Entirety Entered
A poem by another poet
invites the reader
to enter in entirety
entirety.
I, reader,
enter easily.
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Entirety Entered
Magic
MAGIC
I believe in magic,
or I would not be here.
I make magic when I dream,
when I laugh or shed a tear.
Since pure energy pervades me,
floods each molecule and cell,
since its waves are all around me,
ringing like a muted bell,
flowing ever inward, outward, magically unseen,
I must focus on one wavelength.
Thus my senses, sharply keen,
do perceive my bedstead solid,
anchored in a present time,
yet in dreams of past and future
things do rhyme and do not rhyme.
Far away and distant lands
occupy that very place
where my body,
here quite solid,
lies asleep
in innocent
grace.
Magic?
Yes.
I call it magic.
I’m a dream-art scientist
and as such know very well
that neither time
nor space
exist.
But
I
do.
I am magic.
Righteous Rage
RIGHTEOUS RAGE
Much has been thrown
into these stagnant waters
without a ripple
far
too
long.
The storm brews,
finally rages.
Righteous hell, break loose!
Clench your fist!
Take steps,
one
by one,
determined.
Offending beliefs beware!
From the inner core
the volcano erupts.
Foul birds
escape the mouth.
Much is spewed
into the atmosphere:
its fallout gray,
unsightly.
Fertile.
Ode to Pain
ODE TO PAIN
Oh, throbbing knee
and aching muscles behind the knee
and down
my leg.
There is a knotted feeling
deep inside my belly.
Four of ten fingers
swollen
and sometimes
full of pain.
But I’m alive and kicking,
though with one leg,
just now.
I don’t want medicines,
or pain relievers,
I want to feel the pain.
Not to exult in pain and suffering –
I am no masochist –
but stay with it
and realize that I created it.
Roses
ROSES
Inviolate
violet,
pain-painted pansy
in meadow
and field,
in loving splendor kissed by the sun,
blessed
by the rain.
Rosetta roses in
stained glass
windows
of steepled cathedrals,
thrown down on the path
in sharp splinters and shards
for nuptial couples to walk on
before being blessed
by the priest.
I had that vision.
But I must be mistaken.
For sparkling up high
in rainbowed ice
they glisten and gleam
red-green
and forever.
The Inner Eye
THE INNER EYE
I hold
my knee
in both my hands
and close my eyes
in pain.
Astonished,
I view red open lips
against my inner screen.
With fascination
I watch their transformation
into a rose.
The red rose lingers,
in full bloom swims slowly towards my inner planet,
swims into it,
is gone
and takes my pain.
Now all is green,
a blanketed,
flat,
springtime
green.
And then I see the forming, rather sketching,
of an eye,
blue-gray in color,
so like my own that,
suddenly,
in awe,
I know:
Between Two Worlds
BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
It is hard to see
both inside and out
at the same time.
We blink on and off.
The black tunnel
ends in white,
leads back to darkness
and again to the light,
endlessly,
ceaselessly,
like the sea.
And as day follows night and
night day,
we stay conscious of our waking selves,
glittering crests of ocean waves
by day,
and when day time
is done
become fish in the moonlight
who dream
of the noon-day sun.
A Grain of Sand
A GRAIN OF SAND
To hear the author reciting her poem, accompanied by Wayne Thiel on guitar, click here (visual effects also by Wayne)
I am a grain of sand
of earths gone by and rising new.
I’m sand.
I am the dew drop on a leaf,
the bull’s-eye in the storm.
I am the billowing clouds adrift,
the rose’s petal, stem and thorn.
I am the shepherd’s flute and song,
the cowbell’s clangy dance,
warm, whispy breath of lovers’ kisses,
I am the poem’s every stance.
I am the tunnel through the earth,
the arrow through the stone.
I am the winds that blow unseen
yet shake the trees and make them groan.
I am the dreamer’s fantasies,
desires, fears and laughter.
I have a name and have no name.
Now is before and after.
Of all the legends never told,
in eons to be born,
I am birdfish and animal-man,
man, woman, child
and unicorn.
Creator
of my dreams,
my days, nights, seasons;
creator and created I am,
yet always ask for reasons.
The answers come from everywhere.
I think I understand.
When I focus on a grain of sand
I’m sand.
Mountain Climbers, Builders
MOUNTAIN CLIMBERS,
BUILDERS
Mountain climbers
know
exhilaration.
They reached the top,
the top of one earth,
the edge,
the outside,
the rim of one planet,
this tiny time speck
in the utter vastness
of ALL.
Feeling accomplished,.
their minds never satisfied,
they look down.
They own this world.
Their bodies can’t go higher.
I See A Timeless Mountain
I SEE
A TIMELESS MOUNTAIN
among myriads of gestures
of timeless times and soundless sound
on a vast plain.
I see its whiteness gleaming under seething suns,
fading under moons,
windswept,
bare.
I see mountain lions, eagles, a mountain climber.
I see the very top of time,
the ever present NOW.
Ute's Poetry and Musings 