My Blog

Deeper

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 03:38:46 GMT

Behind your eyes, beneath your face, beyond those things time must erase, I hear you sing, I see you bright, yet still I sense some deeper place where all the play of song and sight shall fall away with little trace but for an essence -- humming, slight, steady, clear -- a ray of light. The word most nearly right: Grace. 7/17/08

Summer Night

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 04:43:34 GMT

Web spinners festoon the lindens. Fireflies silently enchant the lawn. The fan's breath strokes my galvanic bare skin in the quiet pool of the dark. It is late. This night is alive. Heat lightning shivers the shadows and I glimpse remembered faces. I think of California, burning again. In my dream voices from the West murmur an invitation. I will accept before long. Soon the great storms will come with their rough cleansing. I will go soon, like the music pulsing from a fast car's radio on a summer night.

Luna I

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Mon, 19 May 2008 11:08:15 GMT

The trick to en-joying the full moon's light is not to worry about the dirt on the window through which She reveals Herself. --5/19/08 (image of Hunter's Moon from nightskyinfo.com)

Harper's Ferry Gap

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Mon, 19 May 2008 02:00:10 GMT

Between the mountains along the rivers I remember that radios and phones don't work in here. This raises the question 'Can my prayer be heard?'. The sun-warmed pavement immediately says "of course I hear." The trees shake their leaves in a tribal dance with the wind that is an affirmation. The water laughs as it tickles the river stones: "Silly soul. Haven't you learned this lesson yet?"

Landlocked in Fur

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Sat, 17 May 2008 04:43:09 GMT

Enjoy Tukaram's poem! Landlocked in Fur I was meditating with my cat the other day and all of a sudden she shouted, "What happened?" I knew exactly what she meant, but encouraged her to say more - feeling that if she got it all out on the table she would sleep better that night. So I responded, "Tell me more, dear," and she soulfully meowed, "Well, I was mingled with the sky. I was comets whizzing here and there. I was suns in heat, hell - I was galaxies. But now look - I am landlocked in fur." To this I said, "I know exactly what you mean." What to say about conversation between mystics? -- Tukaram

Alchemy (Beltane)

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Sat, 03 May 2008 04:48:10 GMT

"No" has its consequences. "Yes" does, too. And so, dragging along my host of defenses like a stone, I leave the comfort zone of everyday to enter a magical realm of angry angels, beaming demons, earthy squalor, ravishing beauty. A flute in the trees accompanies bellows of passion satisfied. The gamelan of gongs and drums answers an occasional YOO-HOO! I am terrified, enchanted. Frozen and aflame. And then, you kiss me. My mind startles, but my body opens. . This isn't Kansas, but you are the wizard, and my senses shake off their stupor. Reconciliation of opposites creates a new thing: Love and fear become fire. I let it consume me. 5/2/08

Short Mountain

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Sat, 03 May 2008 04:09:19 GMT

I walk the land and think: Oh. Thank you. Thank you. And the trees and birds, wind and rocks, whisper back: Welcome. You are welcome. Welcome home. 5/2/08

Poem: The Healing Time

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 19:13:07 GMT

A beautiful poem written by Pesha Joyce Gertler -- enjoy! Bob The Healing Time Finally on my way to yes I bump into all the places where I said no to my life all the untended wounds the red and purple scars those hieroglyphs of pain carved into my skin, my bones, those coded messages that send me down the wrong street again and again where I find them the old wounds the old misdirections and I lift them one by one close to my heart and I say holy holy. --Pesha Joyce Gertler

The Drive to School

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 03:35:05 GMT

Fields of yellow mustard -- golden fields -- I forget, from year to year, their beauty. Always amazed each spring.

Dream: Four-Voice Fugue

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 02:18:51 GMT

(Rain). Phone won’t work -- rotary, obsolete. I weep, keep dialing beyond zero. You urge: Get new, move on, purge, leave the past. I suppose so. How else shall I ever connect? (Moss). Meanwhile, I’ve badgered the snake back into his tunnel by threat and thrust of burning stick. Once he’s out of sight I push the embers in, fill it all with earth and memory. (Flight). Look! The bees and wasps crawl across my face and arms without stinging. The secret is not to react. Then, when they’re all winging away, I see welts of stealthy mosquito bites. (Flame). My brother moves folding tables onto a stage with me. The lamps are burning high. I struggle, but cannot see the room, or recall at all why we’re there. He mumbles he loves me. (Stretto). So voices of the past, the erotic, the addictive, lead at last to the heart and its own knowing of the elements. (Coda). The circle is forever cast. 4/2/08

Haiku: Five

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 03:39:17 GMT

'Born to lose' tattoo -- How could he have understood, Only seventeen? You knew a love song Long before our ways diverged. Echoes climb the hill. The jasmine incense Recalls a sailor I knew. Lush. His name was Tom. I see no clearing, Enforested in your arms. Wait -- the shadows move. Alone now, I watch. The moonwash cools you sleeping. Soon the dawn. And then?

For Ricky Lee Flippen, December 23, 1956-December 1, 1992

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 17:06:37 GMT

Remembrance persists, almost as long now as we danced then... Cycles of seasons and years like the ups, downs, ins, outs, but always, after, the coming around. Remembrance persists, strong, warm somehow, as if meeting again... Turns of planets and wheels like a sob, jest, pull, shove, a song spinning out, then at rest. Remembrance persists, as long as love...

Morning at the Desk

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 17:00:34 GMT

Write the poem. (Do the laundry.) Get it down. (Brew some tea.) Plan the scansion. (Put on music.) Strive to see. (Run to town.) Sense the meaning. (Phone is ringing.) Cull your dreams. (Plan to shop.) Shape it softly. (Someone's knocking.) Nip and crop. (Mull your schemes.) Walk the garden. (Sharpen pencil.) Stretch the heart. (Whet the knife.) Watch the seasons. (Soon it's nap-time.) Get a life. (Such is art.)

In the Garden

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 05:20:14 GMT

The power is in the movement (from, toward), dragging along perception, our pearly shell-house, artful song, through this dream of time in an incremental sprint (inches, leagues), contracting and extending toward the inevitability of home (glaciers, sunlight). and then, there, and asking why the rush. (Meanwhile:) Here, now (until).

Glaciers

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 04:59:12 GMT

The only real change is imperceptible and to thaw is to dream in death's house -- very cold there, like home, along the pitted road -- and you know, when death sends his able wolves a spark flares and shivers across the ravine. Do glaciers flow? Do they deliberate wild love? How do the rivers of their music go? They gash with raw glares, dance in light, retreat, advance, no stone intact. Slow breaths whisper their mother's memory, murmur of mysteries, letting you know that in no great rush, they'll be back. Hardpan and ruthless, a crushing wisdom observes the heave of spring and journey below to death's very old house of dreams, and you know, you and the wolves in the road of implacably imperceptible change.

In the Land of the Poem

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 05:46:22 GMT

(A last effort for 2007. Bright blessings to all my friends here, Bob) In the land of the poem again, my pen seeks a new dance and music. So I call directions, cast the circle, center. Breathe. (Aware some mysteries may never be expressed.) Oil-wrestling writhing words and vagrant visions, sometimes I glimpse the angel. Muse, you may not go until you bless me. 12/31/07

The Pipes Are Calling

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 05:58:49 GMT

Some days, near the glut of puppy mills and yuppie malls, where happiness is hawked but seldom sold, an old flute plays. Almost indistinct, like woodsmoke and leaves, or recalled dream, or ghost, it whistles: “Here… Over here… Consort with me. Leave the racks of shoes and dance barefoot in the elemental winter grass. Nothing suits you better than wind on your skin rain in your face, mud between toes and the queer fire inside. After, lie here with me. We have stories to tell and gifts to share and nothing to hide.” The pipes are calling. Listen. Remember. A passion sleeps deep in your woods beyond the reach of a world shrill with commerce and fear. The goatman smiles and watches and plays. Come quickly before you forget. 12/17/07

A Foggy Night

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 05:31:42 GMT

In a pool of time called now a car on a country road enters the night’s icy fog like slicing into cotton. This mystery was shared once, but that was another time. Now only headlights flicker like migrating souls Emptiness resembles prayer sometimes. A tenor sax testifies softly. No hurry, just driving, dreaming, trusting furry Pan to lead the deer dancing safely away. In a cocoon of meditation, the joy of this silent night is defined in relief, balanced by its shadows -- ghosts, memory, loss. Gratitude for this moment clears new space to know that somewhere there are stars. On my way home from work: alive, alone, at peace. --12/14/07

First Snow

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 20:53:45 GMT

A clipper is blowing through today, bringing the first snowfall of the year. Being from New Orleans, Bayou was amazed at all the white stuff, kept racing around and dropping and rolling. Snow dog-angels. Now inside and thawing, he just smells like a wet but happy pup. I love the snow days -- busy shoveling and clearing, and then quiet and cozy at home. Waiting for the sun-king to be born again... soon, soon.

Inner Space

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 04:24:14 GMT

Time has no meaning here. Drunk on our kisses we disappear and re-emerge different. --11/18/07

The Secret Name of God

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 04:22:55 GMT

Tonight the secret name of God is Skip. In my worship I stroke His divine rounded back and touch His holy balding head. He blesses me by motorboat-kissing the soft offering of my belly. Sweat and semen are our sacraments. Eternity graces each lingering moment, and in His eyes, there is such light! We part laughing, and I have seen my best self remembered once again. There really are no boundaries to bliss. 11/18/07

Encuentro

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Fri, 28 Sep 2007 15:48:43 GMT

I'm grateful for the cute boy who makes my food at California Tortilla. He has dreams in his eyes, tastes in his smile. Salsa. Avocado. Mango. Lime. When he hands me the order, he grins and gives me extra chips. Occasionally he stops by the table to ask "Can I get you anything?" I request a napkin since I've spilled White creamy horchata in my lap. I like that he has touched my food. It feels like a blessing. Someday soon, I'll get my nerve up to ask if I can cook a meal for him. After all, my mole is uncompromising, my tamales, hot and fresh. When he's had his fill, maybe he'll tell me of the dreams in his eyes.

Icarus

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Fri, 28 Sep 2007 03:33:57 GMT

Updrafting, breathing, rising through misty doubts into clarity, spirited aloft, seeing with eyes of angels and eagles, he flies. Arriving, dazed, aflame under the sun, floating enraptured as its fingers of fiery rays tickle and enlighten, he lingers. Descending, amazed, teetering athwart clouds that melt into the mother sea where pain is forgotten, all’s forgiven, as a plume of rain he falls. Landing, ashore, as Earth at last reclaims what was hers before in silent yearning love and the vast grand wheel still invites a guest’s return, he rests.

The Crane

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Tue, 25 Sep 2007 02:49:43 GMT

Foggy dawn on an interstate, hung somewhere between dreaming and awake, my groggy eyes blink. The gray crane shears the air of another dimension. There. Not there. I wonder: Did I see that? Can't swear but maybe life is most itself in these margins. So much happens here, along the brink of explicit pastures and indistinct woods. The unicorns graze, fresh in a blurry twilight of hills brushing valleys, beach edging sea, and always, a haze of time bends icy space. As each breath of frail courage fends off the unseen land of stillness, I wonder if just maybe where our bodies meet, the magic always lives; spirits conspire on a cusp of fear and desire. Defying extinction, the crane still flies beyond this threshold, over the road, gone in a wink. Here. Not here. Did you see?

One Summer's End

Andromeda_BlueRidgeBob — Sun, 23 Sep 2007 03:15:38 GMT

I remember the moon whispering possibilities, the desert night a vision of shadowy gifts and stars. I still feel the satin of a lover's supple skin, salted and fragrant with sweat as we disappeared. You who risk all for love know this initiation. Remember.