The agnostic
The agnostic is caught in his mind
by his god and by his devil
to be and not to be:
maybe devil and god exist; maybe neither
maybe mist was always rain
and rain a shining river
there are no answers, he believes,
but the questions are eternal.
.
Questions Emerging From A Dream About Eating A Pet
Does food, like medicine,
heal separation?
when we eat we make what is
not us, our own?
is eating, like touching, a way to know
the illusionary nature of form?
are rules made to be broken
in ways that work
like – bite off more than chewable
if very hungry (and learn what you learn)?
.
Meditation Poetry (2 poems)
I AM OM
Lord of Heaven
give me your blessing.
Color me with your light.
No other can purify
like You, the Ocean.
You make me light.
You are mother, father,
sister, brother,
child, friend, companion.
Satguru, Lord of Heaven
show me what I am,
what I am becoming.
You are the Star guiding
me home, the Lover
who inspires me to transform.
I belong to Light.
I am Om, Om Shanti.
(Satguru means “the true teacher”;
Om Shanti means “I am a peaceful soul.”)
.
Child of God, do you know who you are?
Do you know who you are?
Is your self-esteem high?
Deep is the ocean
of unlimited love,
the Mother.
The child who knows her
is not an orphan.
Child of God,
do you know who you are?
.
Meditations
Being ethical is optimum survival.
I can seek escape going toward a bottom
but only find freedom in looking, willing to see.
There’s no reason not to be, punishing myself for ignorance
outgrown. I choose ongoing to play my part – that’s my point
being in a drama. The more complete my view,
the better fit the parts.
We create our worlds and God creates through us; there’s no
separation, we are one. But mortals as well, we have to choose
between good and evil – tragically, at times between two
or more goods vitally important. Everything is permitted.
.
My Daughter’s Footsteps
Snowflake footsteps
drop at my door and fade.
I wonder, then know
what she wants to hear…
my daughter
who I’ve ignored
all day, again
(having other things
to do)
asks with her
snowflake footsteps
that I tell her I love her.
.
Small Bird Bones
My cat’s eyes
shine with tenderness,
his tail furls
and curls with intention.
Soon he will meow long
and scratch the screen door
until he’s too tired
to see the fallen sparrow.
I want to let him go,
see his black body fly
like an elegant arrow –
have it over with –
but hear my first cat
high in a tree,
small bird bones
caught in his throat.
.
à la Baudelaire
L’Invitation au Voyage
Allons en voyage, mon frère
mon amant
où ensemble nous nagerons
à travers les sauvages rayons
de la lune, à travers
les mers violettes, en fleur
où il n’importe non que tu m’es menti
mon cher, où le soleil
brille quand nous voulons
et nous nous aimons.
J’aime que tu existe.
.
The Misogynist
(for Jack Noyes, who hunted butterflies
and black widow spiders)
He told me what he did
to women and insects
was simply a matter
of getting to know them,
that I should understand,
that being a woman’s duty.
He said all men kill inferiors
to find pleasure therein,
and improve the world thereby.
.
Child with a Shell
He touches its teeth
fingers its inner ear, smoothly glazed
like a pink fish-belly.
As he feels further,
whiter, smoother,
echoing sounds from the center –
Broken open,
he holds the empty hull
wondering where the sound has gone
and looks for another shell.
.
Invocation to the White Goddess
(The Celtic Muse)
Isis of water, earth,
Fire and air,
Hear my prayer.
See with me,
Touch my tongue.
Let me speak to pierce the hearts
Of all who worship you.
Hold me as your child,
That I may know
What is real.
(Ref. Robert Graves, The White Goddess)
.
My teacher
(for Minoru Kawabata)
He taught painting in Manhattan,
a wisp of a man, almost transparent,
who knew his world
and what he intended came about.
He didn’t seem to know he was famous.
He found living seeds of promise
on every student’s canvas
and ways to coax forth their powers;
he showed us how to more deeply care
and we grew as artists.
Beyond wisdom, missing nothing
he chose the precise words and gestures
to calm the space and lift our spirits.
Though he spoke little English,
he touched our hearts with such elegance
that we outdid ourselves.
.
Manhattan, I’ve loved you…
from the moment I arrived,
I knew I’d been chosen.
I love your love, your savoire faire,
your wider skies,
your lights, theaters, fruitstands, harbors,
smells of perfume and salt water,
the magic of your ships and towers,
your tales of freedom and tomorrows,
the tongues and colors of your people,
all your styles,
your open eyes,
all that you make possible.
.
Life digs itself
Following Ayn Rand, some critic claims
an avatar only has power
to the extent he is believed,
without considering this might be true of Ayn
And so the eternal game continues:
life digs itself
eggs hatch
bees make honey
thunder breaks
All of us have been in places
no sane person would choose;
mystics say life experiencing itself
is the purpose
And that the avatar is born,
or becomes, so empathetic
he is able to dig anything
and transform it, mind or matter,
bring forth life from death
Critics secretly believe he negates
their own discoveries
and protest, watching from a raft
at risk of flooding
From mist to shining river,
egg to feathers
flying with power,
seed to ancient stick:
life digs itself
The poet Rumi calls it creation dancing,
passionate for God
.
I had
I had exotic plumage once
soft, brilliant green, gold, red
I turned into a swallow
frail and lice-ridden
What was I thinking?
.
Pegasus Dreaming
An eyelid rises
in the middle of his forehead
and Pegasus gallops forth;
the drums of time
beat on heaven’s door:
rum a tum, om ta rum
rum a tum, om ta rum
While Pegasus dreams
his playground forms,
a watery mirror
Narcissus runs toward, knowing
a god will meet him.
rum a tum, om ta rum
rum a tum, om ta rum
He watches in a trance
the wings below
shining with light
not knowing how to let go
of what is drowning.
rum a tum, om ta rum
rum a tum, om ta rum
.
The Saint
Like a tree whipped by winds
a saint leads a twisted life,
turning time and again
towards light to straighten
until, beyond the pull of opposites,
she glows like a sun.
.
After all controversy surrounding Christmas …
There is a winter solstice
carrying the promise
of another spring
and a Christ within
wiling to be born.
.
I am
In the leaves
and between
I flicker across trunks
weave ribbons of light
slither up bark
swing branch to branch
flatten and fade
gleam, upright
eternally
nothing and everything.
.
My friend tells me…
my short poems are my best.
I start with the wind at my back
and get scared
shut and bolt the door
ramble on
and on and on
as though the wind
is still there.
Regarding “long vs. short”: The Poetic Principle by Edgar A. Poe
© poems by Joneve McCormick 