True voice of my deep heart, without which I lose touch with joy, existing without substance, without meaning, do not leave me forlorn, wandering the desert in mute resignation, aching within and without, nowhere at home. Speak to me, O voice of my heart. Speak in your wordless wholeness, in your broken language, and I’ll record in words what I hear in silence. Speak, O my heart, and I’ll write my way home.
Let the darkness of a solitary night unbind the chains and find the hidden pain in my deepest heart, the weeping son given all but that sole food his soul is starving for.
Silence without, silence within. The mind not dying to make itself up. The house quiet as an hourglass. The soft tap tapping of the rain. The mind not dying to make itself up A story of what is happening here. The soft tap tapping of the rain, The sound of the wind in the trees. A story of what is happening here Is not what is happening here. The sound of the wind in the trees Asking for nothing. Is not what is happening here A man sitting at his desk Asking for nothing? The rain stops, the wind dies down. A man sitting at his desk. The house quiet as an hourglass. The rain stops, the wind dies down. Silence without, silence within.
I walked the streets at midnight
I knew that you were near
I can walk these streets till I die of thirst
I know you will never appear
Everyone tells me to settle down
But I know I must persevere
I will walk this endless road forever
As a lonesome pioneer
So when it’s Saturday night in the city
And you sit there all alone
And the tears stream down your lovely face
I pray you don’t pick up the phone
To try and reach me in your hunger
From your opulent penthouse throne
In the center of 5th and Broadway
Never again will I hear you moan
Now all the noise in the world
Could never take me away
From my purpose and vital passion
Where to succeed is to be led astray
I stay true to the work of wandering
And my torn shoes are my resume
I submit them to the proper authorities
Who send me on my way
But loneliness comes around again
And some nights it will not leave
The morning will come but in too long
On these nights I cannot believe
In God or Man or in myself
All I’ve lost I will never retrieve
The lonely heart is a hunter of yearning
It does not need permission to grieve
I get up and walk the streets at midnight
And there’s nowhere I need to go
Nowhere is as good a place as any
I’ve been there before, I would know
I will not stop; no, I will not rest
‘Till Truth rests deep in my marrow
With an empty wallet and an empty heart
I walk on the way rivers flow
Darkness and stillness
stake humble claims
in the ark of my heart.
We float together, three-in-one,
in a sea of trinitarian silence,
aware of the various elements,
at ease in the calm waters.
My soul receives the bread of dawn
and comes down to its own wisdom
of when to rise from the depths again
the next time my boat,
overwhelmed all of a sudden
by violent winds and vicious waves,
flips, spins, or floods.
I can’t write, I can’t rest
The night guard revisits my cell
With you I got out; we got out together
I doubt I’ll ever get well.
These are trying times
for the accusers and the accused alike.
We act as if we could choose
to play the tyrant now
and his servant later,
but we are all always subject.
We all get roped in time,
tied in knots, hung-up
on gallows of disdain,
in shallow dungeons,
bereft, unhinged, no one left
Stillness, receive me
Here, and hold my fear, my care.
Hear my plea, my prayer.
Lungs: No. Mind: No go.
No fun regaining fitness.
No shame, says Pain: Quit.
Night kneels to shore, sea
Pines, palms creak, and seagulls glide
Maine June, Florida now