Quiet Silence


There are several silences.

As in noise levels, there are levels of quietude.
Not measured in decibels nor like altitude,
they are perceived through the senses.

First is that which one commonly meets,
the mere temporary absence of sound.
Knowing noise will inevitably return,
true silence pauses and retreats
until the next time ’round
when it gets one more turn.

Another exists only because the din of civilization
has not yet reached it,
not yet engulfed it.
A silence of anticipation.

This silence knows only the muted sounds of nature.
The rippling of the stream,
the haunting cries of the loon,
the pounding footfalls of the elephant.

But true silence will endure.
Absolute silence, it would seem,
does exist.
We are led to it by Kabirian flute
under the rising new moon,
by the buzzing of bees,
by the gnawing of a tiny ant,
by the whispering winds
amongst the morning mist.

Immutable.  Incessant.  Incorruptible silence.

It is the space between ocean and sea,
the time between the beats of my heart.
It is the period between drops of pure rain
falling from clear, thunderless skies.
First the pitter, then…the patter,
the deluge soon will start!
Flowers stop their turning
as rain comes down in pails.

It is that pause between contraction and expansion of the universe,
that moment before, with tiny arms and legs churning,
a newborn baby wails.

It is the instant after the flash of lightning,
between one wave and the next
as they crash upon the white sand shore.

Between the tic and the toc,
the knock and the knock
upon some distant door.

In these true silences, all nature doth rehearse.

As God’s great art was painted in silence,
a canvas waiting for sound,
true silence envelops me in its quiet embrace
and I see the music of the spheres all ’round.

Not one note is louder than silence!

As before Big Bang’s creation,
before my first breath
life was spanked into me by noise.

Quiet silence left behind in the womb of space.

Until I return to that greatest of silences,
I am thrust into a life of sound so that,
in its absence, I may find peace in the moment.
If I live for and in those moments between,
if I am fully present then
and in the long progression of silent nows,
I will have a life of quiet bliss and harmony,
ever seeking true silence.

Which is joy.

There are different silences.
Some would say it is simply the absence of sound.
But I rather think sound is the poor absence of silence.

Which is love.

There is more than one silence…
mindbringer, 22 August 2010


The Bath


“Daddy, what is Love?”, she said,
her flat chest unaware of future kisses.
Water dripping, flowing down blossoming curves of innocence,
each piercing green eye asked the same of him.
The only hair to be found on Heaven’s unopened petal,
matted, cascaded to her knees like a golden waterfall,
unwittingly conspiring to seduce a suddenly struggling father.

Like many her age, they are not yet shrinking from their fondness for fathers.
Quaking, trembling like an open leaf before the winds of inevitability,
in the cold water she was still free from life’s complications.

The washer, giver of baths in place of absent mother,
rises, knowing this to be his last giving.
There would be no baptism into experience from his hands,
no long lessons on living.

Turning, tearing himself away, he vainly tried to waken
a still drunk mother in the other room.
He saw the drugs she had taken.

Sotted, hairy and rough was the woman; now aged beyond her years,
dried up, cried plum out of tears.
Unwashed and unkempt she had lost the innocence of her yesterdays
when she too was given one last bath, but then one more, and then one more, and then…

As the father said his goodbyes and turned to leave,
the question was repeated, “Daddy, what is love?” 
With pleading green eyes repeated.

Smooth as silk,
white as milk,
her skin fitting her like a glistening gossamer glove,
transluscent, as if she did not exist except thru love.

How can something so beautiful, a miracle of creation
cause such guilt, such fear and consternation?

He, surprised at the loss of his own innocence, destroyed
by suppleness, by smoothness forever altered, could not now avoid
the sudden loss of mere routine:
the use of baths to get her clean.

The man left, passing by the next challenge asleep in the crib,
to grab the phone, calling Child Services to report abandoned daughters,
those he had hoped to teach their do’s and oughter’s,
having taught them to put on and take off a bib.

He had arrived at the choice that all non-lying Daddies must consider.

He now knew that he will take the right fork,
the path down which all fathers are expected to take, not dither.

Passing by her again, he was startled to see a woman aborning
behind those haunting green eyes, those knowing green eyes of the morning.

Skin flushing, mind burning
soul yearning,
he trudged away.
A man now truly alone,
a daughter crying,
tugging at his heart,
a mother sighing,
he struggled to depart.

Passing her pale pink knapsack and matching lunch pail,
he went thru the trailer door left open for air,
now banging in the strong breeze out of no-where.
Glancing back one last time,
the wind-risen nipples,
her accusing green eyes
pulled at his will, made him pale.

So like her mother so many years ago,
butt white in the wind,
breasts like derigibles hanging over him.

Hearing the river he realized he was free,
as free as ancient hunters used to be.
A race of liars man had become
but not he anymore, not this one.

Looking inward he stepped out,
moving forward,
not looking backward,
into the morning he ran,
into the rising sun beaming through dying rain.
A rain that washed him and the morning clean,
A bath.


But a man…

He’d left her with a look on her face
as if she were taking notes while the Universe dictated.
Her last words, heard now at a distance,
still ringing in his ears, burning in his mind, gnawing at his soul,
“Daddy, so THIS is love? This?”
“Yes, my Darling!  Yes!”, he cried back.
He knew then that those grieving green eyes had lost their resistance.
Those haunting, knowing, accusing, pleading, piercing green eyes!

The further he fled, the harder it became, like hitting a wall.
Like trudging thru molasses in winter time, fixated.
He would not heed her Siren’s call!

As if he were swimming, sinking, running out of breath,
he stretched for the light above.
At last, he broke thru the surface into innocence.
He saw the shores lined with millions of men while
other millions, lemming-like, leapt off the Cliff of Temptation.

All men fear death,
just as all men must choose a path.
All men fear the end of time,
just as all men must drink this wine.
Each fork’s tine,
by design,
is either exciting, gaudy, but earily beautiful;
or, plain and simple.

The path of a carpenter.

Fear, tread not so lightly!
For lack of it had so nearly led to horror.
But petals were still closed,
and innocence retained.

He awoke betwixt two streams,
two worlds, still himself or so it seemed
in sunlight’s beams,
reviewing countless springtime themes
looking for the one which redeems.

Some loves are too deep.
Too complete.
Into ones soul and mind and heart
will it creep.

Her memory as sweet as honey from the corner store,
he swims now towards that distant shore.
Her angry green eyes into his back they bore,
a condemnation of his leaving.

mindbringer, 20 July 2010

To Helen From I


The winds blow cold now o’er a dark Aegean sea,
waves languorously lap this red Ionian shore.
where ruins of fabled Illium lie heaped upon the sands.
My fading mind wanders back to days of you and me,
down the dog-legged roads of yesterday
where ancient children dance and play.
Now songs are sung of our love; of our lore!
Our tales are told even in far and distant lands.

As I lie still (free at last!) near the sacred lake
down whose black river I must soon be borne,
I thought not of the thousand rotting hulks
nor their thousand captains haunting sunken reefs.
Nay, my last thought…my last effort…the last breath I take
is of you from whom I now am torn.

Even the great sea-god cries and sulks:
“Their love so great and true.  A love beyond belief!”

Oh evil Solstice, what hath thy wrought?

Now your face, pale as the moon, has returned
to caress my soul and mind one last time.
Skin like ivory
white as the sun-bleached rocks of Thessaly!
Thighs like honey,
your muted cries…
as they lit the fires
upon my funeral pyre.

The black-cloaked criers…

The coins upon my eyes…

mindbringer, 21 June 2010

Three Dreams


On the third day of Winter
I had three dreams (as I remember).
It was late in 1993
when I plainly saw before me and thee:

Three knighted dogs,
Three candybars with swords.
Three wise men on three camels rode
while thrice three times the bell did toll.
And, under a pear tree, three hens of France
frolicked in the spring.

In seed-strown dirt they did their dance
while three farmers tales were told.
They watched three clouds in twisted fury roll.
Then three barn boards
and three house logs,
these three storms did splinter.

Three ships with sails go by,
Three Gods in One, the Trinity,
Three faiths at war near Galilee.
Three spirits visit on Christ’s Mass night
the last gave no comfort thee –
but one:
To start again ere dawn is nigh
and make men glad with all your might!

Three horsemen of Apocalypse,
three clovers petaled three,
three witches passed one eye around,
three Harpies plucked out two.
Three times now dark as Sun’s eclipse,
those three ships tossed and flung by sea,
in blindness did they run aground.

Three times I screamed
and woke in sweat, chilled.
Had I dreamed?
And so, it seemed,
had thee and she.
For while my cheek warmed above thy knee
our demons all were killed –
by we –
entwined as lovers three.

mindbringer, 15 June 2010

Multiverse Per Verse


I Walked home one early June day,
down the shortcut path,

after buying more things I needed nought
carrying those I should’ve not bought,
I became aware all of a sudden
that I, and my heavy sacks, may be stopped.
Stopped by a passing long train before its tracks were crossed.

No sooner had I thunk the thought
than did a train’s nearing whistle play.
As if the gods picked me upon which to heap their wrath.
Oblivious, I ran!  Along the farmer’s ditch I ran!
Now wet sandals first flipped then flopped,
My mind was racked with wild thoughts like “Had I flossed?”.

Somehow I crossed the tracks, the tracks
there down the shortcut path.

But just then, my goods came tumbling,
came fumbling,
out from broken-handled plastic sacks,
(I’d forgot, again, those canvas bags).
I’d been pleading to please not let my handles break.
But broke they did.

And so on shortcut path of squishy clay,
I wondered why it always seemed,
that on this path of life,
this path thru sodden mud ‘n
consumption, delight and strife,
whatever I thought happened.

Was it by fate or me
that I was bossed?
Was I reality or was it I?

Was it I for whom the June sun beams?
For I who is led to fords in streams?
Or is it the other guy, the one in the mirror?
The guy whose shadow he has lost.

Was it I who sent the train down those tracks?
On that day, at that hour?
Were these thoughts I was mumbling
that which sent flying the mourning dove?

For now I saw that thinking thoughts
(or were the thoughts thinking me?)
may be all there is to life.
That my mind is all mind,
that the daily grind
was all my fault.
My thoughts.

Is all I needst do is think things right?
to think good thoughts?
thoughts guided by love?

Like black and white, pepper and salt, good and evil,
right and wrong, thick and thin.

As a Who from Whosville,
It was I who down the shortcut path to the places I have known
must needs stop and think of what I think
on everything but the kitchen sink.

No, that too.

Should this path of life be such a shortcut?
Or can I now, this day, this moment, take the longer path,
the scenic path where love and life merge as one?

If so, then you who read this poor verse
are but fignewtons of my imagination!
I know it sounds perverse,
But there it is.  Creation.

O’ patient reader, do not fly into rage!
Throw this dog a bone!
All of us (what is “us”?)
are like the perfected sage
who does not ride just any bus
but carefully guides his thoughts
With love and for love.

Without hesitation,
I can say all our do’s and noughts
are equally, but more importantly,
our OWN “reality”.

Thru chaos, grace, or great design,
each universe is mine and thine!

mindbringer, 7 June 2010

Sonnet in Bee Flat


There must be a place (but I’ve yet to find one)
beneath the Sol-drawn dawn of autumn skies
where cut-throat trout still find the heart to run
and the fullness of Summer’s life never dies.

There, as if Earth had changed rotation,
Instead of honey, nature gathers dew
and composes a world without notation.
Unlike the life of old, this work is new.

Despite the nearing gray cold wintry blast,
the twisted fir tree keeps her dreams of green,
of a chamomile welwitschian past,
and buzzing yellow flights of friends less seen.

But bees still dance their flower pollen-aise,
a song of haze gold mid-October days.

mindbringer, 19 October 2009