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Failed by the mail, go in June, oh so soon, to Giddings Jail. Pray pale Jonquil's maiden froth will not fight when middens fail. |
I
The Loss
Ah, you are gone. Ah you are
gone singing,
leaving this deep void in my heart ringing. Your happiness shines through dark, dispelling the gloom, the quiet tomb of past dwelling. I hide in its corners, worship, quelling my sorrow, my loneliness, everything in habits of mandatory sighing. I cry for wind, I cry for the winging night owl, pray for new wisdom from brooding, pray I will wake in the dawn deserting this hurt, despair, this ill favored longing. In the sun, with the pale stars descending, I'll search the lawn and the trees, the hanging moss, the wild wind forever believing there must be evidence of your loving beyond measure. As I lay worshipping in tender delight all the amazing union of our destinies like blazing coherent light, I saw lasers scanning the moon, powerful telescopes peering beyond galaxies through disappearing space into certainty's heart, there clinging. I know you'll return with kindness, bringing fire to the hearth of my heart, restoring my faith and my love, my trust, my warming. The bond of your strong body inviting my undiluted trust and my twining. Love, can I live without your embracing, Can I wander the world without facing the solitude, the lack of cherishing? In dreams each night, I'm lost to caressing insubstantial wisps of remembering: your lips, your eyes, your dear breath whispering the eternity of love attesting. I'll stay here where you were used to being, breathe the air hoping to find glimmering priceless antiquities and, devoting my time cautiously with everlasting patience, will restore without shattering infinitesimal pieces which ring to the sound of your gay, bouyant laughing in the bliss of happiness enduring. O, can I bear the loss without screaming, without crying, without dying, beating the ground where you were lately seen roaming? Earth, how unfair to create by stealing the panic of creatures you gave feeling. Kind cats kill their mice. Spare me to dying. For this day I would go without crying, without trepidation -- not the fearing, without the dread of beyond, not trembling if I could be promised total blinding to the knowledge of love, ever having had what could be dissolved into losing. The illusion of ever increasing riches of spirit, of lushly growing devotion, of tropical flourishing exotic blooms, erotic nuturing has tricked me, fooled my forlorn hope to cling for the sake of another to piping and singing and vaunted sacred welding of separateness in one consuming whole. You are gone. I am but half hearing the lecture of my heart. Truths of living proved false and slowly degrading. Fasting, I shall turn to the East and go seeking. |
The Journey
The sun on the vast plains
high and reeking escorts me moment by moment pleading its heat and its wrath, movement exceeding the sense of a donkey at noon plodding, nodding when all with good sense are sleeping. "Desist, resist," cries gold light glittering. Yet, without will, my feet are proceeding while my mind, mute, prays for shelter, shielding. My heart prays for the death of my thinking. God's and my body's will are both shrinking before the monsterous lust unseeing of drives that are embedded, fluttering in the red blood cells within flesh pulsing, pounding and quivering. I am shambling as I walk on and on through the scorching desert, the infinite length of scouring years, perpetually weary, scorning. Not yet fully prepared to be viewing what the bleak future holds for reviewing, yet ardently, passionately praying to never return to jeopardizing the world's wonder by need iterating its mindless necessity, by warping pleasant excursion into harsh warring, whimpering, insistent, blind, strangling. I flee the louring sky. Yet mastering my magic carpet of complex gridding, I glide over the whirling world flying the intricate, high wind world's harrowing upsweep, down draft, rocking and blunt reeling. On the rug's pattern, conning its keying, I steer in a bound round the earth keeping my stillness, curiosity mapping the plains of the desert. The canopying forest's irridescent green acceding to the sun's bright probe flashes, displaying the endlessness of one color's healing powers over human hearts emptying, hoping to revive the naturalizing of pure loving, blessing, careful listening. I fly through the universe demanding a difference from God's interrogating gift of the great human mind yammering, yodeling, yapping, yawning, non-yielding. Out-of-sync, the useless, flawed-reasoning, clay-built creature keeps interviewing for possibilities, still pondering alternatives, other coursing for eternity's river while I sing. Singing for the jubilee, rejoicing, steering my time woven, red, ground-looming shuttle mount through, beyond the transpiring, remotest reaches of manifesting light, seeking new questions, understanding the tumbling, trampling, tossing and treading. I will find rest, renewal. A stinging quotidian needed awakening. I will find thee, I will find revealing assurance that the looked for unveiling is written on sands of time, on blowing ingots of feathers and down, on sinking soft beds of future and past, succeeding the day by day unpledged rich offering of surpise, replenishment uniting what would have been, what will be. Numbering the journey's final stop, utilizing destination's code, we are arriving to muse keening, at the planned harvesting. |
The Panegyric
Mother died twelve years ago today. "I came, I saw, I left," her mild epitaph. In yesterday's architectural: "Why this world, not another singular paph?" the guru described the earth's history in terms yet unknown in the Western wisdom world. Europeans forced to find their crumb of gold at the edge of the globe, beyond the sea by Islam's conquest of Gaia's trade, Gaia's heart. They came, they saw, they dismembered great civilizations, awesome beyond the layas of their paltry dreams, absorbed concepts of fate and justified their barbarisms by theft of grandeur, pristine, pure. Eye for eye, they fought, with God given diseases their fee, mass death, spiritual lucre dumped like scree. Stolen gold to generate their power, limit Judaic Cristianity's mutation into Mohammed's divinities, words sublime, swift sword and steady shower outstripping Alexander's boastful, huge naff, who conquered the world only by one small half. O mother mine for your equilibrium! -- to come and go, sans blood to augment your sum. |
One's had enough experience, she cries, with rancorous temperament, but espys the flaw in momentary reasoning knowing that time's wing flies and flies and flies. |
There are times of despair in life, there are times of heart-felt
pain, there are times for the gnashing of teeth, times for screaming, times for ranting and weeping, times for secluding one's self, times to hide from the pain of life, and the pain of human beings, times to return to the earth as a tree, as a flower that blooms and dies, swiftly it blooms and swiftly it dies, for the time of beauty is short. The persistence of anguish is long, the time of despair is forever. |
Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: jhaag@janhaag.com or jhaag@u.washington.edu
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