The Massacre

The blanched faces of the fire-trustees
As they tore the torpor away from chaos
Tipped into sad equinoxes of twisted rampage
As they realized the lunatic feud between man and his soul
Was over.
With the sullen nobility of an insurmountable tragedy,
They looked at one another with hemorrhaging eyes
And wept their tumult with tears of fire.
Their ageless expressions wriggled into massacre contortions
And their frozen teeth shattered in the stunned clamping of their jaws.
“Tutelage! Tutelage! That will be the reckoning!” the first one finally spoke.
“The ache of tomorrow compounds the ache of today.
Worry, worry, the night is gone and gold is gray.
We who seek lavender muses will shake beneath the protuberant moon
And dancing through the gilded passageway toward oblivion,
Our Mother Nature will swoon."

The Word

Legend tells of a dark-winged bird
That sings for solace a single word:
"Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal."
Like a lunatic lording over the sterile land with laughter
Or the would-be saint's renunciation of a laughing God,
This bird's word was chosen for him
And so he has mastered the speaking of it.
Whether he was betrayed or was himself the betrayer,
No one can say.
Never taking wing, he does not return
And he does not leave.
No reconciliation and no escape can save him.
Just the word.
"Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal."
Not tears, not laughter.
No pause in his incantation
But to die, or taste the worm.

Hope

One tiny droplet of hope is like a thousand springs for the soul. 

It sustains the will through a journey of a thousand treacherous miles

And delivers vindication even to those who are chained.

Dialogue Between Two Intellectuals (As Overheard by a Common Idiot)

David: You know, Charles, I heard the most interesting thing about the War of Blah Blah Blah today. It’s supposedly been proven that the Blah Blah Blahs came to Blah Blah Blah in search of Blah Blah Blah, and when they didn’t find it they Blah Blah Blahd and Blah Blah Blahd.

Charles: Really? How fascinating. Did the Blah Blah Blahs know that the Blah Blah Blahs had no intention of Blah Blah Blahing?

David: That is unclear, but we do know that they Blah Blah Blahed the very nature of Blah Blah Blah before they undertook to Blah Blah Blah, and that Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah.

Charles: How intriguing. I do wonder what ever happened with the Blah Blah Blahs. They were so very Blah Blah Blah.

Be silent.

Be silent. The breath knows its way to God.

Lost Song

Somewhere, at some time, someone

Will discover this lost song, and be as one—

As one as the song, and one as the one 

Who sings it. Let fade Time’s protean decree.
Here, we exist in eternity. Let this be the sieve

That carries the gold from the river,

The endless sunrise that stirs you

From your troubled slumber.

Let your awakening be a perfect reconciliation,

Your every gesture, an act of faith.

The air breathes into your lungs its aromatic breath,

And you breathe into the song. The song, in turn,

Breathes into your soul, and the souls

Of all who hear it. And within your soul

There is a promise being kept, an eternal embrace

Between the infinite aspects of your being,

A tender kiss between all that you know

And all that you are now learning, a Truth

That makes you tremble, that makes you weep.

Keep reading. Soon this song will not be lost,

And both of us—you who read and I who write—

Will find what it is that we seek.

Afternoon in Boston Common 11/16/19

My eyes behold a sun-drenched field

Of bright green grass 

Strewn with shimmering leaves

Made silver in the sunlight.

A young couple saunters around,

Bending down to pet a little squirrel

Who has learned to comingle with the people

In this park of peace.

The church bells play a merry,

Then a somber song.

I wander along, and I myself stop to say hello

To a little squirrel. 

I take a seat on a green bench along the walk

To watch the passersby and think 

Peaceful and solemn thoughts.
A young man walking by—from out of nowhere, it seems—

Approaches me with his hand extended. 

I shake it warmly.

He offers me a hug, and I don’t find this strange

In the least. I get up and embrace him,

He wishes me a good day, and I him,

Then he goes on his way.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, but a little

Dubious, I watch the leaves skip across

The pavement in the gentle breeze,

And the many shades of yellow, red, orange, and green 

Of trees lit up by the sun,

Two squirrels as they run

Around the thick base of a sprawling oak,

And the people—the wonderfully mysterious

People—who have so much love to give,

They can barely restrain their hearts from bursting

Just from the simple sweet connections
They make along the way.