I have been a happy and troubled soul for a very long time
these poems are my say so from that time 1969-1978.
in the autumnleaves.
In a golden whisper
I will fall for you
dancing with the strength
of the final fire for this year.
The frosty night
crystallized white
on naked twigs and branches.
The moon's silvery shine
reflected in the air.
Hear my voice:
I will touch you in a dream
with the first fall of snow,
cover you in a love act,
blow your old ways,
for I am all new.
***
Guy Fawkes memory
resounds and rolls,
burns like a fire
in a small English garden.
Black silhouettes
of autumn bare trees
throw bare fingers
to a fake British moon.
Children explode,
there are massive pillars
of dark festive smoke.
There is laughter.
This is just a matter
of counting old bricks,
darkened with
working class soot.
***
Through a seasonal change
where mystery and cyclic tapestry
lives in wild pattern bursts,
I walk naked with branches,
blossoming trees, ripening in orchards,
I walk through crumbling poems
under a deep wintry sky:
I can still hear your voice
calling me forward.
In a smile's sensation
you come to me
disguised like scent,
an old breath in my dream.
***
The touch
We met briefly
on the sill
of a broken window.
We stood still
in the light of a smile,
our hands joined.
The kiss of life,
the touch of flowers,
blooming in our blood.
Will I find her,
the dream of my travels,
behind a winter door,
across bridges
over frozen rivers,
glittering veins
in her labyrinthal town.
Will I find her?
I wonder.
Will white wings of winter
catch my only hope,
offer it before her
in the depth of her eyes.
The picture of a family,
bodies so perfect for love,
the questions the winds
urges her to answer.
Will I find her?
I watch her beauty
from the edge of a gulls wing
shaping itself
in a breath of cold air.
She sweeps me to heights
where glory is union
and happiness
on the tip of the tongue.
Will I find her?
I wonder.
Look! The world
garments itself in winds
spearing me with a pain
that is hers too.
Will I find her?
I wonder.
I know that love
is no game no end
thrusting understanding
like dark rainbows,
that love is more
than the soil I walk on.
I could hear her hair unfold
at the closing of dusk
as I walked alone,
not even owning my shadow.
I saw her undressing,
going to bed
with yet another lover.
I am numb,
no wings to carry me
through city lights.
I smiled bitterly
when white snow
once again
fell on my face.
Will I find her?
Endless corridors in shadow,
time as cold air,
her foot is the pendulum.
***
The night fell deeper
and the music across my face
drove me further and further
away from any other street
than the ones leading to her
and her many lovers.
Will she find me
bleeding on the street
with eyes of snow
and mouth full of skyline.
Will I find her?
***
"This flower
they say is yours,
I don't want it.
It is you I want."
"Breath" she said,
pointing her brittle twigs
to my petrified nostrils.
"Breath for me,
I am the dream of spring".
"Look" I said,
she looked away.
"Look" she said,
her face deep in snow.
The snow kept falling
until morning.
Carefully I turned her face
away from the flowers
at the market
and looked into her eyes.
I am too drunk, she said
and went away.
Rumours of wild energy
pushed its way
across a dusky sky.
There is a message
in the tar black canal,
a pulsating message,
a reflecting star.
I the morning there was
a thin layer of ice
crowning the canal's head.
***
I know
the greatness
and the magnificent
silence
of dreams. They
are the real part
of me
of you, of our love.
I know
sometimes I am
at the end
of a
kite's string
pulling
without knowing.
Come my love, I feel
I can carry you high
on a smile of understanding
on wings in a light
that will shine
when we wish it to.
Come my love, drop
your weary circles and
your aching dream life aching
and let us unite
in the living resource
of the Earth.
***
Flames of a child
burning on the edge
of a brand new city dream.
Snowflakes of memory
fell on streets
of a tormented Christmas.
In the broken shadow
of a dying moon
he lay naked.
The music of the light
touched his face
with beer and small talk.
Call me, he said
to the moon.
Make me a child again.
There were flames
leaping across the street,
through the winter park.
It hurts to see
in the squalor of sleep,
waking up is always hard.
***
Flower breathe on me.
I want that.
To touch the essence
of your petal life
is my desire.
Call me near.
Light a candle
at the side of the road
and I will stay
awhile.
Flower take me.
I am weary of travelling
and need no more dust
gathered from
the only one roads.
Flower breath on me.
I want that.
***
The smoke, she said,
flew through the air
and
vanished.
Once more I searched
through the chimney
past the flowers
at the rim
of my hair,
through Pauls voice,
the Afghani dog
pulling the chewing gum machine
down.
I heard you laughing
in the yellow streetlight,
in the falling of the wind
through the vast chambers
of dark fertility
calling in the wind,
falling in the wind.
To the sons of heaven
the fathers
of
falling
visions water
to the men of fire mater
of resurrected towers
haunted sheets of
pinpointed
suffering, pain
of tasteless destruction.
Evoke me and I shall
fall
through the
air,
leaf the beam of shoulder,
shoulder the beam of leaf
and the streets
will echo ech
o
through the memory of
I and I
and not
with a body of laughter
laughing
***
Who inaugurated
ceremonies of utter love
in temples where wind
is two times stronger
than any Friday's on the run
from apples falling,
faces in seduction.
there are a cracks screaming
through the ceiling
across the ceremonial wall.
A worm like tell tale
in ersatz mood
is all circumstance
ever left behind.
If I were to tell you
about my heavy dreams,
the shattered glass,
the bloodstained bars,
about the bird on the second floor
that grow up so beautifully,
driving me mad with happiness.
If I told you about the mescaline
that could bend bars
and Tim in the morning
asking "Shall I cook today?"
If I told you the day's long journey
from the heavy stuff
in Sgt Pepper's Stockholm,
the raw coming back
into the raw pine
with sores on my hands.
If I told you about the wild tunes
I hear come crashing down
on a Welsh shore:
Would you see me there,
would you take my hand
and say
this is your life and more.
***
His name was Zafet,
the Turks called him Ermeniler,
that is to say, Armenian.
He was big,
almost as tall as I am,
but twice the size
and he sure could move.
He danced to the sound
of the transistor radio.
Grabbing me by the eyes,
he invited me.
We'd dance madly
in our cell late at night
as if we could dance right out
past the grey guards
keeping warm by a fire
burning in a big tin,
we danced past the garden,
the cabins where eyes meet
on certain days,
exploding through the gate
with wind and sky.
His name was Zafet.
The Turks called him Ermeniler.
We danced like mad
with bunk beds
and Koji laughing.
***
Hamido!
I dream of you sometimes.
I can still see
your power-procession
walking down
long corridors of hell,
your cold eyes,
you stick beating
the children next to us,
the dark echo
of doings in the dark below.
It had to come
you know,
the bullet through
your sweaty forehead.
***
Two hands
To sacrifice the dog and the cock
on the altar of righteousness,
what an idle dream!
Is he not more honest
that listens to the essence
of their tempting sound,
releasing the energy born
with its realization.
(Dog and cock represents servant-master aspects of ego-hood. None of them are true in a Tathgata sense, just expressions of fear, misunderstanding and hypocrisy.)
Why bury yourself
in the myths
of your own life?
In projecting this on reality,
do believe in what you see?
(This is called: Be aware of the daughters of Mara.)
***
Across the threshold
of yet another dream
the soft sound of screams emerges,
a wild man's roar is heard
through dark illusiveness of fear,
suspended space, reality rolling...
The warm-winter-window-dream...
relaxed in time for rain
is scheduled to fall
when you least expect it
turning your voice
warm an moistly.
This is the time you've expected.
But it's so different
from the first place
you imagined.
This is the
not-trying-anymore
and nothing
is more beautiful
than that.
***
Dakini
Dipped in the eternal glow
of a crystal-water-morning,
five times blessed, I move.
From the ruins in the distance
smoke, the tower-weight of memory gone...
But you beloved still persist.
Softly moving through the time
of this year – naked –
emerald thoughts, light.
Dance with me Dakini!
Dance with me
to the sound of this world!
Dance with me here
in the air, in the sky
to the chime of time falling!
***
Welcome
Listen now: The collected
surging dreams of trees;
A history-weight
of the massive silence of mountains;
The green praise of ripe memory-grass,
keeping the shape of your body
still warm, stretched
over far away heaving hills;
The essence you once called:
Fountain-of-milk-and-honey;
The naked brutality of a bending storm,
of which it is said:
Might be the Vajra-anger of Mahakali;
A bleak grandeur of these city walls
trailing the wet stillness
of nights true nature, your voice;
The breathing of an elusive sky,
truths inherit in myths
beneath old rippled moon
on brooks, puddles and windows;
The vast syllables of night
seeping, free space to reign;
To the city itself, built
like a manifesto to last
with circuits of fake stability,
framed with concluded projects
of this time;
To the talk between us
and its ancient origin;
To all living attributes
we have collected,
attributes recorded
in the depth of faces,
in the all-of-it unspoken;
All of it:
Insects marching,
pebbles singing with a grind
in a crystal-answer
to a timed sea;
The twisted twigs of age,
brittle winter-ladders
raised to the being of self:
All talks to you
by the
ornamented door.
Poetry by Bob
Read 652 times
Written on 2015-05-07 at 14:52
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
these poems are my say so from that time 1969-1978.
a blast from the seventies
Look for mein the autumnleaves.
In a golden whisper
I will fall for you
dancing with the strength
of the final fire for this year.
The frosty night
crystallized white
on naked twigs and branches.
The moon's silvery shine
reflected in the air.
Hear my voice:
I will touch you in a dream
with the first fall of snow,
cover you in a love act,
blow your old ways,
for I am all new.
***
Guy Fawkes memory
resounds and rolls,
burns like a fire
in a small English garden.
Black silhouettes
of autumn bare trees
throw bare fingers
to a fake British moon.
Children explode,
there are massive pillars
of dark festive smoke.
There is laughter.
This is just a matter
of counting old bricks,
darkened with
working class soot.
***
Through a seasonal change
where mystery and cyclic tapestry
lives in wild pattern bursts,
I walk naked with branches,
blossoming trees, ripening in orchards,
I walk through crumbling poems
under a deep wintry sky:
I can still hear your voice
calling me forward.
In a smile's sensation
you come to me
disguised like scent,
an old breath in my dream.
***
The touch
We met briefly
on the sill
of a broken window.
We stood still
in the light of a smile,
our hands joined.
The kiss of life,
the touch of flowers,
blooming in our blood.
Will I find her,
the dream of my travels,
behind a winter door,
across bridges
over frozen rivers,
glittering veins
in her labyrinthal town.
Will I find her?
I wonder.
Will white wings of winter
catch my only hope,
offer it before her
in the depth of her eyes.
The picture of a family,
bodies so perfect for love,
the questions the winds
urges her to answer.
Will I find her?
I watch her beauty
from the edge of a gulls wing
shaping itself
in a breath of cold air.
She sweeps me to heights
where glory is union
and happiness
on the tip of the tongue.
Will I find her?
I wonder.
Look! The world
garments itself in winds
spearing me with a pain
that is hers too.
Will I find her?
I wonder.
I know that love
is no game no end
thrusting understanding
like dark rainbows,
that love is more
than the soil I walk on.
I could hear her hair unfold
at the closing of dusk
as I walked alone,
not even owning my shadow.
I saw her undressing,
going to bed
with yet another lover.
I am numb,
no wings to carry me
through city lights.
I smiled bitterly
when white snow
once again
fell on my face.
Will I find her?
Endless corridors in shadow,
time as cold air,
her foot is the pendulum.
***
The night fell deeper
and the music across my face
drove me further and further
away from any other street
than the ones leading to her
and her many lovers.
Will she find me
bleeding on the street
with eyes of snow
and mouth full of skyline.
Will I find her?
***
"This flower
they say is yours,
I don't want it.
It is you I want."
"Breath" she said,
pointing her brittle twigs
to my petrified nostrils.
"Breath for me,
I am the dream of spring".
"Look" I said,
she looked away.
"Look" she said,
her face deep in snow.
The snow kept falling
until morning.
Carefully I turned her face
away from the flowers
at the market
and looked into her eyes.
I am too drunk, she said
and went away.
Rumours of wild energy
pushed its way
across a dusky sky.
There is a message
in the tar black canal,
a pulsating message,
a reflecting star.
I the morning there was
a thin layer of ice
crowning the canal's head.
***
I know
the greatness
and the magnificent
silence
of dreams. They
are the real part
of me
of you, of our love.
I know
sometimes I am
at the end
of a
kite's string
pulling
without knowing.
Come my love, I feel
I can carry you high
on a smile of understanding
on wings in a light
that will shine
when we wish it to.
Come my love, drop
your weary circles and
your aching dream life aching
and let us unite
in the living resource
of the Earth.
***
Flames of a child
burning on the edge
of a brand new city dream.
Snowflakes of memory
fell on streets
of a tormented Christmas.
In the broken shadow
of a dying moon
he lay naked.
The music of the light
touched his face
with beer and small talk.
Call me, he said
to the moon.
Make me a child again.
There were flames
leaping across the street,
through the winter park.
It hurts to see
in the squalor of sleep,
waking up is always hard.
***
Flower breathe on me.
I want that.
To touch the essence
of your petal life
is my desire.
Call me near.
Light a candle
at the side of the road
and I will stay
awhile.
Flower take me.
I am weary of travelling
and need no more dust
gathered from
the only one roads.
Flower breath on me.
I want that.
***
The smoke, she said,
flew through the air
and
vanished.
Once more I searched
through the chimney
past the flowers
at the rim
of my hair,
through Pauls voice,
the Afghani dog
pulling the chewing gum machine
down.
I heard you laughing
in the yellow streetlight,
in the falling of the wind
through the vast chambers
of dark fertility
calling in the wind,
falling in the wind.
To the sons of heaven
the fathers
of
falling
visions water
to the men of fire mater
of resurrected towers
haunted sheets of
pinpointed
suffering, pain
of tasteless destruction.
Evoke me and I shall
fall
through the
air,
leaf the beam of shoulder,
shoulder the beam of leaf
and the streets
will echo ech
o
through the memory of
I and I
and not
with a body of laughter
laughing
***
Who inaugurated
ceremonies of utter love
in temples where wind
is two times stronger
than any Friday's on the run
from apples falling,
faces in seduction.
there are a cracks screaming
through the ceiling
across the ceremonial wall.
A worm like tell tale
in ersatz mood
is all circumstance
ever left behind.
If I were to tell you
about my heavy dreams,
the shattered glass,
the bloodstained bars,
about the bird on the second floor
that grow up so beautifully,
driving me mad with happiness.
If I told you about the mescaline
that could bend bars
and Tim in the morning
asking "Shall I cook today?"
If I told you the day's long journey
from the heavy stuff
in Sgt Pepper's Stockholm,
the raw coming back
into the raw pine
with sores on my hands.
If I told you about the wild tunes
I hear come crashing down
on a Welsh shore:
Would you see me there,
would you take my hand
and say
this is your life and more.
***
His name was Zafet,
the Turks called him Ermeniler,
that is to say, Armenian.
He was big,
almost as tall as I am,
but twice the size
and he sure could move.
He danced to the sound
of the transistor radio.
Grabbing me by the eyes,
he invited me.
We'd dance madly
in our cell late at night
as if we could dance right out
past the grey guards
keeping warm by a fire
burning in a big tin,
we danced past the garden,
the cabins where eyes meet
on certain days,
exploding through the gate
with wind and sky.
His name was Zafet.
The Turks called him Ermeniler.
We danced like mad
with bunk beds
and Koji laughing.
***
Hamido!
I dream of you sometimes.
I can still see
your power-procession
walking down
long corridors of hell,
your cold eyes,
you stick beating
the children next to us,
the dark echo
of doings in the dark below.
It had to come
you know,
the bullet through
your sweaty forehead.
***
Two hands
To sacrifice the dog and the cock
on the altar of righteousness,
what an idle dream!
Is he not more honest
that listens to the essence
of their tempting sound,
releasing the energy born
with its realization.
(Dog and cock represents servant-master aspects of ego-hood. None of them are true in a Tathgata sense, just expressions of fear, misunderstanding and hypocrisy.)
Why bury yourself
in the myths
of your own life?
In projecting this on reality,
do believe in what you see?
(This is called: Be aware of the daughters of Mara.)
***
Across the threshold
of yet another dream
the soft sound of screams emerges,
a wild man's roar is heard
through dark illusiveness of fear,
suspended space, reality rolling...
The warm-winter-window-dream...
relaxed in time for rain
is scheduled to fall
when you least expect it
turning your voice
warm an moistly.
This is the time you've expected.
But it's so different
from the first place
you imagined.
This is the
not-trying-anymore
and nothing
is more beautiful
than that.
***
Dakini
Dipped in the eternal glow
of a crystal-water-morning,
five times blessed, I move.
From the ruins in the distance
smoke, the tower-weight of memory gone...
But you beloved still persist.
Softly moving through the time
of this year – naked –
emerald thoughts, light.
Dance with me Dakini!
Dance with me
to the sound of this world!
Dance with me here
in the air, in the sky
to the chime of time falling!
***
Welcome
Listen now: The collected
surging dreams of trees;
A history-weight
of the massive silence of mountains;
The green praise of ripe memory-grass,
keeping the shape of your body
still warm, stretched
over far away heaving hills;
The essence you once called:
Fountain-of-milk-and-honey;
The naked brutality of a bending storm,
of which it is said:
Might be the Vajra-anger of Mahakali;
A bleak grandeur of these city walls
trailing the wet stillness
of nights true nature, your voice;
The breathing of an elusive sky,
truths inherit in myths
beneath old rippled moon
on brooks, puddles and windows;
The vast syllables of night
seeping, free space to reign;
To the city itself, built
like a manifesto to last
with circuits of fake stability,
framed with concluded projects
of this time;
To the talk between us
and its ancient origin;
To all living attributes
we have collected,
attributes recorded
in the depth of faces,
in the all-of-it unspoken;
All of it:
Insects marching,
pebbles singing with a grind
in a crystal-answer
to a timed sea;
The twisted twigs of age,
brittle winter-ladders
raised to the being of self:
All talks to you
by the
ornamented door.
Poetry by Bob
Read 652 times
Written on 2015-05-07 at 14:52
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Jamsbo Rockda |
|
josephus |
| Texts |
 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
Increase font
Decrease