On a Golden Evening

On a golden evening
approaching the seashore
where crashing waves
of old tumbled unceasingly
upon the sweeping sands,
the grey tides have now
fled further out and away,
have subdued their cascading rolls
that on a time used to dance and sparkle
like golden fire under sunlit skies ~
Behold the silence
of the exposed seabed
where various items
from the living ocean
now lay discarded and dead
on the bone-dry sands ~
The shorelines have shifted;
the shape of all lands
has now been changed ~
Fellow-folk who
once strolled these shores
with light step
and rosy cheek
now hobble stone-stiff
to gaze upon the remnants
of the fading seas of yesterday ~
The somber winter-frost has settled
upon the heads of those
who once held sway
and prominence
but who now look for comfort
in the light and laughter
of younger lives ~
Yet knowing that they themselves
are drifting away from
the vibrant shore
their feet affixed not as surely
upon these hither-lands,
where the new buds of spring
are even now blossoming,
they stoop their weary heads
under the weight of many years
and view all lands
as from a distant horizon
where sun is setting
and eyes are dimming ~
They manage a smile
and softly whisper
to all these things:
“goodbye” ~

love

love
for the time is short
life is short
the time is short
a day
a year
a hundred years
is short to love
is short to love

Disturbed by Spring

Thoughts of one Mr. Edgar McMillan upon awakening on a fine May morning.

My dark room is disturbed:
the night of glorious storms
and joyful fury has passed,
leaving a bitter quietude.
But what now is this chitter-chatter?
Twittering birds outside mock me
with their sing-song silliness.
Begone, you tormenting imps!
Enraged, I thrust open the shades
and oh! the glaring sun explodes
in my eyes, and blinds me.
When right vision returns,
the morning-scene repulses me:
a rainbow is frowning at me
with sickening colored bands,
through urine-golden air.
I frown back, and turn away
to my happy bed, to peace.

"I don't need no psychiatrist"

"I don’t need no psychiatrist," Kirby said, "what I need is good surgeon.
I can’t help it my eyes move around without hinges.
I know they need hinges - do you think I’m an idiot and don’t know that?"

He blinked his large hazel eyes a couple of times
and then opened them wide to expose the orbs.

"You see, they just roll around in here like marbles -
the doctors can get in there and fix that, can’t they?
That’s what they go to medical school for,
to fix things like that -
so what are they waiting for?

"And as for my spine, it just grows like this -
out of my gums where my chompers should be."
He grimaced, displaying yellow crooked teeth.
"I don’t know if they can fix that though -
it might be too late -
it might paralyze me if they try to do anything.
I don’t want to be no parasite, or paralegal,
or whatever they call it when you lay around all day
like Christopher Reeve.
He used to be Superman you know,
and flew around saving people.
Now he can’t even walk.
But I can walk just fine,
and my teeth don’t hurt me none when I eat."

A fly alighted on Kirby’s grey hair.
He swatted it away,
and then tugged on a lock
hanging down on his forehead.
"And this damn algae keeps growing up here,
and they won’t give me nothing to cut it off with -
so don’t blame me.
It might be taking over my brain -
it might be, I’ll grant you that,
but it’s not my fault.
If you’ll just let ’em cut it off, I’ll be fine.

"And get someone to fix my eyes, like I said -
so those stupid little flying seahorses will leave me alone.
They know they can get in that way, through my eyes -
but if the surgeons would just put the hinges back in,
I could close ’em and lock ’em up tight so they can’t get in.
Yep. Then I’d be fine, don’t you think doctor?"

The grey tabby,
which hitherto had been watching Kirby
with disinterested attention,
having grown bored with his company,
stood up, stretched and softly padded away,
leaving the man reclining in his yard.

Of Mortals

O creature of mould
with stars in your eyes
bright and open to heaven
yet not comprehending
heart-pangs and longings
for you know not what
and therefore
making mythos and legends,
fables and epics
of enchanted-lands,
realms of bliss and light
and a beauty all-lovely
beyond all telling,
of life aglow with innocence
and joy unbridled,
at times blending the human form
with flora and fauna,
and filling the world with gods
and elves and all the denizens of Faerie,
with talking beasts and trees,
betraying a haunting sense
of a separation from Nature,
a painful innocence-loss,
an echoing of an ancient wound,
and seeing in the myths and deities created
a magic-mirror reflecting back to earth-eyes
something of what could have existed ~
But at times, as through ever-slight fissures,
a glinting light leaps out:
in children at play laughing
clear and clean,
goodly company
of smiles and joy
and kindly faces,
friendly voices in conversation,
charming village cottages,
with twinkling home-fires
and candlelight in windows,
family warmth
and sweet embrace,
dancings and fair motions,
sparkling tears of joy,
a mother’s love,
fair maidens singing
with a heart-tenderness,
children in choir
making glad melody,
melancholy string-airs
beautiful beyond words,
books of holy wisdom
and epic tales
of knights in quest,
of chivalry and valour,
of mortals in converse
with speaking-beasts
and faerie-folk,
minstrelsy made
to match the longings
and soarings of human-heart,
in solitary voice plaintive,
and in chorus grand and glorious,
created beauty in art,
of paintings and sculptures,
carved woods and stones,
richly woven tapestries,
grand soaring architecture
with intricate carvings,
folk adorned with raiment fair,
and with gems and precious metals,
all to replace the fair covering of light-lost,
the parade of races and cultures,
the vast myriad of languages
and volumes of lore,
the colour and pageantry
of history marching onwards
in pursuit of something
lost from ancient times,
an exile-race wandering,
pursuing a faint memory,
a fading echo
down the halls of time ~

Night-song

I should be inside sleeping by now
but oh how the stars crown
those treetops with enchanted light,
with Ursa Major there
and Cassiopeia, I think that’s her,
over that way reclining fair.
The warm wind is soft tonight
and it’s quiet here.
But not so quiet,
with insect choruses
chanting that familiar
night-song of theirs
here to me.
It’s three o’clock in the morning -
no one knows I'm out here
in the backyard drinking wine
and contemplating the world.

The Intruder

She hated him.
He frightened her with his monstrous ways.
Her life was beautiful until his dark presence appeared.
He was there now before her, and he spoke not a word.

She wanted him dead.
(That the murderous impulse lived in her youthful heart did not give her pause.)
She would lash out to kill him herself if not for the paralyzing fear.

He moved towards her.
Her scream filled all the house.

Another presence entered the room.
Her dear brother was there.
He would rid her of this awful villain.

She saw that he was unarmed - but he was valiant.
He struck down the impudent intruder
then stomped stomped stomped upon him with violent fury.
She closed tight her eyes.

When she opened them again it was all over.

And with the spider vanquished,
little Hannah returned to her toys.

Of Bird Songs

There is great wisdom
in bird songs,
a wine-sweetness
which pierces
heart depths
to the delight
of attentive ear
enlightening the eye
with melody
of fair light
resplendent
with innocent joy
and virtue
clear and bright ~

A Quarrel Over Breakfast

One fair autumn morning, when the sun filled all the wood with golden light and the last of the clinging leaves rattled in cool breezes, a chipmunk ventured out to find his breakfast. A sniff of the air and a couple flitting glances around convinced him that it was safe to move further out. With tail upright and head down, he inspected the ground for promising morsels.

“Fine morning, Chip,” said a rough voice from behind a tree. Out stepped Jack, the ragged old jackal.

Chip’s little heart fluttered. “Uh, hi Jack,” he said, trying to sound casual, “the morning is quite fine.” He knew Jack well, and knew not to trust his attempts at friendliness. He was notorious for playing with his prey, and never spoke to one of the little ones unless he fancied them for food.

Jack sauntered strategically between the chipmunk and his homey hole. As he began creeping towards Chip, a sultry voice whispered, “SSSilly Jackal, you crooked canine. SSSally you forth, the ‘munk is mine!”

It was slithering Cecilia, and the fur on both Jack and Chip’s backs quivered. She approached in an insidious arc and with sinister glee she showed the two mammals her particularly long and elegant fangs.

There was a pause as Jack considered seizing Chip in a flash and darting away. Cecilia leered at him as if she dared him to try.

Chip himself was as if frozen between the two pairs of hungry eyes. Jack had almost made up his mind to pounce when a sudden rustle rushed down deftly upon the chipmunk and like a swift wind was away.

Jack and Cecilia gaped, stunned, and heard a mocking voice trailing off through the woods: “Farewell, friends! Your hesitation has hurt you. The morning is wearing away and some of us are hungry!”

“Curse that falcon!” Jack said with real malice, “May his wings wither!”

“Felix is a fine fellow,” Cecilia said with a grin, “but he certainly knows how to spoil a fine breakfast.”

Jack and Cecilia stared blankly off into the woods, almost as if they hoped their eyes had the power to recall the thief. When it became clear that both bird and breakfast had flown far away, they both turned slowly back to glare at each other. There was a sort of unspoken blaming that took place between them then, while both tried to regain their swagger.

The silence was broken by a low growl. Jack put a paw to his belly and slowly moped away, mumbling something about needing to find something to eat.

Cecilia turned away as well, slithering over dry leaves. “SSSilly Jackal”, she said to herself, knowing as she did that chipmunks are a bit tart for her taste anyway.

The Canticle of Light

O Light! O Love!
     O Beauty Resplendent!
O Brilliance encompassing
     all things else!
O Refulgence Cascading!
     O Glittering Radiance!
O Bliss! O Hope!
     O Gladness Unforeseen!
O Great and Boundless Good!
     O Beauteous Nameless Joy!
O Serene and Golden Light
     from a clear and cloudless sky!
O Enchanted Blessedness!
     O Sight Most Fair!
O Sweetness! O Treasure!
     O Loveliness Beyond Telling!
O Lamp of Clear Wisdom!
     O Splendour Most Pure!
O Light! O Love!
     O Life! O God!

In a marvelous way the world is changed

In a marvelous way the world is changed
with nothing altered or rearranged.
The facts themselves remaining true,
each one gains a golden hue.
The fair, the foul, the good, the bad,
the mundane, the happy and the sad
all beheld in contemplative sight
become infused with a glorious light.
Each detail sharp and crisp and clear,
each illumined with a meaning dear
and all together in perfect peace
serenely move and never cease
around the core of Love unmade
shining through each with glory arrayed.
And rising upward one can see
what is past and what will be
and what is now seamlessly sewn
and in circling together is clearly shown
a Light, a Love infused throughout
and not one particle or thread left out
making up a glorious glorious world,
a manifestation of Love unfurled!