ABELARD AND HELOISE

Fair exchange -
eyes for mind
hands for philosophy
each the pupil of the other
when it came to love and angels.

Unfair exchange -
tears for looks
distance for proximity
each the ache of circumstance
when others made love politics.

Fair exchange -
paper wings
words piled on clouds
each lover blooming for all ages
as we, too, feel their weight.

(Gone To Gossamer)

MY BLOOD IS CATHEDRAL

My blood is cathedral
life songs behind each red window
their tympani basic, reassuring
even when I sleep among my melodies
and the troubled themes of dreams
rise contrapuntal to my maturing.

Blood is my sea-salt tide
perfect rhythm perfected for the moment
whether under soft foot, scented
when a goddess sings of the moon
or flaming stone and thunder
each time a new hell is invented.

My blood is historic
its essences descended intricately
in the quiet of seconds sublime
sequestered in patterns anciently conceived.
Preserved still in my written presence
it loudly speaks in the beat of my time.

Blood is my passion's flower
blushing in its youthful bloom.
Soft-petalled it magnifies my flow
like skalds of old in courtly halls
when words were thieves by the fire light
and honours things only kings bestow.

Blood is lullaby
primal song on my first dozing
ancestral imprint that guides my light.
Yet while I pour my life's sweet effort
into an overburdened world
it touches every word I write.

(Gone To Gossamer)

PARTS OF A MAN

My separate parts amaze.
Some blind like water sparks on cloudless days.
Some hide like monks
hooded in shadows of new truth revealed.
Others make soft my peaceful world
when decisions hurt.
Still others stiffen resolve
when I grow too pliable
and prone to the quicksands of indecision.
Rarities touch in childlike wonder
when I feel timeless.
Most precious those flights impossible
crystallized
then suddenly veiled in the mist of mortality.

I am father, son, shaman, penitent,
warrior, victim, lover, beloved,
ploughman and harvester,
candleholder and traveller
in a world that puts heaven in clouds
hell in its earth
and us between.

(Gone To Gossamer)

SILENT PAIN

I feel the pain of your silence
that knows nothing of distance
argues with its being
and swallows its fountainhead.

Time dies in your eyes.
You send it in a burning ship
envying its finality
once the glory of fire expires
and white ashes become
part of the passing world.

Still yet I feel your darkness
silent agony never voiced
eye-light turned down another notch
no flinching to notice
only something cold
crawling on my skin
a death touch fleeing acceptance
while a warrior cleans his sword
and sees not the sun setting.

(High Tide, Moon Ride)

YOUR OWN SONG

Your bronze halo risings to the day
trouble you nothing
over the rim of your eagle's perch
high vista on the mist morning world
where everything unravels
for your touch
and all is what it could be
just for a feathered launching.

Lakes bloom like wild mountain flowers
blue for red etceteras
petals full set
in your yearning gaze.
Wonder unending
hovers on its sun fed thermal
eyes ablaze
anew with searing search
for life that gives life
and feeds beyond mere feeding.

Hands are wings for colour
weaving patterns
where only you can hear the rush
through and past
of winds
in flight's solo voice
clear call of ages beyond the evanescing dawn
where evolution
is now the glory
of your own song.

(High Tide, Moon Ride)

SHE SAID, HE SAID

She said:
I come down from my dusky mountain
to be with you
hero of man-light.
Not always
but between two beats of your heart
I will reveal the shadowy body of my life
and the feeling life of my body.
Ecstasy will be your inspiration
never to be the same
once tasted from my flower cup
for I am Lilith.
My heavenly containers overflow
with blooming rarities
whose nectar feeds only your mortality.

And you will take its life-light
to the world of men
for my sake.
You will suffer too
yet I will be your food
and you will be my willing power.
Everything that I am
will touch your voice.
Your quest will be to speak my name, my name, my name.
It will be your mantra
mover of your soul
gift of a goddess
who remembers
the beginning of the world.

He said:
Your shimmering tide
full moon riding
embraces eager shores
caresses dark slept earth with mother patience
secret goddess workings of the womb.

I, at one with the sun rising
lift my hot track torch
to your moongate
mortared by the patriarchs
against time.
I rush revelation's liminal boundaries
where your dark-sense gifts abound
food forever
for questing dark memoried Everyman.

Holy aroma
mystic drifting centuries
ancient fires banked by moon-faced priestesses
against sleepy history
I am the stoker
you have waited
Wake, wake, my love ... Awaken!

(High Tide, Moon Ride)

DON'T MIND ME

A tide of tears rises to my point
a rushing wall of memory
so many lovers in review
momentary
so no tear fall
before the novelty of the present
rings its attention
over my senses
and lunch looms
blatant, organic, insistent, hot.

It happens often
this sentimental eruption
triggered by a word, a scene
a walk-by
a smell, a taste
a shadow.

More as years become desperados
and values become pointed
shouted in hollow rooms
when I pass through
always in a hurry.

(Eye of The Wolf)

WHAT I DON'T HAVE

I don't have a broad bay window overlooking
a Pacific beach where through webbed soaring pines
waves curl like inviting ladies' fingers
and I answer by rushing them in my bare feet.

I don't have a fine-tuned grand piano in a room that echoes
when I talk to myself or laugh with very old friends
because I'm halfway through Chopsticks
and there is a small sense of the ridiculous.

I don't have a computer with boggling extensions
that open up other worlds happily confused
with the possibilities that fascinate my curiosity
but I'd rather watch someone else operate.

I don't have two pet wolves acting like dogs
who come when called to play wolf games
they taught me on a howling moonlit summer night
once when I ran out of words and music in my world.

I don't have phones rung by carefree grandchildren too much away
with weekend invasion at the back of connecting minds
because they miss my roaming keyboard pastures
and need to find fulfillment of childish beach dreams.

I don't have a private parking lot for city curios
dying to launch new poetry about old humanity
a mutual admiration society of rare beings
artists, wishful realists, between the wars of multiculturalism.

I don't have a goddess, couched, legs crossed in ceremony
hair loosed, eyes magnetized by ESSP
I, mesmerized, speechless strangely
secrets revealed that tears can't ever appreciate.

I don't have resilience in my physical push
vague regrets for boyish speed and pointless leaping
but there's enough for joyful connection in easy stages
while force patiently divides itself by two at least.

I don't covet the rosey attainment of personality-plus
since muscle and hair and smoothness have waned away.
My days and nights exude respect in glances
as I plan my conquests behind the wink of an eye.

I don't have time to wonder long about my life
stretched like a lazy rug before my winter's fire.
Sleep is a luxury sacrificed on each day's altar
as wakefulness stampedes me toward what's left.

(Eye of The Wolf)

DANDELION FESTIVAL

Earth root joy, natural gift
radiant blooms matching
these children of the moon
drumming, strumming, dancing
feeding human hearts at peace
pausing to regale their spirit ride
in total absolution
rare prayer answer
total love moment
reconciled complete
without blemish
ah, softly the wind
and we all unaware
of wonder's innocence.

(Eye of The Wolf)

I REMEMBER WAR

I remember when war was popular.
We ate the bullets and bombs at mealtime
and tallied "them" and "us"
just before the daily weather forecast.
We slept soundly in peaceful beds
and knew not the confirmation
of stinking blood and rending smoke.
Conscienceless tanks ruled another world
while young boys went happily to their deaths
in the skies in Hawker Hurricanes.

Good times and slaughter loved each other.
They clung together in political blessing
a sort of perpetual insanity
smugly toasted even at funerals
under patriotic flags.

We knew solace and smiled with tears
but the hurt of war passed us over
and left us with a strange sense
of soldiers who never went to battle.

Yes, I remember when war was popular.
We were young then, barely touched by madness.
The face of war now wears another mask
yet still deceives in the same old ways.
Just when we think we know its terms
a new vocabulary transmutes
and we must learn all over again.
Yet our fascination never ceases.
As the blood flow of others increases
we who live war in the news
still dream warmly in our Sunday pews.

(Eye of The Wolf)

SILVER FLOOD RISING

Moon-melt
silver flood rising
I, moon mellowed
drift dew-dropped
in and out
your eyeways
seeker after seasons
sometimes sorrowful
sharing pain
when ecstasy
is shorted out
in ionic wars
and dark dawns
shiver on horizons
where awed peak-watered eyes
silver subtly
in their moon wax
tell of madness
after moon-melt
silver flood rising.

(High Tide/Moon Ride)

WOMAN IN BLACK HAT

You were my mirage
light waved
long road folding
dream state
heart pulse threaded
intricately
eye searching eye
swooning
question without answers
book closed
green thought provoked
wine heady overflow
breath suspended
drooling time
tranced
in a golden cage.

Black brimmed hat
mystery
Spain transposed
Carmen alive
dancing bronze cascaded hair
power electric
under the skin
willow floating phantom
shimmering mirage
took form
in my arms.

(High Tide/Moon Ride)

TOSS-LOVE ROCK

There was a place that women knew,
a lookout high above the saffron seas
where girls and mothers long stood to stare like statues
upon the honey horizons where dragon-men sailed
and sang into the mouth of jealous death.
Strong hands shaded brimming sapphire eyes
and words like prayers to gods both old and new
dropped like birds from off their cliffside nests
and flew with powerful hearts in full pursuit
of the men they needed to make harsh living sweet.

Old love, new love, each had its private voice
when women of sea rovers spoke alone
on Toss-Love Rock, west to the setting sun.
They spoke of things too tender to say aloud
to men who sang at night of blood and steel,
to men who were no strangers to fear and pain
and yet loved well the women of their fiords.
But like all women they knew the weight of loss
when adventure and life call men to seek Valhalla
and lose the heaven of their lonely lovers' arms.

The emptiness of waiting long without word
honed the edge of quality left behind
when Viking women took the place of men
and built their kingdoms with hard arms and minds.
Pride as strong as love, preserved like gold,
kept hope alive and fathered queens for continents.

(Gone to Gossamer)

I AM BREAD

I am bread of many directions.
The fir and palm are together in me
and I am at home where oceans course
or in the still of a desert pool.
The mountain goat has seen my eye
and the lion in the sea.
The prairie dog has whistled my whereabouts
and the antelope has shown me his flag.
Black bears have begrudged their berry patch
the osprey has paid me passing heed.
Orca has tolerated my silent admiration
the eagle has kept the question of his distance.
A black wolf once let me see him full
like the moon behind a drifting cloud
and I never forgot the message left
like crumbs when a feast is old.
The stench of ruined forests repels me north at first
then firms resolve of one direction more to take
as I add dimension to my outlook.
To the south, the breath of earth now comes in gasps
as I rush to effect my simple healing.
West and east the ravished waters go silently.
Again the rush, but not alone to mend this time.
Others to compass too are bread, like me.

My texture is rich in nourishment.
My form is crusted in the heat of years.
I am the bread of many directions.
I feed the world even as my yeast is working.
You have but to come to my table.

(Gone to Gossamer)

WARNING

I will run with the tiger or the wolf
and be companion to them both.
In jungle or in northwoods
we are green
of eye.

Others with eyes of steel and feet of death
are companion to fire's way.
In jungle of in northwoods
only we are green
of tongue.

Like a missionary blind, groping the dark
the lie that prods by servile doctrine
bleeds white both jungle and northwoods.
Only we are green
of touch.

Space without end, amen, is ended.
The head meets tail and is not happy.
In jungle or in northwoods
only we are left
with green.

What we do now in the shadow of our debt
which rips the bosom of our final Mother
in jungle or in northwoods
is last of life's
green out.

(Gone to Gossamer)

NEWS ITEM

Bullets for children
demise of conscience
alligator mentality
in street swamps
wary for the unwary
needle rewards
for innocence.

Terror is the god of streets
dining on youth
and spitting their bones
in lonely ditches.

Law is an empty gun clicking.

Time yawns for a geneartion.

What is the answer
that cannot wait for questions?

(Gone to Gossamer)

From She Said, He Said III with Gail D. Whitter

There is a sense
of time gone missing

perhaps we have walked
beside each other centuries
into the face of this fore
coming

but for now
we can only intuit
& forget our history
& become something
we both are missing

(gdw)

I cannot grieve you forever.
Your moon has waned
and pulls my tide no longer.
With the wash of other days
my beaches gleam again
flushed clean of love's debris.
I glory in my new clarity.
Up or down, the earth or sky
is full of other life
telling me yet of wonder
and the truth of time
that stops only in wishes
of the innocent
or in the minds of fools.

(orn)

From She Said, He Said II with Gail D. Whitter

over my skin
seductive circles
he whispering them ...

(gdw)

Trace me softly
when the tears are spent
and dry calm is left for light.

Trace me with fingers tipped
and sense finely tuned
among the grooves that spell my music.

Trace me to find me all
gradually, aware of every beat
that time allows me for my space.

Trace me again
to reassure love's summation
that all is not just a dreamer's dream.

(orn)

From: She Said, He Said I with Gail D. Whitter

The gods cannot
stop you
tramping through
uncharted woods
Celtic cool

these words cannot
stop you
& almost overcome
their fragile paper

Wolfman
slave to stone
carving the needs
of creation

keeping Eden clean
while intricacies
of spider webs
splinter your urgent
fingertips
seeking a lover
to have
to hold
mold
in your image

last night
you dreamt her
here

one handsbreadth away
gathering fire ...

(gdw)

You carry too much baggage
in your martyr arms.
You would not compromise
insistent vulnerability
to live as the body aspires
and leave politics to simmer alone
while you tend soft-flawed humanity.

Inflammatory torches
may light up
government eyes
in answer to your straining vision
and blessing vigilance.
Ever watchful soldier
shouting watchwords
in the darkness
earns you grateful medals
in due time.
Lest we forget ... What?

Your temporary wars
are death in the trenches
if you stay beyond the odds.
Come back where strength is weakness
and love is need
where wanting you
is not a challenge
to suffocation
just simplicity
in the bottom of a cup.

(orn)

DANCING TO THE MUSIC

We have been like dancers
under the lights and music
of our geography.
Themes are intricately interwoven
sweet and bitter mystery
in soft and hard driving
choreography
with you as principals
and I the bit player
in classic background dress
the imp of change
who rides the winds of east and west
and cries while laughing
because he knows how close
love steers to our essential tragedy.

And so we dance to music
not of our invention
though we would.
We cannot stop for fear
the silence would kill somehow
because we are, after all
just dancers to the music.

(My Wild Colonials)

WHO, WHAT I AM

I am simple. I am complex.
I am pine winds directing clouds
rich, rampant, raucous, serene
currents wider than oceans
tasting, testing, tabulating
wise than centuries in the mind.

I am the eagle soaring, hunting
stooping when hunger calls
then drifting deftly to my holy eggs.
I am king. I am queen.
My kingdom is in easy sight
my queendom stretches generations.

I am thought. I am unthought.
I consider my mountain degree
too huge to comprehend in time
expansion past all dreaming
where my heart is a flower garden
and colours are my beginnings.

I am songs unsung, poised
echoes of bloodlines crossing oceans
wild birds seeking soft safer haven.
I am father. I am son.
Feeding, I am fed replete
the universe my constant mirror.

I am humble. I am proud.
I am distance between all things
yet close, connecting, in concert all
pursuing perfection imperfectly
dauntless though an eagle dies
and thoughts rest in their melodies.

I am lost. I am found.
Arms reach out to realize
the love that keeps our light alive.


(My Wild Colonials)

Cry wolf! The old story of the shepherd boy who thought to terrorize his friends by pretending a wolf was in the vicinity is still a standard by which people judge the personality of this animal which has been a part of our lives throughout history. Even though ancient men bred wolves with wild dogs to create an efficient hunting companion in the northern world as the Ice Age retreated, and in doing so gave us a friend sometimes more valued than our own family, we have strangely preserved a unique kind of hatred for the wolf itself which has haunted us for thousands of years. If we love our dogs so much, why do we hate its nearest relative? It is not a logical thing to be sure. It must then be something else, but what?

In the dim past, when men hunted each other on a regular basis as a summer pastime, or more recently as part of empire building, they left battlefields littered with dead comrades from whom they stripped clothes and weapons to take home to bereaved families. Of course, all these human corpses became food for a myriad of scavengers which included wolves, foxes, crows, ravens, eagles and insects. In fact, these creatures got quite used to this free and easy food supply to the point where they would follow marching armies and wait for the inevitable bounty!

It has been said that soldiers in these times were less fearful of their human enemies than they were of being eaten by wolves, etc., especially if they were not really dead but either unconscious or left behind mortally wounded. Imagine the horror of feeling oneself being torn apart by a wolf pack just before death ends it all! It is from such fearful experiences that the horror of wolves evolved.

Our ancestors gave us Little Red Riding Hood and The Three Little Pigs and more recently, Peter and the Wolf as entertainment for children which of course was meant to perpetuate our fear of the wolf right from childhood. Exaggerated tales of wolf attacks, perhaps not without some foundation in the old world, have proliferated our recent fiction until the wolf has become the most universally maligned wild creature in existence. Very recent research and scientific observation is slowly teaching us that we have been dead wrong about the wolf. But because it is difficult to erase opinions that have gripped us for centuries, it will take a while to see the wolf as a beautiful, necessary part of existence.

Through education, research, the arts, and a reawakening of our sense of balance in nature, the wolf may one day soon become a source of joy and satisfaction because it will reveal even more, the beautiful harmonies that make the world such a miraculous place to live in.

(Under Moonleaves)

ATONAL

My hands are atonal
their smoothness gone with slow decrease
an old bark on senior trees resisting all weathers
and, as you see, are the worse for wear.

My skin jars my sight
like discordant music in a lambent symphony
unexpected yet not without art
as I come to terms with time's tidal wash.

Veins protrude
while wild silvering hair flashes
giving old hands, a primitive air
and a certain wild loose pride
like another curtain call.

Transparent cells let me see my flow
and sometimes the beat of my heart
that races still when beauty passes by
and tingles the skin
and the soul
with remembered anticipation.

But there's also pain
in the twist of age
and inner health
is not the young lad spendthrift
that it was.

Yet, a symphony remains
in its artful whole
and sparse atonal chords though rare
remind of just how precious is the work of creation
we call ourselves.

(Eye of The Wolf)