it is addressed thusly:
A fragment.

it reads:
Carefully we watched the skies
Until the sleeping hours came
Among the host had caught our eyes
Seven wonders' aether-flame

Then since then we cannot think
Of wonders as all wonderful
At all unless we count and blink
And counting seven several!

They are the place we call the sky
Heaven's domes do cover all
In aerial realms do spirits fly
Outer space, Abyss, Nowal!

The Syrian John was glib to say
That at least heavens of heavens were there
Some said seven, others may
Dispute, the counting then defer.

Let us head straight up - yes up!
And enter the musicked globes above;
Spheres within spheres do cup
On an eclipse; a line's enough.

First moon she is close at hand
(At least for these abysses!)
Second Venus meets our band
And third red Mars, whom no-one misses

Fourth is Mercury the quick
Fifth the solar house of gold;
Sixth fair Jupiter (the brick!)
Last is Saturn, distant, cold.

Be not fooled by accidents
Though they change their place;
Why consider these monuments?
They are the cosmos' human face.



it is addressed thusly:
Lo, unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given.

it reads:
Hold a moment and I will speak of
A holy day we ought to think of
The silver light of winter's end
A jubilation, a merry mend.

Now this tide had not come in
Not in winter's tide and when
It came when we know not the day
But of this time we all must say

The celebration of it came in
Winter's chill and cold tide when
All of us remember it cold
And thus it is the tale we've told.

A child who is God what can be said
What of Reason, lying, playing dead
But yet among irrational beasts there
Sets he minds true Reason to bear.

And of his bed we have a thought
Hay, oat, grain are caught
A manger, trough, holds without strife
For us Beasts, a bread of Life.

And is he not a stranger, Beauty
Who yet minds the law's dire duty
Friend of all, redeemer of Blood
A cast-out family, 'mid the mud?

Another thought about the cave
He comes not how our mind would crave;
It is into our deepest darkest place
He comes his stripes, his marks to trace.

And is not, if he Divinity
He the richest there can be?
But yet are poor-lords whose royal line,
Bore him here, in dust, in grime?

The cold and snow we must agree
Involve a kind felicity
An art to God's own story-telling
A solstice tale, a new God-spelling!

For out of the cold of our barren lack
Dayspring has dawned, the coming-back
Of what had fallen, of what was ours
In a lost child beneath the stars.

In which we see an irony
Worldly-wise East-lords three
Their precision tools and knowing word
Bring them only to our Lord.

In seeking stars they find the Sun,
And gifts are offered, three for one.
Fire they think, is their creator's form
But the Zeon is instead, a child warm.

And what of our experience here
About this God as child dear?
The ancient of days is so old,
He's rolled over to young, each year we're told!

The fact of Christmas is extended through
Every year we relive it true;
The Christmas story is never done
Until the last Christmas;
The final one.



it is addressed thusly:
A fragment.

it reads:
I see now a jubilee
A pageant great in front of me
Twelve and twelve and thousand ones
Pearls and flames and flaming suns!

Wind gusts hold the sounds of God
For every tongue, for every sod
A triad each for winds of four
And at times, for all one more.

The earthen-kin arising and rising from earth
Simon the Rock comes declaring His Birth
Nathan the Furrowed says God's Mother, now born
Andrew called first raises the Cross as a horn.

From water the waves of dispelling deceit
James the Changing Announces it Meet
Thomas the Pierced speaks of Water's new wight
John the Divine of transfiguring light.

The soaring and drifting ones all calling out
The Palm-laden path James is thun'dring about
Philip our Lady's last reclining has said
Matthias the Enthroning of man's nature with dread!

The fiery and fierce sparking, fast-catching men
Matthew the Candle-mass was his and then
Jude the Bold our Mother's entry uncrossed
Simon the Zealous tells us: Pentecost!

No truer Jew they say is left to be said
The thirteenth? Is Paul: Saul left half for dead
All speaking, all saying, with he as their spear
The Pascha, the passover, the Easter is here!

Wheels in wheels of living things
Each for all each says and sings;
Their sounds have gone throughout the earth
Twelve times bell chimes and rightly rings
Forget not their berth, the keys, their worth!



it is addressed thusly:
A fragment.

it reads:
Etchings seen as on twelve stones
A fell impressive sight
Recall the twelve, of beauty's helm
A city prism'd pearly light.

A jasper red for courageous dead
Our first she Marches forth today;
A sapphire's sky with rockets fly
The next is April's starry way;
Chalcedony's waxen colors for beauty's lovers
East's complete with May.

Of emeralds vert a wild concert
On June's own time of hearing;
Of sardonyx tan and brown earth-man
In July his works endearing;
Carnelian's cream of orange-clear dream
Through vision South's now clearing.

Chartreuse Chrysolite in enduring light
We find diligent September;
Beryl's blue and yellow hue
For pairs we know October;
Yellow topaz for he that has
And gives West end - November.

Brightly teal Chrysoprase's heel
for December's message wings;
Purple royal of Jacinth's oil
Our Janus' secret light brings;
Amethyst pale and violet tale
Now North the teller sings.

A year of times, a year of places
A year of stones, of tombs and homes
A year of roles and ranks and files
The mind must feel, the finger traces.



it is addressed thusly:
A fragment.

it reads:
Like world-trees would we
Of our inner kingdoms
Ransoms paid, promises made;
But could we keep them?

Let us ourselves decrease
(for we must eventually)
That they may increase

Let us recount the times and seasons
And again, to recount our travelogue;
That we forget not the reasons
Nor symbols, signs, our song.

A light verse is written here
(nothing so fancily framed)
That the deaf may hear.



it is addressed thusly:
A fragment.

it reads:
Let it be said of us
That we gave ourselves
As pillars;

Sunk into the Earth to lift
Those who came after us.

But not such pillars as adorn
That carry an awning or porch
A facade;

But instead as the four columns
Which make a court-yard.


Still Kickin'

it is addressed thusly:
Memory eternal, O Shepherd!

it reads:
Soulful saint Nick it is said
Gave so much of his own bread
A common work life we may say
Or a thousand-year like a day!

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

logismoi nicholas ochrid


Let Us Be

it is addressed thusly:

it reads:
Let us be and let us be not
Merely well-meaning or what
Misleading, misled, unread
Wrong or God forbid it, dead!

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

stefan translation grammatical voice crimes


Such is Love

it is addressed thusly:
A love so strange to us, yet it shall be our own.

it reads:
The culmination of all things
Our recapitulation brings
The end is nigh and near and here
Life the gift, sufficient, dear.

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

gulag christmas eve cruciform axis


I Love Coffee

it is addressed thusly:
A little cuppa...

it reads:
A small cup with a curved and gentle arc
Brewed strong, with a roast rich and dark
A dance of golden sugar all about the brew
Coffee is quite romantic; really, who knew!


Bread of Morning

it is addressed thusly:
Just add yeast!

it reads:
I arise today, not as though I wanted to
But nor as one who resists undue
Not as a machine who hasn't thought
But yet up I am, and down I'm not.



it is addressed thusly:
Mercury comes with a message today:
it reads:
A fire that works the joints and limbs
Its smoke is clear, but sight it dims
Makes floors perils for feet untold
Bites the skin, that snake, the cold!



it is addressed thusly:
When we for a moment glimpse the diamond winter...
it reads:
Lit high by sun through crystal cloud
Ephem'ral wafting frosting shroud
Garment unseamed of wintry-dream
Timeless white half-frozen stream.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

american some say that snow


Ace of Clubs

it is addressed thusly:
that invincible trophy, that weapon of peace...

it reads:
A pugilist both brave and quick
Quiet wielder of the stick
That rod must be the tree of life
This melee is then the soul's own strife!



it reads:
Two worlds existing side by side
Within man they now collide
Along the vines my fingers trace
Thin like gossamer, this place.



it is addressed thusly:
Maybe the end of an era is marked by the departure on a journey; a point of no return.

it reads:
Door which opens the plains of frost
A path paced none but by the lost
A chain'd trellis grinding closed
'Science', Academy, 'Progress': hosed!

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:



Non Cuppa

it reads:
I find true in this early December
Mostly tired just when I remember
Many morning coffees of the past
Decaffeination, how long can it last?


Be ware

it is addressed thusly:
What cannot be given, is seen as sold.

it reads:
Sometimes the salesmen comes with wares
Others he stands with lonesome stares
Still yet a time he'll come again
As a gifting, gracious friend.



it reads:
Grayness reigns in days of rains
The shadows fall on plaintive strains
Or nothing much at all is said
On those days, left for dead.



it is addressed thusly:
Now that we're done thanking, lets complain some more.

it reads:
For some this day comes and not without a taint
The only harp found playing is one of sad complaint;
Thanks-taking is the given name for their mealy moan:
Take all the time you want, but leave my thanks alone!
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

catholic anarchist thanksgiving


Thus Spoke Athanas, 9

it is addressed thusly:
Ninth Canticle.
it reads:
To come alive the dead must die
In the grave the grave must lie
Immortal One corruptible
But incorrupt - impossible!

Announce it high above the hills
Dead is death, the sting that kills
A new passage hewn of earth and blood
A passion pure, a cleansing flood!

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

on the incarnation



it is addressed thusly:
Rightly dividing the word of truth...
it reads:
Speak concisely what is true
Keep not the flame away from you
Crown of teachers through the ages
Trumpet of faith; a king of sages.

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

on incarnation svs press


Lack, Two

it is addressed thusly:
Walt, what was the name of that book...?

it reads:
Only part do I see through
Like four-side-frame in window
Painted bare and flecked with dross
See here beauty, the art of loss.



it is addressed thusly:
Wait, what?
it reads:
It's the road you're heading down
Don't know when you done got on;
Made a wrong turn way back there
Maybe now you'll start to care!



it is addressed thusly:
Almost as much as my poetry.
it reads:
A question posed itself today
(It then refused to go away)
Betwixt the priest and wind-up clown
When is the battle winding down?
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

wind up new ochlophobist


John Chrysostom

it is addressed thusly:
John, O lion of Constantine's city, great orator and and lover of poverty, ask the Lord our God that he may grant us His great mercy.
it reads:
A roar which ariseth aft amain
Mane unfold, tongue gilt hilt hath slain
Kings and queens in pride of old
Elder John thou mouth of gold!
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

Chrysostom John Eudoxia [image]


Two Iron Docks

it is addressed thusly:
Let's rant awhile.

it reads:
They keep on complaining with
Spare aplomb and sparsest pith
About the Konsumerarikon;
Which they're screeding scripts upon.

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

front porch cell phone


Time Management

it is addressed thusly:
Wish I had it.
it reads:
Scrambling, scrabbling, scurrying
These things I do when hurrying
If there were one more hour in a day
I'd also likely squander it away.


Visions and Dreams Always

it is addressed thusly:
A meditation.

it reads:
Visions and dreams always are known
Like leaves in southward skies are blown
We ask if it shall be or no?
They come and go and come and go

It is a fragment of figment
A painted dot of pallid pigment
A map marked with a single spot
I must decide to go, or not.

Sometimes it has not been given
Or the map is torn and riven
For why no we speak to reason
Always now, or for a season?

It is known and unknown too
Attained we think, by only few
So then we digress to go
Or pretend we do not know

And uncertainty's own part
In this ranging, rambling art
As much a threat for those who fail
As a prize for to avail

Remembrance is though never mixed
The mind's eye on it remains all-fixed
Seen that place, write it deep
In the secret places keep.

Ask then seek that inner path
Whose ways wend deep and that hath
Solid stones beneath your feet
Whose end at which we fine'ly meet.


In War the Heart is Made

it is addressed thusly:
A meditation.

it reads:
In war the heart is made to see
It's own old inner reality
No man can fight the rage and raw
By some contrive'd reasoned law

Hardly have the blades been drawn
The guns alight, the sound anon
Of seas of men in battle's call
Who run the river and siege the wall

The virtues waste unless a chance
A providential circumstance
Doth it arise and show anew
An honorable hero's view?

To be in some cases actual
Failures not contractual?
But we would feign to see it now
Beneath the choices mostly bow

In cowardice our safety lies
In killing, fleeing virtue dies
But what of grave necessity
Her awesome pensive gravity?

To choose which brother should lie low
Angelic tears may sieve like snow
But in the heart, the deeper mind
If his lord he there should find

So all war's necessity
And fame or fortune cannot be
The measure of heroic name
For evil and good then seem the same

Who are the judges, razor eyed
Whose minds true the truth divide
Of virtue built into the heart
Impregnable redouted fort

And if its king is present there,
To enemies an acrid air
Rise above the battlement
Away, O foeman, be thee sent!

Though the land my fall at last
Into the winds the fates be cast
No harm comes to the city fair
No beast or imp can dwell in there

And see it now, the desolation!
A memorial emancipation
Fair now will the memory
Of that place then always be

As red and gold and grey are mixed
Plans and prospering are nixed
Earthly things all go to rot
Desires burning for them hot

A sweet smelling fire must rise
This at last, before the eyes
And then before this see we all
A ram provided jumps the wall

Abram is spared, his son will live
Yet meet the sacrifice we give
Write in your heart a different law
Build not of sticks and hay and straw

No man is truly made the worse
Who does not harm his own soul first.


Of Worlds and Ages

it is addressed thusly:
We say, ages, which also means, worlds.
it reads:
Space and time are intertwined
In a world, for those inclined
A foot is lightning's nanosec
Information age is internet.


No Soap, Radio!

it is addressed thusly:
Two penguins are sitting in a bathtub...

it reads:
My potatoes have no eyes
My meat-stock bears no flies
See no blemish comes upon
The radio that I have switched on!

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

mmm no, ochlophobist.


A Canticle for Kathryn

it is addressed thusly:
For one whom we knew we barely knew.
it reads:
Though spark and dust and damp
Thine own words and eyes a lamp
Our dear beloved tireless friend
Call alleluia! Away thee wend.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

ximese up bismarck


A Note, An ado

it is addressed thusly:
Will, I am pleased to say:

it reads:
A gallant age we suppose has passed
Will perhaps catch up with us at last
With pranks and puns and tragedy
Whose words have writ a comedy?
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

much ado nothing youtube


Beetle Bailey

it reads:
A black-green beetle upside-down
In my bath-room he was found
A tissue made to be a cart
Found him safe in garden's heart.



it reads:
Were it only color, class or creed?
Just mostly local in antiquity;
Far worse a late euro-'Christian' notion
For dragging skins across the ocean.

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

evelyn cromer modern imperialism


Spin Me Right Round

it is addressed thusly:
to Kutiman
it reads:
Finger flight run spun lambent rays
Of film fragment and phosphor frays
Disc jockey blinks behind the frame
Triangle press, our junkyard fame.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

mother of all funk chords


I'll Be Celebrating

it is addressed thusly:
To all manner of culture warriors.

it reads:
The first battle call of the year
It seems that Christmas is so dear
But only as a prize to be won
Surely holy days are undone.


Ponder Nothing Earthly

it reads:
No thoughts then pass my mind's eye
As though then I stood and stand by
Golden-glass and crystal sea
Behold! The one true Liturgy.

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

seraphim magdalene corarbennic


Of Opiates and Masses

it is addressed thusly:
Thanking both Marx and the Vatican for a fine pun made possible by their felicitous word choices.

it reads:
'Why are the priests rich' said the claque
A great bearded one upon their plaque
We'll make the war between the classes
Brand new balm; a cure for the masses

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

'vatican marx galileo darwin'


Red at Night

it is addressed thusly:
To the meek, who did and do and shall inherit the land.

it reads:
A saw a farm upon red earth
Plenteous in width and girth
By night she lay beneath strange stars
For her bed, her earth was Mars.

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

mars terraformed canaan


Profit / Prophet

it is addressed thusly:
To our time (and every time's) doomsayers, and those who sincerely believe they are the disillusioners of the masses.
it reads:
I have imagined in my head
All things said which lead to dread
Forget the light yoke of the Lord
Hang on my ev'ry harrowing word!

a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

second young morning terrace


The Java Drive

it is addressed thusly:
ascesis; the cutting off of self-will.

it reads:
A strange world would be
When getting a coffee
Cosmic fate in the balance
Over thirsty allowance!



it is addressed thusly:
To the city who ain't half bad most of the time, for a city.
it reads:
Against a blue and winsome hue
Ruddy bricked beneath the dew
Green of park and yellow sun
Morning yawned, began her run.


First Hundred

it reads:
To see the beginning as no one saw
this the desired exploit of all
records kept, the shards unearthed
who was there when it was birthed?
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

next hundred oldest domain



it is addressed thusly:
I am sojourner; But my journey goes back to its start. But its start is then not the same place.
it reads:
Eye of light in darksome gloom
Steely shine of mind's mad doom
Virgin ruler, stern hunter high
I pull the seas into the sky!


Sword Canticle

it is addressed thusly:
Arise, O Lord, overtake them and trip their heels; deliver my soul from ungodly men, Thy sword from the enemies of Thy hand.  Ps.16:13-14
it reads:
Dear St. Michael's scabbard and sword
In hands so sure thou art our ward
Be the sharp swift wind that drives
Dark fear from our children and wives!
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

stephen's things' light / michael's glory


Eaten, but not Consumed

it reads:
If one were to chance eat a scroll
The act would exact its toll
As did for 'Zeke and for John
And the wise singer whose name was Roman.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

first fruit logismoi melodist


Pride Aside

it reads:
Self congratulation's for free
Though hidden the price may be
For liberty's constant vigil is all
And everything proud must fall.


The Center doth Hold

it reads:
No chest of emotion am I
Nor source of blood's motion lie
They have not found me yet
For all yet more, am I of that.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

andrea elizabeth lewis recalling heart


Federal Feasts of October

it is addressed thusly:
With apologies to Christopher Columbus, whose day is mostly an occasion to mock people from the fifteenth century nowadays

it reads:
On Columbus' day we remember
Mostly that it isn't September
Some forgot the world was round
So a market for new worlds was found.


Calves of Gold

it reads:
as regards our present day
a certain president, we'll say
is famed all 'round the world you see
the emperor of popularity.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

nobel prize 2009


Dropping Softly, Singing

it is addressed thusly:
recalling Sun Ra, who was at least an alien, though whither an angel I know not
it reads:
land's own halo hears afar
the humming sighing of a star
a thousand more in hev'n ringing
the spheres are dropping, softly singing
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

wondrous wheel of stars



it reads:
Sometimes like finding a friend of old
In the olden days tales we're told
Can be signaled but by scrap of hair
A fragment of text, left here or there.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:

seraphim live journal sigrist


My Hands are Quite Dirty

it reads:
Shall I find my grubbing hands there
Feeling among the worthless weeds where
Seeking fruit given but through toil
Attain at last, the holy soil?


I am Moved

it reads:
Though this mind of mine is often
To wander as stones the rivers soften
Beneath many skies of gray and blue
It returns, in faith, to only you.



it reads:
Each lives in worldly peace
the belief and unbelief
'til left is only one
each hopes they are who won.


Paths in Goshen

it is addressed thusly:
To the Archaeologians, whose entire world will change with the next finding of bone-fragments, clay or footprints. For to-morrow they will find evidence of God, and believe in creation from the beginning, and the next they shall find he was a fraud and all of history shall be changed.
it reads:
He who sees not future's chance
Furtive, misses with his glance
The failings of dear his'try's art
Loses horse, and loses cart.


The Child Asks Why

it is addressed thusly:
To the old at heart and callow in mind; The a-theist, the a-gnostic and the talkative.
it reads:
Another shouting voice is heard
Louder than the Kingly word
But such is all with selfsame violence
For every din blocks out the silence.



it is addressed thusly:
A poem which needs a response.
it reads:
is anything here now freely chosen
or are our fates there simply frozen?
No! So I've now in this matter
looked thereon, and chose the better.

As I chose a year ago
I will choose again
If she who read reads now
Let her say, amen.


The Wait

it reads:
When the heart waits for such decision
The body's pains, the cruel incision
Stings although no wound be drawn
And still minutes and hours drag on.


Criticisms of the Tragic Conservative

it is addressed thusly:
With condolences to Jeremiah
it reads:
A new jeremiad is seen arising
No one rejoicing, no one crying
This one has a choral setting
Wolves own teeth, they now are whetting
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
second terrace yet gadarene marketplace


Too Much Information, HTML 5 Edition

It reads:
I'm rather recommending number 5
4 now sleeping, is not so alive
'neath the deluge hold out your cup
Only a moment, and it will fill up.

A postscript is here written:
A pass-word.
google introduction to html 5


Remembering Ascetical Advice

It reads:
Heavy are the hours of night
Nor short are they for lack of light
Beware forgetting how to sleep
While in this flesh, your life He keep.


The Seed Must Die

it reads:
Said Fiachra, 'why dig you there?'
To Phocas, with dirt-stained hair
Said as he bore the tears of martyrdom,
'no staff have I the earth to drum!'
A post-script is here written:
A pass-word.
st fiachra orthodoxwiki


On the Necessities of a Tired Man

it reads:
A thought of morning coffee
Is not one often thought as lofty
Though when traffic's threats are thick
May excuse my magnifying it.


Sincerely, Your Thistle

it is addressed thusly:
For the Queen of the Arti-chokes
it reads:
Why do you cling?
I asked the burr
For which it had no answer;
It simply had a lot of things
That hook and snag and sting
And resist the weather.

The thistle then
No harm intends
With double hooks and halberds;
It needs to stick in
For until when
It needs to hurtle groundwards.

"I'm not garden variety
Of the parasitic sobriety!"
Thistles' barbs are not thorns,
You and I for tea
A prickly society
Call off now the battle horns!

This little burr
Is a traveler
Of the most tactile sort I'll grant you;
So I must aver;
His motives mostly sure
To be getting where we're going to!



it reads:
A perfect case of when words meet
Like a lovers at a diner eat
Where joins the things celestial
With everything adorable.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word.
limit roche wiki


Zero Hour

it is addressed thusly:

An ode.

it reads:

Of the nights there are so many
As only one at a time
This night can be as any
Before was light, before was time.

But yet before all of these things
A dread great depth of Void
What is the Nothingness to things
That in idling, He was alloyed?

What is this shade but ere a Light
That is as darkness, as pitch
As black infath'mable night
(Sight or blindness? Which?)

Where beyond no reasons reach
For too simple, far too strong
Is He for all, and for each:
(Speak then, not too long)

Tell me then a story
For only stories tell
Tell it short, no allegory
And always tell it well.

Let us speculate a bit
And say that light came first
The lightest of the elements
Blinding as a burst

Over above the water there
(Keeping with the verse)
Sudden, daylight lightnings tear
Across the universe!

Earths of many rise and fall
Among the waters cosmic
Heavens, firmament and all
Sensational and seismic!

From dust and seas of voided night
Arise the many worlds
Waters up and O, aright!
Dust like clouds unfurled!

Many germs about the place
Those seeds of every kind!
A many colored living face
Rooted rocks entwined.

Now before the many lands
A lighted sky is scryed,
Cast across by cosmic hands
A host all far and wide!

A sea of stars, the firmament
The waters up above;
Sail them by centuries went
Ceaseless, ebbing love

Now before the host we see
A rippled righteous life
The white and moving sea
Waves its wooing wife.

Across the plains of purple there
Sighing like the trees
Songs of no man's tongue do bear
The windings of the breeze

But among the rocks and rills
Crawl things small and great
An army of mouths (save the gills)
And those mouths, they ate!

So how would end this oddly song
Except within a bower
Man and wife and Lord belong
And end the Zero Hour.



Some years close with copious snows
And cheeks of rose and red and green
Others chose when frost first slows
To lead the nose of new-year's spring

Others slip and spin and turn within
When come ag'in I can't recall
O Moons come in and go akin
For twelve and then to drop the ball?

But for solution a contribution
(a revolution!) is quite in order
Renew a motion from summer's ocean
A wave emotion, an august border;

For if the day should begin this way
Let's make a stay for eventide
The year I say her works allay
September day, the news abide!

Least/Greatest or On finishing working with earth on a summer night

I've become used to
my poverty; grabbing
thrusting and thirsting
for good things that
seem few and far between.

When I look at the man
On the street he says
"I'm as good as you..."
And I agree; he is at least
As good as me.

I've become used to
my wealth; the grandness
of small superlatives
for which it takes an exquisite
eye and a huge heart.

When I see the man
In the suit he says
"You too can do this..."
And I agree; I can also be
Weighed down by things.

Is it the gravel and dirt
Pests and bugs and bites
And burns and long nights
That make a man poor

But I have washed my fingers
(Underneath the nails)
Not because I have to
Nor for the sake of yearning
For a fantasy life that never

Is it the comfort of a good bath
Trees and vines to own and tend,
And eves when no worries wend,
That makes a man rich

I have looked at each
Of the stars in the sky and said
(Like the philosophers and fools)
"Give me a night and Africa
has less diamonds in her


Against the size of say
The heart of Jupiter
A diamond whose dimension
Exceeds that of the Earth --
Who is rich then --


The Lack

I looked and saw not one
No beads between fingers
No lamps lit and filled
With rose-scented oil.

What I saw before me was as
That first prayer probably
I looked and I perceived
And was filled full.

It was as though (not maybe)
The elements themselves
Sat ready rolling, tumbling
About to be made whole.

Hearing no word or song
Sounds all about, carnival
Whirling, crashing, calling
Strike iron, and ring the bell!

One, three, six, nine, eleven;
Such may be the prayer of Heaven.


Against Self Control

There's a sort of self control
That ought to be avoided
How it goes few there knows
- All our efforts then are voided!

So hear a moment about this thing
And think about that strictness
Where men refrain from doing well
Such confusion all of this is!

"I need to sleep in now" says one
Or he that only works well past 2
But neither's strict policy
Involves a prayer or two;

"As much as it hurts I have to go"
Says the one-night stand
What happened to the sleeping in -
Bright and early across the land!

And like the man who trudges past
The altar to the pot of coffee
The church is near but the roads are slick
(Drive to the bar so caref'ly!)

Careful arrangements there are made
By the avaricious accountant
Years of counting hours and hours
A mistake might make him decent!

That idol of slippery success
For which a thousand trophies stood
Hard earned and dusted across the walls
A fall could do them good!

Let me say of the man
Who won't partake of meat
His self-control may make him 'whole'
But his pride's a crow to eat!

Running, walking, pumping lead
Scrubbing outsides as they said
The tombs are white for all to see
But all the bones are dead!

What sort of mad ascetic feats
Do ordinary men perform
Just to keep from doing right
And to uphold the norm?

A failure of this well worn rule
Could only benefit us
To slack off a bit then I'd say!
(Who'd dare to recommend this!)

So about this self control
It ought be observed
Skill can be applied to fail
And mediocrity be served!


On the Notions of 'Individuality' and 'Self esteem'

I had desired to write on this very subject, but for various reasons I had been unable to summon a discourse sufficient to the obstacle. This thing we call 'individuality', which is both by the just and unjust at times extolled and at other times denounced, and likewise with self-esteem. The 'self' it is said, or the thing which is 'selfish' is the source of all evils; but on the other hand, we must desire to save ourselves, it is said, if we are to be rescued. This is a source of all manner of confusion for men and women alike of our time, being that 'rugged individualism' may provoke a reaction towards 'collectivism', both of which may easily be shown to be actually 'anti-individual' in the sense of what we really are as individuals.

Firstly, to be an individual simply means that we are the smallest unit of something, which in our case happens be the human nature. In this sense 'individual' is a lesser, but still not unimportant variant of 'person'. Individual does not on its own have a connotation of connectedness or disconnection, and so we are free to fill in the innuendo with our experience.

The self, then, is 'what I am'. If I know myself to be an individual, that is, a human being and a person, then this is 'myself'. The difficulty of comprehending this is obvious, the looking glass cannot examine itself except in a mirror, and there is no 'transparent eye' - sadly for dear Emerson.

The selfish tendency then can be described as the tendency towards getting or desiring things which benefit the self. This then becomes a discourse on what we know of the parts of this self - take for instance my human nature. Within it, as a post-lapsarian creature, are the works of two wills or desires, as Paul notes, a fleshly one and a spiritual one. My gnomic will, that which is set up and exists to discern whether a desire is sensual and evil or spiritual and good (which distinction exists only in context to my desires) is a manifestation of my natural will - my free will - which exists because I have these contradicting tendencies.

Therefore, a selfish desire can be said to be one of two things - firstly something that benefits myself in terms of a fleshly desire - three categories are offered by the Divine John, 'the lust of the flesh, the pride of life, and the lust of the eyes' - which are categorized similarly by Holy Maximus the Confessor as the passions associated with the 'erascible' and 'concupscible' parts of the soul. Secondly, a selfish desire could be a desire which is in accordance to the spiritual desires of which Paul writes 'walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit' of which the chief desires may be God. There are then a series of desires which, in my opinion, form a gradient between God and fleshly desires, which are therefore while still being able to be called 'selfish' in that they are oriented towards getting something which is desired because it benefits myself, or my person, not 'evil' in the sense of strictly 'egoic'.

Then what is this 'egoic' that I speak of? An object will suffice to demonstrate the problem of the difference between the 'ego' and the 'true self' - firstly it should be noted that as I stated above, being that these are all parts of myself, they are difficult to examine, as firstly whatever state I find myself in is the state I know, and therefore can be taken to be the 'natural' state - the state I was created to be in. This would be an error.

The egoic is like a cart with four independent wheels which move all directions; and which with proper guidance may be aligned properly so that the cart will move unhindered this way or that, but given a loose and inattentive approach will tend to spin whichever way the contours of the ground on which they roll tends them to. The ego represents spiritual inertia, that is, the tedency of me to continue in the state that myself is in; it is almost like an ersatz self that develops around my current state, like a skin that develops on a thick soup or a snake's skin, which by all rights appears to be that thing, but only represents the ossification of that thing at a particular point.

Thus, the ego of the cart is like the simple tendency of the cart - which is for the wheels to be guided by the shape of the ground - which can be said to be neither good nor evil, but which will inevitably result in evil if improper guidance is supplied.

Imagine then, if you wish, that this law of movement about the wheels is our natural state - and the ego is a desire for the wheels to operate simply as reflections of the ground's shape rather than align in the direction that the cart is being moved by a free will. If we were in a place where the ground was smooth and the weight on the cart was always sufficient, for instance, we would find this cart's 'ego' to be a smoothly operating part in the overall scheme of our carting objects about. It would be in essence 'invisible' - but still operative.

But in the situation of conditions differing from the ideal, whether in the makeup of the cart from wear, improper care, or improper manufacture, or in the environs departing from the conditions the cart was designed for, the 'natural tendency' of the cart becomes troublesome unless virtue is exercised to command it more rigorously and carefully, and perhaps also to fix some flaws that have arisen in the unit.

In this case, the ego becomes something which wars against the will of the cart-driver, a 'dumb ox' of sorts which is entirely sensual. 'Self-esteem' then we can define as being 'esteeming the self' - which in and of itself is value-neutral. If the self is in a good condition; let's say the cart is in good condition, and the driver is rigorous, perhaps we can say some good things of the conditions, and perhaps esteem of some kind would not be unreasonable.

But what if we esteem the self, taking note of the potential of all carts-and-drivers to be great, what will the result be? If we speak beyond potential, we would be of course speaking lies. Yes, all men have the potential for deification, but not all men are deified. If our goal is virtue, or even that men are deified, we would find no time at which we would ever indulge in self-esteem; since there would be no point at which we would stop our criticism and analysis of our errors so that by grace, we might improve them and attain that one selfish thing which is not evil, God.

What then would be the cause of enhancing men's self esteem at all? The first might be encouragement, as men may get discouraged by the difficulties of attaining virtue; but this would not be 'boosting self esteem', unless the person has began to think of themselves as something lesser than they are, such as one not possessing a free will or the image of God. This encouragement would then consist of disabusing the person of improper negative concepts about themselves, and soothing, as with a balm, the pain caused by their infestation.

Beyond this, there should be no boost of self-esteem offered! Since after this the only cause could be exciting and satisfying a passion, namely, the pride of life.

Something then can be said about this whole notion, 'self esteem' - that if one is to aid others who are say, despairing, or failing, one must have a reasonably accurate - whether through reason or intuition - view of what human nature really is and what the other person really thinks. If not, one may, like a quack doctor, apply the incorrect cure and perhaps cause the patient some kind of new illness: an addiction, a poisoning, an additional inflammation of infection?

But to those who are of good courage - especially ourselves - we must offer harsh realism and no boosts of self esteem unless we have began to believe that somehow (by lies of the enemy) that we are doomed to fail even with God's help, or some other kind of error. We can then be encouraged by various words, such as those of the Gospel of John 3:16, and recalling the words of Holy Apostle Paul about our rebirth, and of how in his Epistle to the Romans he notes that nothing can separate us from the love of God.

But in all cases, we rejoice in truth, we cannot rejoice in things which are not true, and especially things which in rejoicing in them we risk losing them. Rejoicing in the love of God does not risk us losing him, but rejoicing in our successes against the enemy or against our bad habits could, as we Americans recall a great battle was won in our independence because a group of soldiers decided to celebrate prematurely. Likewise with the Trojan Horse, and were these men not slaughtered and laid to waste by a premature rejoicing? So if we are to rejoice over something - to have esteem in it or enjoy it, we must ensure that it has been secured fully, or otherwise like a fine treasure it might slip from our hands while we admire it, or perhaps we become like a scholar with a new book who runs into a lamp-post and drops it into the sewer.

Thus we have contradicting opinions about 'self esteem' - based mostly on how we think people really are. If we believe, as some of those 'New Age' spiritualists do, that we are actually Gods or God already, then all that is missing is to say all kinds of positive and esteeming things, since they are, in that view, already true and thus cannot be lost by rejoicing over them! But if we do not think this, then we must be sober and moderate in our rejoicing, not as though we do this by simply not drinking any alcohol or ever smoking tobacco - (for often as not such acts lead to self-righteousness and a cooling of love as they are done often legalistically) - but by understanding what we can really rejoice about. When we fellowship, we rejoice that we may be be with another, and that they can be with us, and that this is real. And this will last until we die, and are separated, but this also will be for only a time, and it will be sad, but that in the end we will be together again.

'Individualism' is of course an aberration like 'collectivism' - the former promoting the idea that individuals do not rely on anyone but themselves really, or that the ideal is for a man to be able to claim all his actions and possessions as strictly his own and in this particular way owing no man anything. Collectivism denies the reality of the individual, ultimately, unless that individual be the 'corporate person' who is really the leader. It should be noted that the former - while having a lofty goal of owing no man any thing, denies realities to achieve this (that we are at best interdependent - and that our actions are built on our experiences which are free gifts for better or worse from others, and that our possessions come ultimately from God and God alone, but the accidents of history are his Providence - though there be an infinite series of intermediate causes that we can trace into the mists of time.) and the second while having the goal of men communing also denies a reality - personhood - to achieve this.

Only love overcomes this, but love it should be noted not as a catharsis, such as is exemplified in 'Mr. Hyde' - love as a release of pent up desires. Instead, it is love as kenosis - free giving - which enables individuals to commune. In some eras we will be at more risk of becoming individualistic, that is, of thinking of our individuality as the most important thing, and thus making an idol of it, while in others we may be at greater risk of becoming collectivistic and forgetting our person and free will and therefore our responsibility for our choices. Both lead to ruin.

It should be noted that we find fulfillment, as Christians, of this ideal in the Holy Trinity; where individuals are communing perfectly - as an Englishman I might call them a 'company'; as in 'three's company.' They are three 'units' of the divine, if you will, but they - he is not merely that, since they intermingle fully and without restriction. So how is it that they remain distinct - individual if you will - while not being separated? It is of course, Love.

For if we consider our possessions not simply to be the thing we bought yesterday, but recognize that all things which we in some way control or influence are proximally our own, we will see that we intermingle already; and how 'mine and yours' with a legal strictness is the death of love. Of course, the opposite destroys love as well; for the love is in the intermingling of 'mine' and 'yours' and not the destruction of those categories. It is only because my grandfather bought the watch, and my father received it from him and gave it to me that there is love; if the watch was not owned - and take note that our ownership is always stewardship - temporary and subject to conditions - then what would it matter where it was when? If the skin oil could not be said to belong to this or that man, what significance would there be in each man wearing the watch in succession?

To love we must do two things; first is to recognize what we possess, and the second is to give it away. You cannot 'give your love away' - and certainly, you must know that you cannot give away something that does not belong to you. Thus for husbands and wives I can offer a single caveat; the husband belongs to the wife and the wife to the husband; and yet they still are in possession of themselves. This means that in this sense of fullness, which prostitutes cheapen and young romantics misunderstand, can only be given away to one other, beside God to whom all things truly belong.

And gifts exist which are proper for each need, and so God created in men and women a need for one another on one hand, and a gift for the other on the other hand. Thus they can, as in 'the Gift of the Magi' give, and in emptiness have a true fullness.

And likewise, God created in us a need for him, and a gift to give Him, which is ourselves. But God is free of need! How then can he accept anything? But then recall, dear friends, that not every gift meets a need, but rather, some are given which are more than what is needed, and even we are capable of accepting more than we need! And this is proper gratitude; to accept the intention as well as the gift. Did I need the money? Perhaps no, but I see that the person desired good things for me and then turned that desire into gifts. And so for God, who has no need, he is able to accept our gifts as well - and since he has no needs, he is quick to give Himself, as he is the source of all Good things.

But remember, that God is a person as well (more accurately, three!) and that he, like us, has a freedom of will, and that a proper gift is given freely. Therefore, we are trained and learn to give expecting nothing in return, which based on God's experience must be the norm! (For what can we give Him that he would need?)

We should not say, though, that a need is a disadvantage; as though God made us broken so he could fix us. Rather, it should be said that we were made to commune with Him, to participate in his Life, and that - like a car without gasoline - when that is absent, what is natural becomes a need.

So we have a paradox; since the only good selfish thing we can do is desire God, but that to do so requires selflessness! What this means, then, is our paradigm of 'self' is insufficient to the task, as what we often call self is a collection of temporary possessions, when what is truly permanent about us - and only by grace even then - is hidden from ourselves because we are that thing! Only through another can we see in any way what this is.

And not knowing what we really are, perhaps - it is improper to esteem that thing, since it is fleeting and uncertain. In fact, since we are uncertain of what will remain ours (and shall we keep it? Or not give it away?) then why should we have any self-esteem at all?

In conclusion, I would say that it should be obvious that we are individuals, but that this individuality is not something to be grasped in and of itself, but neither is it to be erased or obliterated. To grasp it is to esteem it, while we should esteem God and the good things that he and his servants do. Since communing with God benefits us, it might be said that seeking God is selfish, but to commune with God requires Love, which is self-forgetting.

Therefore 'selfish' things are good insofar as they draw us towards God, and bad insofar as they distance us from him. The desire for salvation is a selfish one, but it is a desire for God, which leads us to self-forgetting. We also cannot be good just be being unselfish, as he who obliterates himself destroys the gift which God gave him, instead of giving it. The person who destroys their personhood does likewise; for if there is no 'you' then there is nothing to have and therefore nothing to give.



The Sea

My love is at the sea
And eyes see, sand lies
Below, beyond and light
Plays across dunes, down
Where my heart lies

And beneath, miles, are there
Bones, burnt, buried? Of love
Lost, forgotten and untold
Or is below the things interred
But dust, crust, unlearned?

But the sands understand
My predicament as my feet
Feel heat, a fire of sun and
Stone, beat upon my fragile
Skin, thin and wan

Dig your toes in and cool
Like I, stay clothed and covered
Lest you learn that hot I burn
On the outside, but cool
Within, and stone I am.

But oh, if your wish
Is to unveil then prepare
For burn you I will unless
You dig in deep and warm
My coldness inside.


The House of Death

Build you well your house my son
For every builder, every one
Finds his place of final rest
Beneath the beams he placed the best.



I have beheld it
Or grabbed it in passing
By the corner of the cloth
Of the thing, crying out
Son of David!

I feel it in my hand
my flesh tastes the
texture, the moisture,
the temperature.

It is there, hovering
Wordless lingering about
The places; the things!

How can I say such
But to say it is there
Not in the words so much
Or even now my thoughts

But the thing itself
Says nothing to me; and
Again it says nothing.

In the stones and sand
and dirt and skin and blood
and bone and wood
are more real.

And the mystery hovers
About that time, in the sounds
And the air, and the space

So I am there as in a vision
In my minds eye I see
The city streets and I know
As a man knows in a dream
That I am there at the end
The very moment before it
Where all of the strength
Of the world is crying out
And the air is too thick
And light and full of mystery
I cannot move, but moving
In my mind I find myself
drawing near, but each
street is empty, and the
places of her are poured out
to the very foundations
And there I am I know it
The axis of all things is
There turning, over and
About an eight-pointed rod
I feel I must grip the wood
until my fingers bleed
and there is a mingling
of my own tears and blood

And I feel then that I am
As much as brother of the
Dust and coal and diamonds

And I know in so many words
Of carbon, and the great sphere
Turning in the heavens
Through and round the stars

But I am no man of humility
Who can claim the title
'Adam', formed of clay.

No defense of greatness
No lowliness of heart
I cannot feign these for you
I am halted and held

Therefore I return to this
As water flowing to deeps
Dread and bright and still
The very moment before it
All of my senses cry out
It is here! And that cleft
rift, a moment, a time
a space wherein all things
Are being gathered.



As I enter
This room, empty
Is that sixth sense
Frailty, fear or
Is the nothingness
Not undone but
Unrun, the compressed
Ever at rest
Coil of a silent spring?


Our Temples

There is no vinyl
siding in this neighborhood
And eyes pass from one
bedraggled shack to
another, or are they
mansions of managed
life, lived at a pace
which wooly eyes such
as mine cannot

In that place on top
of the hill, those homes
that seem pretty until
nobody can afford the
Mexicans to come and
clean them? I can
enjoy them like a man
peruses a pin up they
look nice as long as
the insides stay inside
the white-washed
vessels that dwell
in these tall tombs.

And then one day they
all fall out and the trucks
come and take the long
couches and entrails
of broken eyes that weep
salt water and the bones
of the children's children
are there watching from
wombs yet to be born
and baptisms are done
three times in tears
of would-be martyrs
who die now daily.

And then there we are
Amongst the shotgun houses
Here we can "feel
The pain of everyone"
But it is beautiful not
because pain is pleasure
Or evil good or greatness
Of no account

But paint on wood is more
Honest how each man must
Somewhat wear his heart
For others to see blazoned
Across his buttress
Ere each castle a coat
of arms arrayed of angels
And nobody lies
For long.


The Old Traveller

On the road to Jerusalem
A traveller old I spied
For a fortnight follow'd him
Until an eventide

This fellow-creature was aged and wan
And stopped did he at last
Then in the light of setting-sun
Unto the earth he asked:

"Tell me, oh wind, a single thing
Where shall I lay my head?
If you traverse on gos'mer wing
To the edge; is it there said:
"I passed over these empty lands
Many hills and valleys on
Only now I rest my hands
Twas light work, tis done."

"Tell me, oh sun, a single thing
What now shall my work be?
Of skies and stars, you the king
Over deserts' golden sea:
"I shone on all alike in kind
Although my lands were barren
What then there lies for me to find
Where shall I place the cairn?"

"Tell me, oh rain, a single thing
Where does it now all go?
You pour and slide and roll and sing
Can you be he that know:
"All those I washed them clean I washed
Even those that I washed out
Many days were wetly lost
With tears of dark and doubt.""

But no answer was there given him
From the spirits of all these
No kind or kin of human whim
The day, the rain, the breeze.

You see by now I'd lost the path
Though we were by the sea
My map undone in stormy bath
My letters lost by me.

"Oh plan undone, my pilgrimage
And time is slipping by
To forget it all, and quell my rage
Where do my letters lie?

"My map and compass, over there?
And whence my ledger-book?
Appointed I can't-recall-where
Neglected, overtook."

So I sat upon the rock
Warm'd by the sun
And gazed upon the pocket-clock
Which said six-oh-one.

I looked and gazed and wondered why
I was gazing at the hands
They moved and roved and caught the eye
Six oh two it stands.

Then I knew I'd company
Over to my left
The crone had come to set by me
All his earthy heft.

"Dear son," he said in deeply rasp
"I know you're sore distressed
To fail and fall from fruitful task
Finds a man duress'd.

"Some things are lost by chance and I
Cannot be held to blame
Others through unwatchful eye
Or sloth are sadly slain.

"My song may sound sad indeed
For wounded are the words
But the rocky road too leads
To where the gentle curves."

With this his hand he gently placed
On my shoulder's round
"Come, a path is to be traced
Before the sun is down."

And walked we for a mile or so
Into the dimming day
Until fields were seen below
A rise of hilly clay.

Here a thousand-thousand flowers rose
Reflecting rays of eve'ning
Beyond the ox and cattle lows
A procession of bereaving.

"Behold my son the thing which one
And all find they must confess
Is beauty, light of moon to sun
Nature's finest dress.

"Each plant you see, has but in mind
(if mind we really see)
To make a seed, a pod or a rind
And have its progeny.

"Along the way are stems and leaves
Which all must go to rot
To make what more? more of these
The same will be their lot.

"But beautiful they are, be warned
That they go to spoil
Why not be short and unadorned
Organized just for toil?

"If you know the question to say
The flowers have the answer
The fruits and melons and grasses lay
Waiting while to chance her

"The form is beautiful you see
Makes the seed worth having 'round
Adorn your work with beauty's nee
You garden will have no bound.

"The difference between they and us
Glory in each moment made
Is it not so obvious
What leaves and petals said?

"And thus you see my song is how
My leaves are curled and fine
To sing and speak and paint is now
To make such songs be mine!"

And so in morning we went our way
He his and I my own
A song is fit to hear and play
Even on the path alone.

So long as seed is born to die
From our hobbled hands
Let us make lovely each laugh and sigh
That is heard across the lands.

I suppose then if I could say
About my pocket-watch
It least it looks nice each day
My number'd days are notched!


Starting Today

I know I'm such an irregular poster (but then, this is my personal space, so I post when I wish) but today I'm going to start the writing.

As a side note, I find it interesting that someone would take offense that the soul pervades the whole body. I get the distinct impression that my words are misunderstood, so I'll hold off on any kind of judgment (It's Lent, anyway.)

Also, Perelandra: Amazing. Lewis, how did you do it?



Keep Your Hands to Yourself, Please

Heavens or are they bowls?
God leaves the world full of holes
So leaky sods can beat the odds
And trickle down (and out?)

What it is in consistent
That makes men so insistent!
I'd swear my hair goes gray
On the day I get it!

Okay, okay I'm vaguest
On days with 'y', suggest
The prison isn't just so quite
Water-tight (or complete!)

This cosmos has got some leaks
(I don't mean mountain-creeks)
But although we go much the way
to the quay! (sea beyond it)

It's like a squeaky wheel
If you want the kind of feel
Double oil, trouble-toil the creak
Is way to deep (don't try to fix it.)

I'm talkin' about yo noggin
Which you keep keepin' floggin
You didn't make it, (take it!) and now
Say how you think to make it right?

Take this a poetic trial
Plant seeds for about a mile
Come November try to remember (hon)
Each one! You already know you can't!

Three words, habit, habit
Habit, while you can, grab it
Take hold, we're told and ride
and stride my shoes a bit.

Can't want what I really need
Or need what I want indeed
O What to, what to do, what
Oh that



Groaning, moaning my limbs
Seem to tell me my time comes
Soon, but not today. Dare I
Ask then, them whence
Comes complaint?

Silent, speech is of minds
My own and yours, years
To train them but flesh hath
Centuries to say nothing
And speaks slowly:

"Do you see that body
Oddly, underneath the sand?
Moses! Who have you slain
So to find freedom for few
And new life for none?

Withhold your hand and
Hear me, my words are few
Where speak I like Israel
Soliloquy! Ask not now
Why Earth crieth: Blood!"



Arise, O my soul
Though heavy beams
Crush thee darkly

Hear the voices calling
From the tombs calling
Calling back to me

O Sampson! recall
All will be torn under
And rent asunder

Why do you sleep
Deep, O written letter
Unspoken, blot of ink

Here the author's pen
Writes and writes again
But speaks not when

When shall I arise?
My eyes, I see the word
Written, 'here is I.'

The end draws near
And here I consume
My hours with why

The sense is pleasant
But sent yet young,
Still I am numb

The feelings become of worry
And hurry I must, one
Who sleeps, and run.

"Will I be confounded?"
Resounded, this spoken;
A spell was broken

Sightless thing where
Bring you this terror
Or this despair?

So as real is my climb
Hand over hand I climb
Light day, ancient world


Standing on the Corner

Interesting observation today, reader. While I was waiting for a particular lunch companion, I stood on the corner of two streets. When on the corner, Pivoting left and right reveals not just the street to your left or right, but gives you a view down many blocks. You can also see the same up or down each street; meaning you are in place to view streets in all directions. This forms, of course, a kind of cross pattern, but it also overcomes the tendency of buildings to block your view. Standing in the middle of the street would give you the same view, but of course without the safety of the sidewalk.

I suppose this is the view of the corner-stone.




it is addressed thusly:
An ode.

it reads:
I want to be like the old ones
Walking long endless days
Among the grasses and sighs of summer
Where there cities of stone
And among the cairns and high places
The depths of lakes and seas
Call out in response to light steps
And deep, far places loom
Breathing with unseen life

I want to be like the ancient ones
Who climbed the rope to heaven
And came down again to sit
For days over days and nights
On the grotesque cliffs
And breathe the morning dews
Sleeping mildly under moons
To awake and continue always
Unceasing in thought

I want to be like the elders
Who of old were unknowable
Singing the first tones
To that unceasing song
So that man joined
Who plucked the strings
Of the first bows and harps
Whose hands spoke to the stones
And moved them, Whose hands
Knew what the earth was.

I want to be like those
Whom I have for but names
Singular, but never alone
With no need for pining
Or fearing or despairing
Whose lights were flames
And minds were mirrors
Who wrote the first word
And erased it
Because the world was too young.