Last November walking
Into another December light
Slant lines invisible because
Of pain before, so more into my bones,
Neck swollen, ears atuned to autumn
To compositions of Saint-Saens, his great
becoming Organ, the third Symphony,
Organ Symphony, wisdom, unfureled
Doesn’t care to come as swiftly as age.
I was fifty, twiddled half of life away, there
Modulation to major key, I’m getting older
Pines in background, more horns singing
This is memory of the of 67th birthday
Christmas; who could have seen, thought
Foretold, wife, daughter, magic
Cat, ah, Pepper the Cat, deceased dogs
Garage of grey, silver little vehicle,
Car, not my own, yet, we know, Davorak
Something as pain swells into New World Symphony,
Another joint shut, neck snap, my mind,
Notes rise, another joint, organ with strings sings
As I walk mentally back, dingyness, it’s my mind
Ah, what’s left of greenery, little eatery, finest places
Is it not spring already anticapated in winter
Mine is everlasting walk, walk, no home all my life,
Never any home at age 17, something was gone,
Meaning into view, more evnecence yogi, guru
Master, Roshi, Lay person, member, simple
Member of pastor who seeks, is it God relavant
To persons, male, female, Gay, Lesbian, other
No Zen practionar would wince, there are
Others, and now, no others reclaimed in creek
Side flowing from Japan, John baptising
In God’s Holy Name, make way, and now
Back to 67, I will reach 68, pass mother, past age,
What am I finding? What divides age from age,
Then 58, I could no longer move, body worn.
Start into my own vision, my written baptism,
This the woman who bore me out by praying to understand
Brilliance of her boy, I wondered about becoming more,
I was off to college, off on prairie grass. in Iowa
Nebraska, Colorado of vocation, then to South Dakota
Out of Illinois or Iowa, There river in South Dakota,
We reached Moursouri, Big Sioux, Little Sioux,
I’d left Des Moines River behind for my own work,
Ah mother you gave me life, the tears, now if you
Could see Turtle creek, mind set theater rising, no master
No Roshi, no elevated teacher, no minister or master
Higher, than the hierarchy of Church, Hindu saints
There it is, Saint-Saens unfolding into streams,
This Steam, THE Stream , mighty giving each ocean
Drop of liquid sand left drying in prairie, each poem,
Grass, pain forgotton of monentary monetary gush
Notes, fanfare, full strings, horns, trumpets, then money
This is Prairie, The Might Forge of Evolution, no heralding
Church since This is writing, flair, tears, back, honed
Writing, this is it, my form was never music, never piano
Tears come from words of Ah soaring, Saint-Seans, water
Of organ is momentary, without writing there is no mood;
Writing lasts forevere, no sand’s edge would, could
Unfurl grateness in Shakspeare, Homer, Lear, Mc Beth
Odyssy More Real, devided, Spring and All, music written,
Fall Falconer come, come to me as I write, music becomes word.
Fall moving into writing, winter about writing, greatness
Poetry, then spring of unfolding into words, vocation met
Never hiding, just lagging, never-ending jet black into writing
Ideologies, now leaf unfurled in more than trees, humanity,
No understanding of trees into keyboards, from papyrus,
Save sand becoming ink, oceans becoming poems, paper
Will be saved, as politicians fritter away animal
Strength, we writers standing high above alter
Gashing each gorge out of reclaimed earth,
To make tie tacks for devastating politicians, who fear
Division by brown people, now Korean, then Iranian,
Then ever bigger populations we could move, farms
Owned by little white men when writing playing out
Playing forward to my own writing, left clearer like
Chinese, Indian, children of a left over God
Each finding necessary, each bomb cemating children
Writing left behind in the Ancient aching jaws of death,
This will remain into spring, sleeping turmoil, now poetry,
When life arives far beyond human understanding.
