Wednesday, January 21, 2009

WOLFTIME in the classroom.

Purple peaks in crevices found
crystal lights in ancient flows
spark awe and wonder in the hand
as we touch and turn these pieces
chizzled or blasted from the mound.

Ancient as civilization it thrives
ornamental pieces for kings' crowns
or others closer to the earth itself
where crystals invite a private search
and lovers decorate each other's lives.

"Amethustos" from the Greek Isle
mythology attached who knows when.
"Not drunken" it means for given magic
and many believed as we do today.
Or so we say in front of a knowing smile!

(A Few Lines in Passing)

Grey eyes blessed a boy's birth time skies
aspect of a loner for long years to come.
Manhood adventures heated the heart
and changed eventual chemistry of the eyes.
Grey evolved colour history to new green
green of the Isles it was said for romance.
Celtic chemistry long waiting to proceed
but now full flowered in ecstatic excess
and wonder in him seeing and those now seen.

For green is the light of the poet's soul stages
peering through love upon God's green earth.
Rich is the reward when love words form
and emerald thoughts are put to pages.
Songs reach out and touch each heart
and all connect for life's magic lease.
After that quiet memories are poetic art
and fill a hero's quiet need for peace.

(A Few Lines in Passing)

My voices divide my consciousness.
Mother and birth, Father and youth.
Men and women on pathways to my eyes
stop to tell me things I must remember.
This is the left side of my journey
where I still remain in my preciousness.

On the right side I have daily focus
like the sun in each day's morning.
What is now is on my value scale.
What may be is in my eyes of others
who see me and know me not.

In my art my subconscious rules direction.
It works past my idea of line and verse
and its final song has only wonder
discussable at leisure if you like.

That can be a wonder too if we do.
How much more about ourselves will evolve?
And will it matter in the efforts of our art?
Unit the next intermission we know only what we know.

(A Few Lines in Passing)

Oedipus walks
arrogant yet fearful
watching Isis string beads
colours he does not understand
although he mined the stones
shipped somewhere else in boxes.

Oedipus bends
straining past Isis
her magic hands tuning her strings
eye music, colour sounds
man-wonder, power lost
almost blind on an unknown level.

Oedipus turns
Isis smiles over beady shine.
Her string is strung, a mistress piece
for women who see her light
and understand who really rules.
Oedipus remains lost among his master kind.

(A Few Lines in Passing)

We are prisoners of our spectrums
as we sense ourselves minimally
determined not to go beyond the eye
the ear, the nose, the touch or taste.

Even combinations above place bonds
and as prisoners we never venture past.
Our human walls are high and thick
humanity content it seems to just reside.

Adventure looms for those rare ones
who despise restriction and venture forth.
They go and return with strange new tales
that wrap us in enigmas deep
and turn away the rationale
that made us prisoners since first we came.

(A Few Lines in Passing)