Tag Archives: Ethereal purpose

Above the Alpine Rill

High amid the summer fir,
engaged to overlook the rill
of winding valley’s rising mist,
one moment captured, standing still.

From the shadowed night behind,
swept a feathered rush of wings
just beyond the tall pine’s reach,
aloft this breath of morning, king!

Stoic eagle, timeless brother,
perched on valley’s rising din,
purveyor of this latitude,
great servant to the truth within.

There, by grace of silence
midst summer’s green of sweetened pine,
beheld the hushing heart of nature
in whispered words spoke true and kind…

“Here my sweet beloved
have you come to rest your soul,
where through this moment’s treasure
find the truth that bathes you whole.
Yet for you, in thankfulness,
return the kindness that you share,
in hidden whispered thoughts of God,
aloft this summer’s morning air.”

Not a single breath, took I,
entranced through every stretching beat,
as grace and time converged to still
this captured silence sweet.

… till I …

… till I …

… till I …

Embraced in mountain’s love and home,
adrift in summer’s thermal thrill,
returned His gentle whispered thoughts
suspended ‘bove the alpine rill.

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The Poet’s Eternal Blood

When ink no longer flows from wells
through pens that bring the poet’s tale –
When stars decline to shine through nights
of bible black and moonless heights –
When breezes fail to stir the musk
of woodland’s stagnant summer husk –

Tis then my heart will write in blood
by candle flame of passion’s flood
drawn sweet across my sweating skin
to bring it all to life again!

When fate denies the hands of time,
freezing metronomes in rhyme –
When strings and bow default to mute,
failing note’s enamored suit –
When carol and the chorus gone
from symphonies’ now retched song –

Tis then that I by stomping foot
will raise the rhythm from the soot,
howling loud with dog and cat
to mount this music strong and fat!

When life blood dries and I have gone
to brighter pastures, green and long –
When heart beat thrums have left my chest
and drift in ashes final rest –
When hands are cold and voices dry,
when worldly sparks deny my eye –

Tis then that I will rise again
through souls of ink and nibs of pen!
Tis then this poet’s art will thrive
and through the ages come alive!

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Where Once I Died

Thereupon the bridge stood I,
above the crowd’s tumultuous storm,
in offering, what hope had I
against their hapless raging form
that crashed in waves upon the piers
once placed by honest men,
now torn from ragged indolence
of hatred’s depth again.
In lacking faith and understanding,
lost from knowledge kept,
they clamored high in selfishness
not owning all the tears we wept.

So to hope and value pressed,
my hands across their sky,
I tried imparting all my strength
in knowledge, that they too might try
to come to understand the pain
and sacrifice of the few
that stacked, for them, their soapbox pulpits
high to get a better view,
born on shoulders of the past
and those who gave it all
in hope to birth this great tomorrow,
where none would here the tyrant’s call.

But hope misplaced to ignorance
distorts across the sands of time,
degrades to soulless decadence
when all they know is “mine”.

Standing high above the mass,
arms spread wide with calming tone,
plead did I of petulance
to find compassion, here alone.
As the roaring din grew faint
to hear my crying plead,
I saw the flash, heard the crack
from which all hope did fast recede.
Mid-breath in phrase “this hope is mine”,
the thud collapsed my chest,
exploding truth without a breath,
the bullet never came to rest
but caught my soul, eternal,
and cast me heaven-high,
as upon my fallen body gazed,
I watched my mortal image die.

I stood upon that bridge in hope.
I laid my soul to bear.
I gave my heart to save them,
receiving just their leaden stare.
No matter recollection,
their numbers grow the great divide
that separates few honest men
upon the bridge where once I died.

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Blushing Dawn

In gentle rose of dawning light
this alpine meadow sings,
beckoned from her blushing right
to call to day, all things.

From quiet start to fluttered hurry,
all call from one to one to one,
till caught in flustered din and flurry
break the dawning peace in sum.

The forest floor reborn a-wild,
with subtle hints to work yet done,
casts the sun a dimpled smile
and to her burgeoned beauty come.

‘Tis simple best
this sweetly dressed
expression herein lain,
that she embrace
each living face
and with their souls remain.

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Year’s End

Amidst these tolling temporal bells
I pause to point’s reflection,
stir my ether’s constant frame
and search at length through recollection
of moments past the marker’s knot,
for pleasures granted and instilled,
for smiles brought of challenges
and what the strength of spirit willed.

Echoes gently flutter by,
stolen ‘neath a sacred tending
that holds each fixed to point in time
as if there stayed for mending.
But slowly in procession,
in recounting all the rights and wrongs,
entreat I each as specter’d witness,
relive I every moment gone.

What points of purpose rent here,
twixt ignorance and learning’s way?
What broken ties of prejudice
softened in compassion’s play?
What fits of anger cast to air
that quickly time did mend?
What tender moments loving shared
that through this life did sweetly blend?

By symphony’s silent sweeping roll
imbibe these portents of the year,
as sharing all their luscious steps
in bowed and curtseyed waltzing near.
Their smiles kindly greet me
as they pass in memories golden glow,
enrobed in holly season’s mirth
with winter’s rosy cheeks to show.

So I in temporal witness,
last station ‘tween the poles of years,
regard no hesitation in
tomorrow’s subtle unknown fears.
But at this point’s enlightenment
I gather wholly what I’ve known,
count each memory sacred,
blessed by what their dance has shown,
and what of me I’ve come to own
amidst the bells in tolling here.

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What’s In Us

Where do the angels’ shadows fall
when caught in heaven’s burgeoned call,
refrained from what their souls have lent
to those of us whose teardrops spent?

When does the crack of dawn deride
the hope of morning’s living tide
by lain expression of midnight’s scorn
that from beginning’s cry is torn?

Tis framed in moments left in night
where drifting souls denied what’s right,
tis bound to fragile hoping thus
that in the dawn new life is thrust
and therein bound forgiveness.

For held in such eternal hands
is love of life and love of man
that grants us each day’s start anew
regardless of the pain imbued.

Therein the stain of what we’ve left,
the edges softened and loss bereft,
that bends the ether’s loving sound
and drives us home to birthing ground.

Tis here amidst the flight and gain,
tis here the loving heart remains,
tis here deep in the desert’s well
we know the space twixt heaven’s hell,
and there we know what’s in us.

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Bend the Ether

Bend the ether, twill the steam and stitch your heart in every seam. Knot the nets that catch the death of those you’ve loved and now have left.

What is this temporal lashing’s crack that splits the air and heaven’s back? What is this frozen moment’s tome that steals your once last hope for home?

Frozen ropes and clinging ice do not your selfish heart disguise. Tho’ penance may you claim for pride, your lacking truth will ne’er deride the hatred that you held in fist, that killed him cold when called her, his.

Tears of brother’s death are not what grant you hope through what you’ve wrought. But only by your soul’s disdain shall ever spare the one you’ve slain! Your brother’s sword, his lover’s scent, through jealous hatred, hell you’ve rent upon the last one standing! You! That in this moment’s penance true will bury all your fledgling hope and leave you with just pain to cope with memories of the love you’ve wronged, of death no poem or sorrowed song could ever quite endure. So this your love and penance pure.

Wield the casting’s iron black, stoke the fire’s ashen slack that so restores the burning hell where lost your dreams now scream and wail! Pray to God through thick remorse that tears so streamed will open doors and grant you one last chance to claim forgiveness from those souls so slain.

Written in reflection of the story of Rodrigo Mendoza, who murdered his brother, Felipe, out of pure rage when he was found with Rodrigo’s fiancée.

Fickle love and fickle fate in paying such a penance.

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The Arc

Spun between two points in time,
vectors balanced to purposed end,
hold truth to chords of life once struck,
and reach to ancient hands does lend.

Therein lies the arc of present
stretched in frozen moment’s flux,
whereby decisions roll the view
to what we witness, what we trust.

Amidst the ether, frozen there,
the works of man and nature framed
in temporal need and thoughts of God,
summed in living’s passioned flame.

The arcs of all free willed in living
do stitch a common temporal fabric,
that pulls, as gravity, twixt motioned arcs,
to influence “now” to peace, or tragic.
There are no failings of interaction
for influence is a duty, thus
enhance those close to see the truth,
share the witness, share the trust.

Peace, compassion in calmness lay
where flux amidst the ether stands
to give a grip to hopeful point,
to shape tomorrow by merit’s hands.

In every moment’s fractioned fraction,
points of choice give rise to lend
every soul a chance to change
the path to future’s arc, and bend
the fabric to a peaceful state,
smooth the wrinkles, soften lines,
there change the world to what we choose,
stretch the hope beyond our time…

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The Sea

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Angel’s echoed voices ring
in timbre stretched and low,
beg to call all spirits home
across the distant water’s flow.

Soft remorse in beckoning
creams the ether still to air,
draws a waltz of deafened count,
holds the note eternal there.

Softly rolls the surf forgiving
icy cold from black,
gladly bounces dusk’s last winking
as sparkled souls cross ebbing tack.

Deep the voices resonate
and dwindle closed the shrinking light,
call in sorrowful murmurs,
“all souls return, to home, take flight”.

Silence summed in evening’s break,
calm surf entreats the lonely sea
spun in threads of heaven’s mercy,
one hushed string bowed eternally.

“Quiet edge of angel’s making,
grace be called in sea’s deep strand,
bless the souls there in your keeping,
grant them peace in angels’ hands”.

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Embroidered Soul

Every moment’s living
pull’s a thin red thread of time,
unraveling temporal precepts,
stitching worldly mind.

Embroidered concepts fall away,
their threads drop to the floor,
imaged history just remains
in stains once stitched before.

Collective soul is fabric stretched
across the living span,
tensioned smart by good hearts there
and held by loving hands.

The tapestry, taut, is ours to fill,
ours to so design,
to color by our soul’s sweet purpose
and stitch in finest lines.

Yet blunder we, in stab or two,
tie a knot where none was due,
prick a spirit’s finger there
hope forgiveness grants repair.

But loving souls in holding taut
the fabric of our lives,
do guide the pattern’s tender care
if we, with open eyes
move on toward dreams with love,
move on beyond the fear –
trust in truth the needle’s dance
will grant good stitching here.

On walls in heaven’s quarters hang
the fabrics of our lives,
meant to show our purposed soul
embroidered by the dreams we try.

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