A thwarted Spirit sings!
Its tune up-wells, through sand and thatch,
seeking a home sans mud and disease.
like steam and sandal-wood incense twined
It serpentines Its way,
incensed by deaf ears, maligned,
It seeps and lingers
laying in wait of receptive ear, pined,
It composes Itself,
renegotiates the rules of physics
to best Its sound,
It leaps and creeps
in search of an open mind
a vacant heart
It weaves through cracked echoes
along pipes and porcelain
incessantly searching for peace to invade
and to beautify,
like a mournful bay at an orange moon
or a distant
of a remote water.
in a time when silence is rare
can sense be found
in the silence of Self
or the lack of a “tuned” Spirit?
Without the song of the Soul,
the crass of brass in the company of gold,
the tacit sassy impiousness
of a world without the Dharma of Karma.
D’ost thou still intend
to squeeze the last
drop of juice from this peach?
that same “in pursuit and labored-for-years” juice,
that “disrobing and unraveling” juice,
that “through the plowed and sowed” juice,
that “through the whelping weeds and thatch, less keen,” juice,
only to catch the ripened Fruit and to squash its Spirit?
though the Pit grew slow,
frostbit and blight,
drought and hail
and deep, cold nights,
the assailed Fruit that almost was,
but then wasn’t….
Thine time has come!”
the procrastinated Harvest that was jinxed and hi-jinxed
hijacked and whacked
overshadowed with shrouds of the cowed,
the Harvest that never thought Itself worthy
is now at that precipice of choice
till that shill, hoe it under
plow ahead and relish!
Fruition is now
and the Juice It bears is sweet with the sweat
of fresh labor and realization-Self.
though shrivel shall come
that ever-so protective
this Peach shall not be stopped
now that It knows
what life is;
not merely existence,
The Blossoms’ pollen
shall ride with the speed of the breeze
in that cycle that ever repeats,
rounding the round, to the backside bound,
round the pedal as set in motion
spinning of its own volition
in the salted sun breeze!
draft-down dance now!
dance with joy
to the sounds of the people,
a joyful people
who will not be repressed or oppressed
but caressed by Love,
to dance with ones Muse!
in tangerine, lime and hot-pink gels
with the smell of grease-paint
and jester laughs, never quelled!
to dervish fast, with the Muse,
fast as ice
wet, by 33 drips in degrees,
to spin and vocalize upon heady themes,
and to laugh in deaths face!
the ostinato celli underpins
the muses of the Muse,
so too does the west wind wave
the blessed Seed, craved.
while a tremolo speeds the marking time,
the marching-in-place time,
the dog-eared days time,
the chronicled and signed
so as not to lose face
or place time,
or to alone the mind
never caught, time,
the realization of Self and Soul
the thwarted Spirit sings true,
true to Itself
and to time, anew,
a whimling tune that follows the heart
that’s all emotion with little thought,
the whimpling-sung song endures
and will not be hushed or hounded or rushed,
an exuberant Voice which sings it aloud
has finally arrived
and now that It knows, what It knows of Self
shall not go silently into the night
but fight for the right to go out
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