Poetry

“As The Day Begins”

/ Brian / 3 Comments

The day begins with a fire that cannot be seen
like a young girl who does not speak
for fear of losing what burns within her.

The day begins with birds that cannot be seen
singing like those who know better than to speak
and so lose what gives them song.

The day begins with doors that cannot be closed
allowing what has lost itself with yearning
to find itself as it burns.

As the day begins,
everyone needs to get something out
to let something in:
By the end of the day,
no one remembers what it was.

No one knows
everyone needs
to get out
and let in
the same thing
in their own way.

What feeds the ember
feeds the hungering soul —
rootless — seeking its own root
in flames that grow invisible.

The hard wood crackles in growing flame
inside invisible growth
as the heart withstands the splintering
forced upon it to remain soft.

As the day begins.

Already the day begins, but
the bottom of the root has not reached
the top of the stem, and I
am not ready for beginnings.

The day begins
only when I begin to listen
to each moment ending
and each moment beginning.

I hear the unheard as the day begins:

I hear the pressed down sobs of young children
setting up lemonade stands
to cool the mid-July heat of unspoken divisions
and prove their own grown-upness,
prove their groundedness
to intoxicated parents,
who are like children in their pettiness.

I see the unseen as the day begins:

I see the homelessness
that hides behind estate gates;
I see the clenched souls
that hide behind open faces;
I see the wrenching sorrow
that hides behind too-wide grins;
I see the yearning for purity
that hides behind drunken eyes.

And I feel the untouched as the day begins:

I feel the push for contact,
and I feel the pull back;
I feel the pain of the one
who does not know how to be
with another,
and I feel the pain of the one
who does not know how to be
alone,

And I feel the pain of the one who knows she is alone,
I feel her struggle to make contact;
I feel what she feels
when she finds herself
unable
to touch the truth
of her aloneness.

As the day begins.

“Plant of No Name”

/ Brian / 2 Comments

I look at a plant for a class I take.
At first I see nothing but green.

All I see is green; yet I feel nothing
green growing within me.
There is only green on the outside,
shadow on the inside,
and space in between.

I look closer at the plant,
looking at it now not for a class I take,
looking out and looking in.
I look at nothing but I look within.

The sun is on its way down.
The plant as it faces me sits in shadow,
the opposite side sits lit up by the sun.
When the sun is on its way up,
the side facing me could be lit,
the side opposite me could be in shadow.

What is lit by morning may fade into shadow
by night.
What is obscured in shadow by night may be lit
by morning.

In the morning,
in those hours before the day begins
and before the people awake,
I am lit and obscured
by shadows in the twilight.

Perhaps wakefulness in the world works in this way:
The less people awake, the more wakefulness present,
the more wakeful those who do not sleep.

But this plant I look at
as I look in—
this plant is always wakeful,
though half of it is now in shadow,
though half of it is now in light.

Wakeful yet still,
this plant that does not blow in the wind
as much as its neighbors,
being wide and short in stature.

Wakeful yet still, and at rest,
but never dull, never colorless.
Brimming with color:
Now a soft and subtle brown at the base,
now a fierce and passionate red at the stem,
now an alive and sunlit green in the leaves.

To be brimming with color,
yet remain still;
To abound in light,
yet remain boundless in shadow;
To be unknown,
yet remain unique and one’s own:

That is to be
like this plant, the name of which
I do not know.

“Hunger”

/ Brian / Leave a comment

I no longer need you, but
I do still need
to feel the hunger
I used to feel for you,

as

I no longer need to be alone, but
I do still need
to feel the hunger
I can’t help but feel
alone,

as

I no longer need to drink, but
I do still need
to feel the thirst I couldn’t help
but feel when I couldn’t drink.
I need to create
out of that endless hunger.

Don’t think

I needed
to love you.
I did anyways; I couldn’t help it.
I loved you then
the way you need him now;

I’ve heard

the way you talk to him;
it’s the same way my poems never sounded
when you read them back to me.

Well, here goes:

I hungered for you to hunger for me;
when you hungered for me,
I was glutted with you
and hungered for her,

so

I’m afraid my hunger will devour me,
that it cannot be satisfied,

and also

I’m afraid I hunger only
for what keeps me hungry.

There’s this:

If we are afraid together,
will we be half as afraid?

And this:

if we are alone together,
will we be twice as alone?

And, of course, this:

if we are hungry together,
will you take care of the bill?

Tell me:

When the storm rages
will you let me sit,
surrounded by it,
to meet with stillness?

Yet,

why some days can I sit for hours,
patient like the mountain laurel,
while other days I am a child who waits
for a roller coaster, a child who hates
roller coasters, yet in strange ways
hungers for what he hates.

Answer me:

If I say
I cannot receive love
and
I cannot receive enough love
and
I hunger for what keeps me hungry,

will you understand?

“Feeling Empty in Myself”

/ Brian / 1 Comment

Feeling empty in myself
I took to the highway
Where I rode under a menacing sky
Filled with vultures descending on sheep
Scattered amidst dew-covered grass by the sea
On that morning when the mist would not lift.

Feeling empty in myself
I opened and closed the cabinets of a desk
Looking for a letter she wrote me long ago
Her words overflowing with feelings
I once thought would fulfill me.

Feeling empty in myself
I filled up a notebook with words
Looking for the word
That would shorn me of myself
Long enough to be reborn.

Feeling empty in myself
I began to celebrate my fill of error
And lament my still-born success.
I undressed my undirected terror
And began to caress its undefended neck.

Feeling empty in myself
I discovered a dimly lit tavern filled with spirit.
Finding myself unable to soar with spirit
I sunk instead into soul
Until I could no longer hold under
What could only be driven up and out.

Feeling empty in myself
I imagined a life bounded by a journey never taken
Roads closing in on me as I hung on tight.
I put one hand on the ground
And raised the other to the sky
That the moon would soon overtake with light.

“What Do You Want?”

/ Brian / 3 Comments

Can you let deadly calm possess you?
Can you let stillness confess its wordless secrets
On this windless morning?

You want to give everything,
But you have nothing to give.
You want to be yourself,
But do you know who that is?
You do not want to speak,
But you expect to be heard.
You do not want to be swayed,
But you demand to be stirred.

Can you let the river of unknowing stir you?
Can you let mystery endure amidst the empty uproar
On this wind-strewn afternoon?

You want to get out of here,
But you don’t know which way.
You want to say it all so clearly,
But you don’t know what to say.
You do not want to weep,
But you’d love to be honest.
You do not want to be surprised,
But you demand to be astonished.

Do your unending demands astonish you?
Do your own offending hands admonish you?
Feel the wind die down in the early evening.
Even it does not pretend to acknowledge you.

You want to change everyone else
So long as you can remain the exact same.
You want the world to be different
So long as you don’t have to feel any pain.
You don’t need to be with anyone
So long as they all want to be with you.
You are just fine with being all alone
Just so long as you are being pursued.

Can you let happiness pursue you?
Can you get out of your way long enough
To let the wind that picks up at dusk
Cut you back down and pull you through?

You want to remember how it was
So long as it was better back then.
You want to imagine how it will be
So long as it gets better again.
You don’t want to stay stuck here
So long as there’s someplace better to go.
You don’t mind stickin’ around
So long as someone here still enjoys your show.

Can you feel the agony of all your divisions?
Can you kneel over every one of your tragic decisions?
You open the window, no wind blows inside.
In the darkest part of the motionless night,
The silence pierces you with deadly precision.

“The Long-Awaited Remedy”

/ Brian / 2 Comments

He’s out on the road, to break out of the mold
He vows he will never come back
He feels under siege, like his soul has been seized
His very lifeblood is under attack

She rides off into the night, rides on out of sight
A prisoner of longings and dreams
She has to get near to what she can no longer hear
Before it all comes apart at the seams

The truth can’t be heard, it lies beneath the word
The rooster now crows at midday
The grass won’t stay down, it grows while we drown
In all too predictable ways

The wino is out on the curb, he takes another swill
As men full of hate smile broadly and proclaim goodwill
And the sick man’s got no money to pay his hospital bill
He hears the spokesperson shout, ‘Have no fear!
The long-awaited remedy will soon be here!’

Now the market has crashed, the city is being thrashed
By sellers and buyers and thieves
He looks to the east, there’s no sign of the peace
That all the fighting was supposed to achieve

She takes a look inside, where the true war resides
And nothing in there makes any sense
Everything’s gettin’ harder, no one’s any smarter
The inaugural address is being given in past tense

The future can’t be heard, the past is lost in the words
Of a writer who doubts he can last
The strong have long gone, the spectacle drags on
With actors who have all been miscast

The fashion model is fired for the pound she is overweight
While her car gets impounded for the minute she is late
And as the romantic wiles away the time waiting for his soul mate
He hears the spokesperson shout, ‘Have no fear!
The long-awaited remedy will soon be here!’

“Soul”

/ Brian / 1 Comment

My soul is broken until all souls can be bound together,
Yet each soul can remain a separate and unique manifestation.
My soul breaks when I see another broken soul.
Did I say another?
My soul breaks when I see soul, broken.
My soul will continue to break until there are no broken souls.

My soul breaks for the loneliness of the human condition,
The sense of separation we all feel from each other,
And from the truth of ourselves.

My soul breaks for and is mended during the journey we must all undergo
From separation to connection,
From apartness to closeness,
From painful loneliness to the unburdened aloneness
That we feel when we connect to and accept ourselves in our entirety,
Realizing the wholeness within that has been there all along.
My soul is not mended yet.

My soul yearns to be broken and shattered,
It yearns to be overtaken and sink under,
It yearns for years of suffering.

My soul yearns to be unbroken and whole,
It yearns to be given over and rise above,
It yearns for years of joy.

It is a soul full of desire.
It desires also not to desire,
How can the soul not desire that?

Will the soul be broken until it no longer desires to be unbroken?
Will the soul be broken until it is no longer?
Does the soul remain after it is no longer broken?
Was the soul ever unbroken?
Is the true nature of the soul unbroken and whole?

Questions, questions:
The soul is curious about itself,
It is a mystery to itself,
It is restless until it rests in itself,
It seeks until it finds itself at rest.

Will the soul ever be at rest?
Is the nature of the soul restless?
Or is the nature of the soul at rest,
And it is only restless until it finds itself?
How can the soul find itself?

Questions, questions:
The soul is curious and restless and the soul is broken.
The soul breaks when it feels the spirit of another broken soul,
The soul breaks down in weeping and fills up with joy,
The soul breaks, it yearns to be broken and to be unbroken.
The soul will continue to break until there are no broken souls.

“Often it’s best to be silent”

/ Brian / 6 Comments

Often it’s best to be silent
When all around you are speaking,
To be like a captain out at sea
In the midst of storm:
Calm but deeply focused.

People may say:
Don’t be passive,
Speak your mind,
Come out from your shell.

These people misunderstand
Your stillness for passivity,
Your silence for fear,
Your depth for a protective shell.

They may ask:
What are you thinking?
What are you feeling?
Why don’t you share?
Why don’t you join in?
Are you shy?
Are you upset?

Let these questions come and go,
These people do not understand you.

They want to draw you out onto the surface
You need to be drawn back down into the depths.
They want you to be light and cheerful,
You need to be true to how you are truly feeling.
They want you to be who they want you to be,
You need to be who you are.

They do not understand
That underneath your calm surface intense storms rage,
That saying nothing does not mean you have nothing to say,
That spoken words and surface forms mean little or nothing to you,
That you would prefer to spend your days with the silent desert,
Your nights with the wordlessly powerful sea,
Hours of darkness passing in you like winds through a tree.

You are the captain of your own ship.
Why should you let anyone else captain your ship?

In the midst of storm,
You remain calm but deeply focused.

In the midst of fire,
You remain cool but not cold.
You let your emotions run their course
In the complex inner rivers of your heart and mind.

In the midst of the earthquake,
You remain steadfast and unshaken.

In the midst of the hurricane,
You remain the eye that observes
Without being disconnected from what you observe.
You remain the eye to be connected with the more-than-I.

So when the next person asks:
Why don’t you talk more?
When the next person says:
Don’t be so passive,
Speak your mind;
When the next person tries to draw you out onto the surface,
Tries to pull you up like a prize fish from the deep, still water…

Read them this poem.

“Insanity in the air”

/ Brian / 3 Comments

Well, now it’s gotten dark
I got nothin’ to do
I walk wistful through the park
Wishing I could stop thinking of you

I stop in a teashop and find an empty chair
I look around and observe the scene
I try to absorb the tension in the air
Feels like not a soul in the place is at peace

Some people are on computers
And the rest are on phones
A few people sit by themselves
But no one lets themselves be alone

The lone man is suspect
The lone woman rare
I can’t help but detect
Insanity in the air

Abstract paintings on the inside walls
A real life hobo sleeping out on the curb
That cute cashier could be my downfall
I’d get up and talk to her if I had the nerve

All I wanted was to see it through
Now all I want is to be left alone
All you wanted was for me to be with you
Now all you want is to be well-known

The hobo sings a mournful dirge
The woman next to me gives a mighty sigh
I think how we three will never merge
And how difficult it is to be unified

The hobo is suspect
And brought to despair
Does it pain you to detect
The insanity in the air?

Bright college girls talking about their travels
Something about it all is making me sick
I wonder how quickly I can unravel
I wonder if anything I’ve learned will stick

Wish I had a pair of sweatpants
Seems like they’d be nice to wear
I feel like melancholia
Has got me in a trance
It won’t let me go or stay anywhere

I go outside and stand on the corner
I’m trapped and wrapped up in cyclical thought
I feel like some lonesome wordless foreigner
His only claim to fame a spot-on jump shot

The foreigner is suspect
The native is ensnared
Everywhere I go I detect
Insanity in the air

Thought I had something for a second
Well, I lost it fast
Tomorrow the weather will be sunny, I reckon
While I’ll feel frozen in the heartless past

Thought maybe things would be different
All I know now is that I was wrong
You know I can feel awfully deficient
Wherever I go I’ll never belong

I’m watching people and doubt their actuality
I’m watching myself slowly slip away
I thought I’d get better acquainted with reality
Now I wake up disgusted with the break of day

Everyone is suspect
Especially the solitaire
Tonight it’s clear and so direct
I can almost touch it
The insanity in the air

Gratitude

/ Brian / 6 Comments

For the mid-morning light that streams through the window as I write this,
Making even the cobwebs that span the length of the windowpane beautiful,
As they both reflect and let through the light,
Allowing the spiders to reside with me in this space.

For the chance to sleep in a bed, rising without alarm, when the body feels rested.
For melting snow that falls from cabin roofs
As sun warms January mornings in Arizona.
For the meeting I went to last night,
Men and women talking about falling,
About rising,
About warming up to themselves,
About connecting to the Source of all warmth itself.

There is much to be grateful for this morning.

For the bike I may ride later today,
For the physical strength I feel when riding,
For the time spent climbing up the steep grade,
And the time spent rocketing down.

For the time spent with those in the process of climbing up a steep grade,
For their path of salvation through pain.
For the hard and harsh road, the rocky road, the blocked road.
For all those who feel blocked and stunted,
For the passion and fire hidden in them that will not die,
For those who do not know who they are or why they are,
For those who knew and then forgot
And now are forced to seek to remember.

For memory:
Remembering late-May days spent on Delaware beaches,
Remembering late-December nights spent on black couches with cousins,
Remembering laughter and good food,
Remembering tears and good-byes.

For departures:
For sitting still on a train that is moving on,
For the westbound train that moves to the sea,
For the southbound train that moves to the desert,
For the northbound train that moves to the forests and mountains,
For the eastbound train that moves back to the hometown.

For arrivals:
For the restless excitement felt in a new place,
For the opportunity to uncover new facets of oneself,
For the sense that life is beginning anew.
Gratitude also for the sadness that underlies the excitement,
For the future departure that is attached to each arrival,
For the thoughts and feelings that come
When one stays moving, remains a traveler, an eternal transient,
Just passing through.