The hare, the mouse The skunk. The rain comes down, The cane just grins; The hail comes down In fives and tens, The wind’s great force Is now so much That ‘cane’ begins To fret and such. The wind increases Twenty knots; The cane is listing, “Fall, I’ll not!” A stronger gust Could finish off This cane that lived A life, robust. And then it came, That fateful gust; It blew ‘cane’ To the ground. With thund’rous roar Resounding clear, It struck upon A rotting mound Of other canes, Like him, so downed Yet another Cane begins; Reaching down With tiny roots Into the soft, warm Springtime soil, While other canes Grow, die, and spoil… Mirror of civilization. March 1969 ENDYMION From apes our race has thus progressed To seek the last frontier; The galaxies await us, Of space we’ve curbed our fears. For ages man has seen the moon As love and war and myth, But mainly as a symbol To interpret problems with. Some races made it deity, To scholars ‘twas a quiz; Some lovers made it passion, But man has made it his. Now that men have reached the moon From hither, country free, This symbol of men’s passions— Not what it used to be. The moon will soon become The first true colony of Earth; Let’s hope it’s not polluted For an equal volume’s worth. Some people only see the moon Now as a conquered land— Pray that man will be more gentle With new resources at hand. Perhaps again someone can find Another passion’s vent, In the form of another Moon For another Earth so meant. March 23, 1969 HERBIE THE GNAT Most of your friends Have dogs or cats, Or birds or bats, Or fish or rats; But my pet is . . . . . . a GNAT! My Herbie, The gnat, (Quite a gnat At that!), Sits and sleeps Wherever I’ve sat. Herbie’s eyes Are a deep Shade of grue Like those of A gnu, And he’s proud Of it too! We walk In the park Every morning At eight, After cleaning Our plates And jumping the gate, Eating Joe’s dates, And playing With grates. At noon We have lunch, After finishing brunch, When we had Crackers To munch, And a ban-ana Bunch. Just after Our lunch We visit Joe’s shmoe That walks Very slow And eats Only snow. (On which Joe is low!), And has Fourteen green toes. One day Herbie and I Plan to visit The zoo, With birds Colored green, yellow, Red, orange, And blue. However, My Herbie, With eyes Colored grue, Knows no Other gnats In the zoo . . . . . . do you? September 1969 THE NIGHT THAT GHOSTS AND GOBLINS STALK ‘Trick or treat; The children say, Tonight’s the night The spooks will play! From house to house The children walk, Tonight’s the night The ghosts will stalk! ‘Trick or treat’ The usual cry, Tonight’s the night The witches fly! Coming, going, everywhere, The goblins are out To give you a scare! Squeaks and rustlings, Could it be a rat? Of course not, silly, It’s only a bat! A shape on the sidewalk, It must be a hat . . . Approach it, and feel it; Good grief! A black cat! But don’t be fooled By such foolish talk, Even if ghosts can really walk, Or even if the goblins stalk; For Halloween comes But once a year, So the rest of the nights There is nothing to fear! September 1969 A DIVER’S DREAMS All twenty feet Of air lies cool Between me And the lake— Of glittering Water lapping Up against the Mud bank baked. The scene Abruptly changes To the Conference Diving meet— The judges Sitting straight-faced And the students Tense in seats. The title now Depends on me; I’ve got to win First place— My stomach knots Its “butterflies”; My toes, The springboard brace. A mighty thrust At springboard’s end, Into the ‘Heated’ air— ‘Winging’ upward Toward the beams, I arch, and Swoop ‘downstairs’. The water parted Clean and smooth, Like dolphins In the sea— The crowd is up And cheering, wild, The champion diver, Me. The last rays of The setting sun Play tricks Upon the lake— A warm and friendly Summer day, Of boyish dreams It makes. . . . November 1969 MILD MOODS A summer night Around our house Comes on Sweet and lazy For the whole family And me. I commence A ‘knockin’ June bugs off The screen Into the dead still Dust below. I turn around To softer lights Flowing from our Candle lantern, And wonder How tall My corn’ll Be tomorrow. Before long It’s about time To climb into The loft And get ready To rest a bit A’fore it’s time To get up and Do the chores. I just lie there Watchin’ moths And a few roaches Fluttering up near The ceiling, And wonder If everybody else Has it so good. November 1969 OAKEN HOME Bright against an autumn sky Of solid light blue hue, A mighty growing oak stands tall, As a symbol of strong life, true. The leaves of flaming gold, and red, And yellow, orange, and brown, Stand out like burning fires at night, Or a brilliant gold kings crown. Its stature strong, and straight, and stout, The bark a metal armor plate, With limbs that spread as flocking geese, Leaving for their new home late. A favorite home of lively squirrels, And their stored up acorn nuts— They scamper up and down the limbs, Along each others time worn “ruts”. Roots all gnarled, cracked, and black, They weave as a bamboo mat— Reeling, arching, peaking there, They’re comfy houses for sleek, white rats. Gigantic burls shape this tree, While insects eat them out— There in the burls, as one can see, You’ll find hoot owls about. Inside one of the oaken limbs “Sweet gold” and bees reside— Honeycombed, but full of “sting” The hive banks food for wintertide. Sparrows, finches, and robins, red, On fingery twigs, all perch. They rest, their voices raised in song, To swell this autumn “church”. Hoot owls, rats, and gray-coat squirrels, Insects, birds, and bees, Make this forest oak their home; This, their favorite oaken tree. December 1969 ARTIC MORN Crusty is the new morn’s snow To trees and bushes clinging; Yonder runs a winter hare, And lo! Behold, the sun is rising! High above the arctic spruce, Its rays, like raindrops, flow; Through trees’ great boughs they sluice. A tiny musk, or maybe two Have left some early traces Of which small streams they visited With evenly stepped paces. A fox, pure white, emerging now Is off in search of food; A lone blue jay, his few seeds stolen, Is in an angry mood. The hawk, wings spread, is circling now In search of morning feast; A hare is nibbling roots once more, For he also must eat. Soon this nature scene must end, The noon is drawing near; But come again tomorrow morn;, We promise to be here. December 1969 CHRISTMAS FIR Bells of blue And balls of red Decorate from foot to head, The stately fir On Christmas Eve So eagerly Tonight received. Of rainbow hued Gay, strings of beads, And beeswax candles, It exceeds— Of merry, clothrobed Angels, white, And fine, glass doves, Refracting light. From day to day, As present pile, The close-knit family Glows with smiles; All expectant, Wondering, About what Santa Claus shall bring. Then comes that long Awaited Eve— Visions form Of gifts to receive. What shall one get?— A mystery yet, But mind you now, Don’t get upset! Through the night The dreams do fly From gift to gift, That presently lie, Under the massive Branching fir— “I wonder what I’ll find from her?” At next sun-up The young ones rise— The family lines Accord to size; They march downstairs To “Jingle Bells”, The tune to which The whole house swells. And then the rush To living room— The young set now, All gifts, exhume. The oldsters sit And wait a while, As they pleasantly Absorb warm smiles. While one and all Enjoy this day, The fir sits pleased, Its décor, gay. A beautiful tree, The people all say— This fir is pleased In a special way. December 1969 Christmas APPALACHIAN TRAIL 1969 A HIKER’S BEST FRIEND These mounts I find Are hard to climb With heavy pack on back. I wish I had A walking stick, The one thing that I lack. The long day ends, I stop to camp And set my tent and fire. I wish I had A stick for hire; These “hills” are getting higher! A wintergreen My hopes call for, I set in search of one . . . Both tall and straight And worthy size, Look here, a worthy prize! I strike it down With swift, sure strokes, Just taking what I need . . . Now back to camp To smooth it down, And with it mounts exceed. I have just what I’ve needed long To scale those weary peaks . . . All hikers Ought to have one, To reach the crests they seek. A.T. 1969 Bly Gap MY VINE The vine I like To swing upon Is long And tough And strong; The vine I like To swing upon Is bare But thick And long. I go out By the Early light Of day Not long To come; I go out By the Early light To swing My vine So strong. I hold My vine Too tight To fall And run And swing So high; I hold My vine Too tight To fall And swing, Again, And fly. Like birds I soar Through Coolest air, The wind Against My cheeks! Like birds I soar Through Coolest air, I gaze At hills And creeks. The sun Is getting Up From bed, It’s time To go Back home; The sun Is getting Up From bed, Tomorrow Here I’ll roam. A.T. 1969 Tesnatee Gap MISTY FOG Misty fog, In thick’ning rolls, Creeps across Hills, spurs, and knolls. The atmosphere Becomes serene, Now for objects Remain unseen. As night crawls in It takes the fog; Come watch it once At Freeman’s bog. A.T. 1969 Low Gap SHORT ACQUAINTANCES I made a short acquaintance With a girl named Joanie; I felt a strong attraction To’rd this special she. Both freckle faced And brown-haired too, She was to me One of those special few. I knew her but a short time; Less than a whole day’s span. I wish I’d known her better; Someday maybe I can. You meet the sweetest people Trav’ling through the southeast states. Hopefully I’ll meet her again, But for now I’ll have to wait. A.T. 1969 Coffer’s Store FIERY DISCOURAGEMENTS A nice dry day We hike to camp; We set our tents, The air is damp. Our fireplace built, We gather wood Both big and small, Like Boy Scouts should. I set the tinder, Then the sticks; Later logs, Now it’s fixed. I’m confident Of quick, sure start. I take one match And strike with heart. I thrust my flame To light this fire; My match burns fast And starts to tire. The flame, now out, I try again. To Boy Scouts, proud, This is a sin. It too runs out And makes me pain; Another match, But yet, in vain. And yet more flame To match I light; It seems to be A hopeless fight. Both gas and leaves And paper tried The fire stays dead, My hopes untied. Could wood be damp, Or maybe green? The answer still Is yet unseen. I bade you well Should you try too; I’ll try once more To start anew. A.T. 1969 Low Gap * I see a Shooting star In sky. . . . But no, It’s just a Shooting firefly. A.T. 1969 Low Gap WATER HOLE It’s been a long But brisk day’s hike. It’s traveling through These woods I like. As usual, My thirst is great; I’ll find a spring Before it’s too late. The woods are sparse, I’ll search them fast; A trickle, thank goodness, A spring at last! I have with me A miniature spade. I’ll build a dam Within the glade. I first dig out A foot square pit To catch the water Bit by bit. And with some rocks I built it up, Wait for it to clear And dip out a cup. I fill my bottles To take them back; Now cut a path To the spring and back. Here, weary hikers, Thirsted and worn, Can gather their water By the path I have shorn. A.T. 1969 Lunch Stop 1970 WINTRY POET A rising winter From the depths of fall— Harsh to man, So brisk to all. A footprint here Has crunched this snow— So new, so white, On wild winds, blow. The ice laden birch Creates such scenes, Of a weeping beau, Or a multi-jeweled queen. Spurred by this cold Many beasts do sleep, But man, most wise, Three more months doth reap. Wringing with the Retreating warmth, The geese have left This cooling North. Frozen ponds Host skating leaves; One cuts a curve, And on a snow ridge, heaves. A winter, so, As poets see, Is for Nature, too, Much as you and me. February 1970 Lazy Summer river, Moving with infinite Slowness—like the peaceful passage Of time Bamboo Shoots growing to Their fateful heights of life— Mirror of civilization; All time. . . . March 1970 A POETIC DESPAIR Writer of poems, So subconscious, so real; My verse causes commotion; Such argument I feel. Poems, I have written, But no one can see, nor I Sometimes, the things I have said. Wrong thoughts; permiss can I? Meanings in contrast Some readers will sight—set free From perception—open to light; Let the heartborn thought be . . . Writing rhymed thought, might I foresee, Was by cold fate, ordained for me? March 1970 CHILDREN’S HAIKU Flowers in gardens Mean the coming of new spring And baby chickens. Electric toy trains Speeding along metal tracks Are treasured playthings. Halloween means fun For the ghosts and witches, too! (Because they come out!) Toy boats in the tub Floating in soapy foam Look like ships at sea. Dropping leaves in fall Mean raking, and fun, too. (If you count them all!) March 1970 A BOY AND HIS WAR A boy went to war with A dream in his heart Of heroism— A boy went to war with A joy in his heart Called “love”— A boy went to war with A picture of fame on The high seas— A boy went to war with The excuse he was going For me. . . . A boy came back home From a war, maimed unlike Other men— A boy came back home With his precious “limbs” lost To the bombs— A boy came back home With his soul scarred by his Bloody death spree— A boy came home torn with The excuse that he did it For me. . . . April 1970 1971 ONE SON Here lies the snow— The Northerner knows it Like the back of his hand; But me?; I’m a son of the Sun; The South, the beach, the palms; Galveston, Miami, The Border. I know a different kind of snow, A different kind of cold. A different blizzard, another Sun . . . The snow I know is sand; Golden, warm, inviting to the toes. The cold I know is Heat; Hot heat beating down to burn The skin, to light the Sea, And to warm the Gulf Stream breeze. This is the cold and snow I know; The type that never leaves, But is as stuck to me as the Melted gum on Galveston walks; Winters and summers, both A never-ending track of surfing, Swimming, and Living, breathing to The slow, rhythmic pulse of Palms and sea air . . . I know a different blizzard, A savage one, the Hurricane, On which the rage and tempest Of the oceans whip; Devastating, flooding, pouding, In desperation to kill, and Come back to seek an undeserved Revenge. Man is vulnerable . . . He is everywhere . . . The palms thrash and The waves mount the seawall, And put our houses into A sad shape, But it passes over— Doesn’t it always? Everywhere, too, maybe . . . Maybe . . . The North knows the horrid, bleak Cold That makes ghosts of the landscape. But I do not know this cold. I know only the beating rays Of the sun Which scorch and burn; That bring about a thirst for water That others take for granted . . . The yucca pricks you, Cactus pains you, And so does the buzzard, The snakes, lizards, and the fire ants. But it’s not all the grief that It appears In the movie, the television, The post cards. There is a lighter side, too— The one-ness of body and sea you love, The beauty of the sands, the stones, The naked canyons against a naked sky, The warm nights . . . I suppose, though, that I may be biased, For there is probably a lighter side To the North, too . . . I suppose that there is . . . I suppose that there is That lighter side; I can learn to know it, If I give it time, And learn to love it, to respect it, And admire it . . . I guess a Southerner can change his rank. But no longer is it An issue of rank— The hate between is gone, And we are one, I suppose . . . I suppose that Weather is the only difference, And now, if that’s the case, It shouldn’t be too hard to leave, To move . . . There are probably delights In the cold also . . .’ Yes, there are. There must be. So here I am, A change of place. No more sun or sand, But I cannot fret . . . The past is behind, And my path of Life has already been tread. So, lead on; And let Life run its course. I was a son of the Sun, But that was last year; I am now, living, surviving, Pulsating in the present, But what’s more, I am a son of the Snow. Here lies my Snow, Powdered, clean, Cool, fresh. I knew the Sun; But now? I am a son of the Snow! The North, the hills, the oaks, Hurricane, Detroit, The Border. Live now; be now! Don’t turn your back! Because you can’t. Live on and hard. Breathe hard and full! Be vivid, and Take all Life has to offer! Experience new things; Don’t just be one Son; Be as many as you can! January 1971 SANDY, TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF . . . Oh Lord! Where is my brethren? He is lost and gone to us— Oh Lord! Is he alive now? Enroute to Cal by bus? Oh Lord! Where is my cousin? Was he rolled for greenish bills? Oh Lord! Please protect my cousin, That he may come to see our hills Again, And again . . . Oh Lord! Where is my brethren? Does he feel a loss of goal? Oh Lord! Is he a’ searchin’ For the gaining of his soul? Oh Lord! Where is my cousin? Is he out there searching now? Oh Lord! Don’t knock his reasoning— It’s what he wants—not how, He gets it Rightly . . . January 5, 1971 DON’T Our life is, or could be . . . Fantastic fields of freely flapping fractured frail flowers Blown blue by the black blue blasts of not obliging. Wind, waning in wet with wild whispers On which wisps of the Welch wilderness whirl, while Hirelings huddle, hotly, hiding in Hard houses, hollow to the honing Cuts, chastising as a chock contorting comfort Comes as the conqueror. Down this darksome damper, a degrading detriment; But don’t discourage, drive at Sensitive times, soothing experiences, some times of serenity; Don’t be driven down by the demands Of a non-thinking, non-caring nest of non-involved nematodes. Fight back! And lend a helping hand! January 1971 TWO BROTHERS It came not of an eve, Or of a day, or of a year, Of time— It came not of a man Or of an act, or an idea, Of people— It came not in a bow, Or in a box, or of a present, Or for a gift— But it came, The war, Despite the tries, Despite the ties, of family, brothers, States and homes; It came, despite; To tear a gap Atwixt two brothers, home and state; They rushed to join—and all because The war was here; They could not wait… Lordy! Lordy! King Cotton is here! We’re the southern states, the cotton, the rice and cane; We’re the planters, the farmers, slaves. We are South! Oh Lordy! Lordy! White supreme!... You take our slaves? Oh, no! The right is ours; we do them good! Without them we will die, our Cotton kind… Codfish! Mackerel! Do you hear? We’re the North, the industry, The sailors, fishermen. South, the slaves, must free; This country is; so they must be! Protest the tariff, the government, Then protest your freedom, too! Slaves are people—you’ll not die— America is free! Come! Come! The chorus chants— This conflict must resolve! Lordy! Lordy! Slaves persist! Codfish! Mackerel! All together abolitionists! It seems no way can exist To arbitrate the North and South; Groping at the others throat, But neither giving way, In deeds or say. And such carries on, the battle Of the mouths; of North and South, But their hands at side, poised, readied, To strike… Many years, oral fighting persists, Neither prepared to move, The same Lordy! Lordy! And the same Codfish! talk. And bitterness has the only life— The only thing that grows… But come the eve of Lincoln, The tide of action turns, Douglas fights for slavery, And Abraham takes his stand… The Northerners side with a leader, The Southerners still disbanded, Except that if Lincoln “makes it” The North will have trouble at hand; And he does, the North his cary-all. The South acts too, and leaves the union; Confederate states, in lieu; Now a battle of brothers, two… All rush to join, and all because, War is here, They cannot wait, To kill their brother… For Lincoln is the hardest task, To mend a broken bond, But with the actions taken, he must Carry it on through—to the end— Not to destroy slavery, but For the freedom cause… A war, now, that tests the American dream; Democratic principles; Are they present now? But no! They are at a test, And now it is left to see, Who wins? It’s a bloody brother battle, With broken family ties; A long time to renew them, In the future, but for now? A war must be decided, And many lives will lose; But man is at a test— A test of freedom for mankind… They did not rush, when slavery lost; Lee, at Appomattox— But the war is finished, and all can wait… Two brothers are home again… Lordy! Lordy! King Cotton is da’id! Codfish! Mackerel! Do not fret so, Southern brother! Your institution’s dead, But there are other ways to earn your keep; The Cotton is not all you have, So for lost bolls, don’t weep! You too, can fish, and grow Potatoes, corn, and sail the seas. Factories have no preference. They’ll grow “South” just as well! Money makers will come, it’s true, And take your bottom cent; The ills of Reconstruction Are surely evident. But white supreme was wrong, and is; Negroes, now, are free! Black or white, both are men, And free men can’t be bought… The black man is an equal man; White men are no better— Slavery was a sin! Man has learned the lesson That Freedom works both ways. You can’t be free and own a man; Freedom knows no slaves! And so, the brothers conflict has reached The end of all its gore; Lincoln died a’fighting, too, For the cause of all mankind; And he left a plant to build by That would leave the past behind. Writers of the history books Will call it Reconstruction, but, With Lincoln’s meaning, The title is out of place. There is no reconstructing, rather, A building up anew— There shall be no replacing, But instead, a “new South”, in lieu… March 1971 GOD SAVE THE GRAPH?! (Composed at a charting desk) One hundred thousand squares Staring at me, black on white. One hundred thousand squares, With no rosiness in sight. Blank and plain; Bleak is pain; No color here or there That keeps all mankind sane. One hundred thousand squares; I’ve counted them, you see; One hundred thousand squares; Ring bell, and from this nightmare, free! My nightmare is my desk top; The dream of learned man. My nightmare is a desk top Like so many in the land. Just big enough, Of plastic, tough, In rows of fours or fives, With room, the aisles to buff. My nightmare is a desk top; I’m part of one now, see? My nightmare is a desk top; From whit and rote do free! My desk top is for graphing, For charting ups and downs. My desk top is for graphing, In centimeter bounds. Of greatness, shows it; Man can know it. Charting his progressions, red, And trying to predict it. My desk top is for graphing, For plotting (?) future needs. My desk top is for graphing; A plan of life it feeds. My graphing plans mans’ living; It tells him when to sup. My graphing plans mans’ living; Statistics say “Throw up!” The ‘fall’ is plain; “Need greater gains!” “The rise will go this far by then”; “One hundred more will ride in planes…” My graphing plans mans’ living, Supreme guidelines it be; My graphing plans mans’ living Till the stats say “Die at sea!”… My dying is my freedom; The graph pertains no more. My dying is my freedom; To chartless heavens, I now soar! From godless rise and falls I break. My thirst for color, I now slake! A second life of beauty, mine! A graphless heaven, thank God for make! My dying is my freedom; “Religion rises in this land!” My dying is my freedom… “We predict a rise in Heavens’ band”… March 1971 Algebra A SPACE OF RIVETS Spacing’s neat and plain My eyes, it does not strain, And the philosophy is sane; But what I’d like to see For once, is spacing, free, Where all the blackboard rivets Are crammed up by the dozens Instead of sets of three. November 1971 CLR Doves— Flighty between Personalities that decay and revive. Is terrible that rot can set in. I like permanence Or truth— Sweet doves. Fall 1971 MARY My thoughts of you— Fall off the trees—Below, But don’t rot or die. All my thoughts are leaves. Fall—all but one dies and drops— One thought, of you, stays green. April 1972 1972 I WISH I COULD ANCHOR A SILKEN GRAPNEL Lonely… A gulf; a distance; A blank between two worlds, Of two people, Or more. No substance atwixt, Or rather, not substantial. I’m running around, making Progressions into personalities, But they are searches with A grapnel anchored in jello— A rope of bubble gum That gives no palatable yield. Speak, and speak back, And the bubble gum rope goes slack To throw me into my void of black; A lonely, unyielding gunny-sack. And I sit, hands upon my knees, Reflecting on what went wrong. … I decide, and leave my sack again To search and dive Into another personality, And suffer a throwback To my little hole, Where abides a single soul, And partial others… Got to get out! And anchor my hook Of uncoarse silk correctly; Open my valentine, And let the light shine… Lonely, For right now… January 1972 PSUEDO-GULL FROM A COOL BENCH Sun finding holes in my covering To cause unreal heat for a winter day, And cool cement lamenting the Sore muscles of my seat… What’s that? I hear a sea gull, Stirring me up from my own little world Of Dylan Thomas. A seagull That lonely cry so absent in These West Virginia hills— But it’s not possible, that cry of ocean Freedom, resounding in these hills. And yet, it’s there, Evoking fond memories of a warm sun, And cool cement, on Galveston morn’s, With a smell of fish, lingering on the air. I’ve got to support my convictions, On hearing the cry of tide-life, Awaking me from the depths… And Thomas shields my eye, As I look up, peering for the sound, And its origin in soul. There, aloft, soaring over browned hills, Floating as if lost to the world, And buried in its cries… Lost of Poseidon and stranded, Interminable miles within a landlocked state; Straining to regain its waters and fish. There, above a hollow still holding breaths Of morning mists, That dissolves slowly in Sol’s mouth; The bird soars, now doubtless, not a gull, But brown as the trees, reflecting gray In the sun on banking swerves, And just as lonely, Crying out, seemingly in vain, For some presence lying beneath the plants of ages. Fluttering, floating, soaring, diving, Disappearing in the mist and popping up again, As from a morning born sea fog. Still forlorn, despairing cry… And the sun begins to cool— The winged one goes on, and disappears at last At the hollow’s mouth, And the sun again doth shine… Oh well, Back to Dylan Thomas, and My crying stomach. January 1972 IN TRUTH, YOU’RE ONLY A CAT Feline acrobat, Moving all over the house; Ascending, Descending, Progressing, Transgressing, Always wailing; Warming your body by fire, And wishing the warmth of my companionship… Just the two of us here; My mind works and wishes; That you were cursed I might kiss you, And company make… Oh, Lord! Such foolish dreams Do nothing for my mind, In reality; They only set it in a pool of falsehoods, With no disagreeable truths… … So back to reality; Damned cat! Always bugging me with your cries, And never, ever giving up the least bit Of relief, From raucous wails To let you in the attic… Cursed cat! You’re a lucky one, you know; No cares… Good food… Always warm, While all those other animals Suffer in that unearthly chill… You don’t deserve such luxury! Darned cat! Why am I so vehement? Maybe I ought to throw you out, Who knows?... I envy you… January 1972 SUNLIGHT CASTS THE BRILLIANCE… Sunlight casts the brilliance; Many casts the shadow— A shadow of what he is— Sun cannot penetrate; Nothing shows but an outline. You know the rough sketch But the sun can’t probe inside, With a cast of back the only return. The Sol does not shine through, Perhaps he shows indirectly. Man squints— He knows the rooms well, Not the outdoors—his first home. Then, too, he may be Confined against his will. And he squints as he escapes, Momentarily… Spring 1972 ONE HUNDRED FLOORS OF MARSHMALLOW Breechclout in the fall; Voyage to the top of white-eyes’ Cresting lodges in a rock forest; Climbing in a clumsy metal bird, So close to my mother, the moon. But many, many lodges do not bring me To my mother; no closer to the womb; Only farther from my roots. Silly white-eyes— Their great heights gain nothing; No closer to the sky; Only farther from Life. November 1972 ASHLAND, KENTUCKY So many things Written while you wait; The plane hasn’t left, For bus I still wait. It’s so much of “HOLD!”. This is no poem, bold; I’m just a’settin’, Waiting to move; All kinds in the station, Trying to groove. A juke with the beat, A burned, bench-type seat. People of all sorts, Scattered around; The ring-a-ling pin-ball machines Do so abound. Fifteen move minutes Left on the clock; I’m in no hurry, Like those on the dock. The people will move, In plenty good time; Too many coronaries From racing through grime. We’re all going our ways, And varied we are; Black and white, Traveling far. How many escaping, Or traveling to go? Me, I’m a journeying, With jam in my toes. No one can say, What things will become By night-time up north. I’m not predestined! On my own, I go forth. Curling fag smoke Up through the air. I envision fronts Around those of the “fair”. Confrontations of random, Of “far-outs” and widows, Army men and beatniks— No humdrum. Maybe I imagine The ice that I feel. Perhaps it’s not as bad— As electric eels. We all are one brother; A fat mass, at that; But we’re moving together, (And lots of them scat). I’ll move real easy, Won’t beat myself out; It’s time to be moving, On my chosen life route. December 12, 1972 UNORTHODOX CHRISTMAS WISHES There are no fancy frills here To wish that same old way; ‘Tis unnecessary to repeat that Expression, a cliché. Just keep it in your heart to think How lucky you must be To never have to drink What is not pure and clean. Bless, dear God, your fortunes now And that you are alive; Do not for lavish presents seek, But for mankind do strive. Christmas 1972 A MEANINGFUL MOUSE-AN MATERNITY …And below the deck of oaken timbers Stands the mouse, with deathly shivers, Awaiting not the ‘Christmas life’ But praying for his mouse-an wife, Who lies a’nest to give now birth To lowly mouse, bethought no worth. Now giving life, as was at first In Bethlehem, where Christ was nursed. The mouse, as He, is born in straw, As mice do gather near and far To see the newest mouse-child born To the wandering ship that carries corn… The birth of both, is here, the same; All births are one in Christmas fame… Christmas 1972 1973 IS THERE VICTORY IN DEFEAT? Is there victory in defeat? A defeated purpose judges biasly When its vision is clouded by the fears of loss. Is there victory in defeat? We think not, tangibly, when We will not be back to see its fruits. Is there defeat in victory? Surely not, when there Is no joy in Mudville— Truly, there is no joy in Mudville, tonight. Does it truly matter, Win or lose in life? We cannot judge, I think, Fresh from the battles strife. The ‘Sayers’ say it matters— That it patterns life to come. But athletes cannot judge When their goals are trodden un’. Other days will come, they say, And the sorrows will be gone. Perhaps I’ll think back of this time, This game, And say “we really won”. But I know not what the future holds; … So far; and yet, so close… Those goals… Mary 9, 1973 THE HARVARD PROJECT Cinder blocks Laid half on half From floor to ceiling rise. Beyond asbestos False overhead— How far keep going? I now surmise. Here we sit with tests Teacher tells the answer; oh We do fuss in vain. Poor us—students here Missing answers—cannot change; Accept them as are. What’s the use to try? To change the answer—worthless; It’s bound to stand pat. Tis’ humorous, quite; All of us make our comments What we all did wrong. Sitting behind me— Wonder what goes on in mind? Could live if knew thoughts? Almost time to count Score of test so great and grand— Here comes—down by nine! March 1973 HASSLE HORRIBLE AGITATING STICKY SCALY LONGWINDED EXCURSION Into Everyday Things That Bug Me, When Repeated Bad Over Enough And To Over Hurt Are Just Once. April 1973 1974 IT’S A GOOD LIFE AT THE INSTITUTE Life is truly wundebar— Even with the mounts that Strain ourselves. Behind in analyzing, extrapolating, Integrating, explicating, Running and sometimes Jumping for life to stay in the game. But I still love it. The profs, the people, The perplexity. Perhaps even happier with More dedication. Is that the answer? Get to work on it, and Enjoy. January 1974 RICE Born in the sea flats, Mothered by the grass He grew. Weaned upon the salt air And taught the waves’ sweet song, He knew, That Life would not be roses, But neither pessimist His gist, Of philosophy. He reared amid the camphours, While through the first ten steps He marched; His life was all, but nothing; Was full, and yet it lacked The flavor; parched. But then a hill came looming And he landed there upon, And soon to don, His revised person. Initiated by the hardness That was fertile food for soul, He grew. Nourished by the Mother earth, The growth, the land, all men, He new, That life here would be roses; Its grandeur would be great, And not too late It came to learn. The hollers were the mountain womb That mothered the peoples’ ways He learned. They rounded out his learning Cultivating purpose, love, Harmony. His mind, his limbs expanded; Of people he partook, But it was Heaven, and lasting, spoiling. Hourglasses came down crashing, That could not belittle bonds With the spirit. Uncertainty hung damp above, Futilely over dauntless man-child, Summed experience. He parted, torn, but knowing There lay ahead a goal, Amid dark, Yet unrevealed. Poplar child mucked back in flats, With a calling near at hand, He knew; His hands, like Keesters’, Flew by love and love To glorious ends, And shone in blanch purity Stark against the blue Of reward, And new beginning. Spanish themes of hoping, Fathered in grand age, He began. Challenged in a setting High in sky, degree, He fights. A head above the water, A stride across the line, Pressed by doubts, Fed by glad, It continues without trade; Hard to get down; too good. It is the dream That presses harder yet, Above the clamour and the din Of doubting others, He loves life. Born in the sea flats, Mothered by the salt air, the creeks, He grew. Weened upon the salt air, and Taught the waves; and hills’ sweet song, He knew, That life would not be roses, Unless he made it so, His gist, Of philosophy. February 14, 1974 WHAT THREE BOOKS WOULD YOU TAKE? I Journey through mental dimensions— By warps of cellulite— Wells of time, Comprehension brimmed— “The ultimate speed is being there”, And its truth is portrayed Upon walls engrossing The limitless limitationing Of the lehreren. II Across space, In dimensions Straight. Left then right, And up and down, To dimensions Of particles, and waves And Nemerovian images That stirred yet more within. Through limits of dimension, Geometry; Plato’s perfect concept, Into bounded unbounds. Or rather, bounded, bounding unbounded. Or, rather again, unbounded That frees the unboundable. By limits of exchange, Concepts of worth, Expressions of charge And of feeling, And back to unboundness, in boundness Roam. Mindful of concepts that Limit, yet are limitless— Of dislike, of like, of lust, Of pleasure, of love, Of being— Enjoying the unboundable concept Within the unboundable Platonic Purity, I sat. III Tick, tock, tock, tick, Bzzz, Bzzz, click, click— Hammer, Whang, Ring, Rage, Bell, dial, hand, gauge. Across the unfathomable Einsteinian progression, On a stamp— IV Upon the bounds The cellulite flicks; Relaying the concept, Slowly; The concept Wells. Time flying by, for me, Of years past; viewing The same, In near the same Boundment, and experiencing anew What is the womb Of my being, my straining; My perceptible imperceptible Struggle against the unbeatable Yet mouse-like barrier. Bound. My paradox, explained. Being in space, But traversing time— No velocity because No bounds at gates that, Run past, whiz the speed Via perceptivity. I see. That the run is Elementary, not as The limiting particle, But the basic beginning. I am such a child… a babe… I am yet unborn! I and all others are Encased… bounded… yet Striving within our box. Falling headlong Against walls that Poe-like expand before me And beyond— My fingers find no Fathomable bounds. And yet I am running Away from myself. I am truly races and Agonies back there— Limitless limiting miles back At my starting point. I am a snail— I weave a silver trail Across the world… along My equipotential field Against which I can do no Work. A path minds long, With the mind left at My start, Where fell my home’s Afterbirth. There I left me. I filled then with perceptions Of my bounds, and Forever influenced, Was taught to say “Leave you behind”, “Accept you… he is Not you… you are Not you. You are a Bound within abound— Strive.”… But I still wait back at My starting ‘first dimension’. Back there I would start. V Virgin, in its concept be, I would begin… Move not a biochemical, See not an auge; Smell nor taste, Nor decibel hear… But only mind. Immediately cry out In the silence (Silent? Only because other Minds do not hear.) How rawly beautiful My newness is. I go now to discover My infinity— Mind crossing ever Tender ground that Resounds painfully but Wonderful with knowledge. I am new… in my game And my concept. No! My dimension. That too is boxed, But limitless. I would trek across Stingingly new thresholds Forever going and with me. I still am there, though; It of me is here. I must retrace, or call Me home; One. Find me again… (a long road); But yet find me again, Where I have no reference points… Where I Am. Find myself… I… And begin as the child, Anew— For I am yet unborn; I have regressed forward A didecade. Over so much I must remake! Then start over and Move not a biochemical, Erect not a vein, Ere not a thought off Of being where I am, But somewhere else. That I would be At my concept of being— Across the ‘folds’, The chains of time That are chains for those Who never feel they have Lost me, somewhere back there. How lucky to know I have so little gone, And yet am able to stop Before my2 Should prevent it. So I am here, still carrying Forward, but casting out Line 2. VI Oh, mind! Send the Engine Order Telegraph A flank reverse! Across my inner dimensions Would I fly— It is the television Rambling around within the Home, when its true world Exists within the tube. All world is within me! “I am a perfect expression of being”. JLS, thou art now so clear; (A concept yet… that clear!) Even my own idea of myself Is limited and on-flying. I am my repertoire of perceptions And formulations, reapplied in So many different ways. But across the infinite, I just am… No motion (no reference) No need (no concept); Just being there. OH! How can I visit them all? “Beyond my wildest imagination” Is so true. Damn those didecadent years! They have left me so rudimentary. That I might have tread So pitifully, but Uncontaminated at first; I would not be held back now. VII So, Clemintis, hear me now. I am reformed (an idea). You are so right, That I would change, But so wrong. You are in a Box of Jesus— He, too, restricts. I see a pinhole where I was (I am!). I am heading for the Light that is perception, That is all; That is crap! But by so romantic a metaphor I limit my go to your perception. I will find me. Then twitch not… I will get me back, and Go into into me. There will I be blinded by me, And perhaps be forever abandoned And lost within me, as those without Will believe. I will have found the light That blindeth within me, For didn’t I say God was inside? … And perhaps I will wander Pseudo blind, and stumble, That I may acquaint me with my in-me. Nonetheless, I will find where we really are. VIII As I brake, back down to zero bells And go to reverse, I will ponder. But in my running box must I still Be held by limits. The imposed bureaucracy of time. Time to go. IX Watch out world! Perceive that impression of light of me, But make not light! I am going back to me. Me is to be relocated in the Bounded unbounded cranium; (Is it there?) Pull hard! Limits of physical strain! All back full to find me Amid the ocean of me; Being, place; All a potpourri! Come with me! Let us all find us Within us, for Ignorance, I see, Is not bliss, but Infinite struggle. JLS, you said It so beautifully… “Keep working on Love.”— Is that the ultimate fuel, The propelling force?— Or only the media of transmittance Back to me? LIFE… you concept, you… You are fantastic. I love you… I am going to keep working on you… Runners set… GO! April 1974 POSTAGE DUE 2˘ Time, like the world, Is truly very short and small… Voyageurs are all too aware. One “end” of the world, And back again, And spanning— Thousands of nauticals over, I am returned. Amid this sea, so large, I am relocated; Come again to a volcanic jut Where crunch the blue-fire sands, And shooshing breakers. I, like a pigeon homing, From the “lower” bowels of the glove, Am returning. No trail sown, A threadlike bond Called family Guides me home… to Coleto. July 12, 1974 TO CAROL An awakening, of sorts, Has overtaken me; I am aware, just now, Not like befores; Such times are rare. Understanding, now, Overtakes me. I, engulfed in time, In distance, and most, In thought, am At that point Where all enfurled, Flows out… Please bear with me As I free myself Of unsung sights. An acquaintance spoke Of how this world Was but of three parts. Here on the seas, There is only starboard, Port, and us. The world, as it knows us, Lies I ntwo halves; One to our left, and One to our right. But, truly, the only world We know is the ship itself In which we are enfurled. I’m thoughtfully provoked, Watching the world cleft, and Run by as wake. Bioluminescent sea, like Green, spilling, fiery Blood from a sliced ocean Pours out from us. Churned, chopped, Burning, and frothed, It boils behind our passage; Lies unhealed, Till out of sight—still, and Unchoppy like its distant Halves. God flung stars dust The sky, shadowed as Clouds whisper their Nature, Talk between us. Feathery, downy, translucent; All clichés. I have restricted beauty When I define it. Something will always be missed. And do you know why? Because it is all the same… It is all so magnificent. One need not leave To go someplace beautiful; Only to see different manifestations Of beauty—emotion embodied Into a physical state. Appalachia is where I found The emotion, But the Rockies have it too, And the mountain of Samoa, Or the Makai Range of Hawaii, Or the mountains of Austrailia, Or Fiji— All land— It’s a small world I’ve decided, Because it’s only of a single clay— All moulded from an Emotion— And the differences in different places Which we think we perceive, Is just Emotion spoken to us In different languages… So Carol, Now it has all sunk into me— I have felt no great number Of tinglings in my spine This cruise, of seeing and Being so far from home, Because it has been shown To me that the Earth, Though varied it may be, Is all one in beauty— In love— In being. My travel, after all, Was in circles, N’est ce pas? Around the round globe. And I have seen different Forms and languages of the Love I’m feeling for life, And this Earth, and its sea. I’m seeing that travel is All well and good, and offers variety, But you’ll find the same outside Your own back door… Go look— The “Yellow Rose of Texas” By Melrose Street? It is your own yellow Samoan orchid. The pine tree by the back fence— Like the Hawaiian evergreen. The dandelion-peppered grass— Like the Australian turf. To us, the South Sea counterparts Are beauty, and ours, commonplace. Familiarization, it seems, can Artificially Dampen beauty, emotion, love. Finding something different, Something novel, Makes it beautiful and endearing. I have just been shown, I see now, That familiarization doesn’t Kill the novelty of one’s surroundings. It only closes you, (me), up To the ever present beauty that surrounds, Eager for us to open up to it. It, as I said, is emotion—love. What did the elder gull say? “Keeping working on love, Jonathan…” Awakened, I try to understand, But it’s impossible. Only can one enjoy and rejoice at it. The sea, Carol, is like love. It, and tears, are Liquid emotion. It is violent, and passionate; But unbounded, in body, As in definition. I want it to seep into me, To flood into me, But I still stand apart, Thwarted, as if corked Into my world. That is why I’m writing. An attempt to send out A missive, an explanation— A word— Something to embody What I feel and get it Free, to the other side Of the cork. Perhaps the Feeling won’t Be caught by the Cork In the mail. And writing to you, Carol, I am also writing to myself. I am giving myself an idea, And simultaneously a limitation. Perhaps you think I’m Rambling… Or that I’m over emotional Or silly about it all. Granted, I’ve just seen A movie—a celluloid Emotion that “inspired” me. But it just unlocked me, To help me remember And understand. I am understanding now, That I have seen the World’s bottom. I have crossed the midriff And returned, And all that is gone is time. And it seems as nothing, For how does one consider That which can’t be grasped. So many places and oceans— Seen— And in a way they are All alike. That is, They are all real, And not just map spots, And they are all Attainable; They exist, and in great beauty. Here they are Not dissimilar. I have seen the Islands, the continents, The paradises, the seas. And they are all beautiful. (Beautiful says so much That it says nothing.) Recall your best feeling ever? That is what they are. And I can see clearly now That all of earth is The very same. I have heard that “People must invent Differences because Everything is so similar”. It is enrapturing, Carol, And I am told, too, That this is a small world… So… it is beautiful… Or, it just is. Like visual feelings, That I understand as They enter me Through sight— And smell and taste and hearing. And these are limiting again. But an awakening, of sorts, Has overtaken me, And somehow I feel, and I understand, but To think or write on it all Makes it vanish like the wave. The wave… Split off from itself at the bow, It travels abeam, and by a Falling hull shooshes outward Tumbling over itself and burning, Green. Whispering and screaming Of quiet water, It abruptly disappears. It is dissolved in itself. And something so vivacious Has suddenly swallowed itself up, And like the feeling, is gone. That must be the key. Perhaps I’ve just seen That the existence and Embodying of love into Physical states Is what beauty is. The fact that it is there, Perpetually. I will never see The sea, which travels Forever on past the eye, As drab. It is another Embodiment of love, And in that is forever fantastic! The sea is like the Forests of West Virginia, The plains of Texas, The sky, the hills, the people! They are all the same, And wonderful… Just different manifestations… And perhaps energy? I have worn myself thin— Too many words? Trying to express where only Feelings can explain? Pardon me, Carol, if This Has sounded like an admonishment Of those who read it. I am speaking to me through You… I am telling me something too, And admonishing myself only. But also trying to share, somehow, The elation which I feel so Forcefully… I am longwinded, (You know!) But I felt to pour it out, I could see it… Am I too analytical? Nevertheless, it is a missive— A communicee to us both Through that intangible Stopper-cork boundary. Was it successfully delivered? I hope so— For the most important message Of it all, Is that You are my sea. July 14, 1974 Bastille Day 1977 TO ALL HIGH EMPRISE CONSECRATED… Exhaustion. Cruel, cold, eyelid shuddering Tiredness, Crawling relentlessly throughout My body. Precipitously balanced Upon the edge of hinter-conscience; A losing battle To maintain coherence. The warrior fights cannons Booming his eyelids shut; A falling cranium crashes Softly to the desk. Read no more Psyc tonight; Rest. September 1977 PHEIDIPPIDES Fleet of foot, He races Drinking in the air. He glows, he burns, He paces; Those miles are trod On long, hot days, with Burning road and sky— Fountains of body juice Flow out; The salt skin cries. On mournful, humid Mornings, that dread the Coming noon, he flees, From bedtime drowse, And sandy eyes; The distance trod in threes. On sighing nights, Into the glare Of fuming motor-cars; Cursing all the yawning roots, And praising God, for darks, and prayers; For quickness in the gloom; Tumultuous efforts satiate The escape from sessile rooms. On morns and nights, And burning noons, On roads, and wilder trails; In watery skies and toasted air; Iced paths, with freezing, wetted hair. Praising all that is above For taxing body stores. I give my Lord this temples all, Exalting it and pushing more. Thankful for the Runners life, Its joys and peace, Its one-with-Him, Matching strides with spirits beat; Forever in the Race, And drinking in the pain; Thanks, to Him, for fleet of feet. September 1977 PAIN IS SWEET Pain is sweet. Aftertaste upon my tongue Invoking thoughts of Hurts once young, And now grown old. Pain to cleanse; Sweating flesh, my legs dull groan; Purify my soul And sharpen, as a razor hone. Pricking to peak. Pain of heart. Wrenching soul for others love; To hold and share… Yet, flighty doves, That never rest. Pain will choke; Cruel “no”; suffer much longed “yes”. Torment, this road; Lord lead me, show me best, The road less traveled by. Pain so sour; Sweet, now old, partook by mouth; Bad taste, decaying, Leave me withered, rot of droughth. Parched soul. Sweet is pain. Perfume of body; God’s toll. Gives growth and makes anew; Ambrosia of the soul. I am fresh of it. Taste the sweet pain. October 1977 SUNSET Dark grey fluffy rocks Are giants that hang in the sky. Suspended by the cottony threads And wafting airs of Clean fall clouds slipping by. Sol is a centipede Digging from beneath those rocks; His legs as rays are peeking out, And then a little of his head, But most of his mighty mass seems caught. Lithe bugs hover and speed about, Taunting the marshmallow mounts; Slipping from the centipedes stare through rocks, And dripping insect dew across the lot, They taunt the big bugs pounce. With a salubrious heave, Sol shrugs the rock, And pours out all his self. Those flitting bugs glint gold and white, The rocks dull grey grows warm, And darkness quickly melts. But no… The lazy grey is laying down again, And stifling poor centipede. His legs pulled in, he suffocates, Drowned and squashed beneath the pall; Out a tiny baseline crack His gold-orange blood is freed. November 1977 SHELLBACK DAWN Sailing down to the Southern Straits Where ships have ne’er gone. We valiantly strode cross the line A few hours ‘fore the dawn. A Pollywog full crew were we, New seasoned with the salt; These sailor boys would soon be men; As whips would crack, we cross the fault. Awash amid the doldrums, lone, The San Berdoo new south; And sweating down in grimy decks Slept Pollywogs as in a droughth. Tossed and turnd, they fretted Now the coming of the day, When cross’t the line the Shellbacks wake To gather Pollywogs for play. No dawn yet awoken, but we for sure, Aroused about the deck; All backward in our clothing, And ropes about our necks. Led to musty, stinking holds That reeked of diesel oils, Those Shellbacks fed us ketchup toast, Green eggs and sour kitchen spoils. Above, on oaken, rough hewn decks They waited, greedy faced, While shivering in our timbers, cool, We dreaded dawn; hearts, untested, raced. Then rose the call; The Shellbacks moaned Ecstatically for blood; All, prodding lazy albatross, They pulled us up like mud. BLASTED! As the hatchways top, We’re hit with gushing sea; Pounded, seared, by heavy salt They hosed poor Pollywogs, as we. Then crushed to knees by cruel kicks, They gashed our open skin. Drawing blood on roughened decks, We strove to bleed as men. A gauntlet formed. The beating came, With sectioned wetted strap. Merciless, the Shellback strafed poor Pollywog; no pity in their slap. Hundred feet of wailing hose, and broken back,s We belly, penitent; Neptune and his sexless wife Will see us now; our bloods are rent. Serviced, judged, and sentenced each, His Majesty brushes off Each Pollywog, poor Pollywog, To trails and tests; at horrors, scoff. Against the fatted belly And the packing grease slimed crotch, We kiss and grovel for His grace; He anoints our every notch. Jagged, oiled and salty wounds, They gather up our lot, And bleeding out the fatted calf, Immerse us in a bloody pot. Floating in the milieu, Drowning ‘neath the froth, The foaming oxes blood above me, I wallow, frail and crushed moth. They drag me from this hell-hole, And thrust us into hair, That floats on toilet contents, Then explodes into our faces, fair. This test, we pray, is finished; “Allow us, please, to go!” But no, so close to shellback honor, Through wretched garbage must we flow. The canvas tube of slop-stuff, So rancid, sour-foul, Brings vomit to the forefront; Immersed inside, we howl. “Oh free us, mighty Shellbacks!” We cry as I push through This plug of vomit, rotting sludge; A putrid, oozing stew. The Southern dawn is shining now, Through the porthold of this coffin. A free man, Shellback, I emerge; Burst from old placenta, rotten. I, the grown up Pollywog, Am sliced, and bruised, and bleeding; I reek of garbage, blood and grease, But Shellback, I, not beaten. I am cleansed of Pollywog, Free of the Northbound taint. Now crosst the line, discard those clothes Whose reek will make the fishes faint. Those backward garments, left adrift, Are staining virgin wake, But they take away all Pollywog, And my taste for South, now slaked. Doused with baptismal gush, And clean of all catarrh, I am ventured equatorial; Set sail for lands yet far. Naked with my fellows, Aboard the San Berdoo; Now high and mighty Shellbacks That crossed, and lived it through. Oh, I am good Neptunes Shellback, And a salty sailor, drawn… Whose wisened eyes know Southern skies, And seas, and Shellback dawn. November 1977 WACO I grieve. I try so hard To do That which I know I shouldn’t; And I try not To do, That which I know I should. I live inside a Paradox, I follow flighty Wiles; Oh, to follow reason and Not lust; If I thought, I doubt, I would. November 7, 1977 ARROW HOUND UPON YOUR LAWN Where is my target? I have loosed an end, And the shafts are fallen. Starkly straight upon the lawn, They lay; Pointing off in one direction, They fell short of mark, or went Astray. I sent an extra arrow flying, And waited for its falling thrust; The wand sailed, truly, for the mark So distant, But faltered, short; pierced only Dust. November 1977 I CAN WAIT FOREVER Winds are blowing, Flowing, Growing; Feathering about me From the sprouting wisps. Rocking gently, Bowing saintly, I relax encapsuled From their wetting hiss. Longing, pensive, Inking missives, Until I feel the truth, Or know her calling kiss. December 1977 ASK THE FLOWER PETALS Parry, parry, Ponder; Carry all the burden Of this love. Think of where I stand today; In her heart, Her thoughts, Or in her way? Parry, parry, In no hurry, She won’t say. 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