THE NIGHT THE SUN DIED (a cold embrace)
The Sun fell into the ocean,
punctured by the ribbons of steel.
Gently caught by the waves and mist...
As it slowly died.
the enemies leave us in darkness,
our streets lit only by the flames of our burning homes and their
misplaced vitality.
Our children shiver as the season draws so near.
Where are the God - Fearing?
why do they slumber and not call the brothers to arms?
Like the Son of Miriam,
have we been "forsaken"?
No. Soon we will all awaken to the charges that
will befall the darkest of men.
They too will sink into the ocean, cut to pieces by our ribbons of steel;
starving for the Light that was taken from us.
No. It is here that I find warmth and comfort
amongst the cold and broken,
the disheartened and abandoned,
the legions left as though they had no names.
It is here,
it is here that I see hope in the eyes
of the hopeless......
the touch of a lonely hand that
makes well the course of a fractured heart.
Yes...
The sun has died.
but only this night...
only here,
amongst the cold and broken...
only here...
the sun has died.
Soon.... to cast her rays through the cedars
like fingers of light...warming the hills again...
resting ever gently upon the gardens abound!
Caressing the faces of our Martyrs...
and giving strength to our laughter and joy.
The Sun died last night...that is certain
but only for a night.
(In memory of the Palestinian brothers and sisters
that struggle every day to claim their dignity and pride
....and ultimately have already won the battle!)
By Allah's Grace
Gregory M. Sexton
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
THIS DANCE 8
"This Dance"
If there were days enough...
I would learn this Dance,
to dance with you.
The flood light is our sunrise...
like Icarus - we ascend to the heavens,
like Icarus - only to fall to the earth again...
and again.
This is my dream...
our feet shifting the dust,
ancient and coarse,
cold and splintered planks, worn and true...
do they selfishly hide the passion and words from years past?
Or simply crude constructs of oak...and yew.
Another stage to attend Sir Will!
where genius rings true...
and the plagiarist is found and scorned.
Gnostic flames (our path embellished)
illuminate our face,
certain to displace the darkest of shadows...
while leaving enough to hide our scars,
and portend any claim to grace.
This was the Dance,
when steps and twists and turns,
left us both to hope and chance,
and we knew the Light - never to leave -
all the while the wax and wick...
spits, shuffles, contorts and burns.
....much like this Dance.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: January 19, 2014 6:00 PM CST
About this poem:
It's a long story...hopeless romance and all that it
encompasses...one of several
If there were days enough...
I would learn this Dance,
to dance with you.
The flood light is our sunrise...
like Icarus - we ascend to the heavens,
like Icarus - only to fall to the earth again...
and again.
This is my dream...
our feet shifting the dust,
ancient and coarse,
cold and splintered planks, worn and true...
do they selfishly hide the passion and words from years past?
Or simply crude constructs of oak...and yew.
Another stage to attend Sir Will!
where genius rings true...
and the plagiarist is found and scorned.
Gnostic flames (our path embellished)
illuminate our face,
certain to displace the darkest of shadows...
while leaving enough to hide our scars,
and portend any claim to grace.
This was the Dance,
when steps and twists and turns,
left us both to hope and chance,
and we knew the Light - never to leave -
all the while the wax and wick...
spits, shuffles, contorts and burns.
....much like this Dance.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: January 19, 2014 6:00 PM CST
About this poem:
It's a long story...hopeless romance and all that it
encompasses...one of several
THIS DANCE 7
"This Dance"
If there were days enough...
I would learn this Dance,
to dance with you.
The flood light .... the sunrise...
like Icarus - we ascend to the heavens,
like Icarus - only to fall to the earth again...
and again.
This is my dream...
our feet shifting the dust,
ancient and coarse,
cold and splintered planks, worn and true...
do they selfishly hide the passion and words from years past?
Or simply crude constructs of oak...and yew.
Another stage to attend Sir Will!
where genius rings true...
and the plagiarist is found and scorned.
Gnostic flames (our path embellished)
illuminate our face,
certain to displace the darkest of shadows...
while leaving enough to hide our scars,
and portend any claim to grace.
This is the Dance,
when steps and twists and turns,
left us both to chance,
and we knew the Light never to leave...
while the wax and wick....contorts, spits and burns.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: January 20 6:00 PM CST
About this poem:
For Anna Rose"Taste of Love". (for Anna Rose)
A breath and a sigh...
the look in your eye,
when all else drops from view,
cept' your desire to touch souls and
ride the wave of abandon....
eyes meet and carry us on,
hands caressing...
heartbeats heard...
and stares through half-closed eyes...
tasting the sweet nectar of your lips..
I disappear.
Gregory M. Sexton
(For Anna Rose)
Jan. 20. 2014
If there were days enough...
I would learn this Dance,
to dance with you.
The flood light .... the sunrise...
like Icarus - we ascend to the heavens,
like Icarus - only to fall to the earth again...
and again.
This is my dream...
our feet shifting the dust,
ancient and coarse,
cold and splintered planks, worn and true...
do they selfishly hide the passion and words from years past?
Or simply crude constructs of oak...and yew.
Another stage to attend Sir Will!
where genius rings true...
and the plagiarist is found and scorned.
Gnostic flames (our path embellished)
illuminate our face,
certain to displace the darkest of shadows...
while leaving enough to hide our scars,
and portend any claim to grace.
This is the Dance,
when steps and twists and turns,
left us both to chance,
and we knew the Light never to leave...
while the wax and wick....contorts, spits and burns.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: January 20 6:00 PM CST
About this poem:
For Anna Rose"Taste of Love". (for Anna Rose)
A breath and a sigh...
the look in your eye,
when all else drops from view,
cept' your desire to touch souls and
ride the wave of abandon....
eyes meet and carry us on,
hands caressing...
heartbeats heard...
and stares through half-closed eyes...
tasting the sweet nectar of your lips..
I disappear.
Gregory M. Sexton
(For Anna Rose)
Jan. 20. 2014
Sunday, April 28, 2013
The Miracle
The miracle of Life is not found in books and research (singularly),
in argument and counter-argument (particularly).
No.
Life is its own testimony, manifested from the depths of pre-existence and clearly reflected and demonstrated in the common run-of-the-mill day we all wake up to every morning.
It is seen in the movements of the earth and her sister bodies...
validated from the simplest life forms,
admired in the noble and the most complex.
Life is both artist and canvas,
her subjects, reflecting the pains and sorrows -
the joys and ecstasies of our existence.
She suffers the fool and touts the genius...
and in demonstrating her cosmic humor,
sometimes begets them...
as one and the same.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
About this poem:
Just some moments of inspiration...loving life
in argument and counter-argument (particularly).
No.
Life is its own testimony, manifested from the depths of pre-existence and clearly reflected and demonstrated in the common run-of-the-mill day we all wake up to every morning.
It is seen in the movements of the earth and her sister bodies...
validated from the simplest life forms,
admired in the noble and the most complex.
Life is both artist and canvas,
her subjects, reflecting the pains and sorrows -
the joys and ecstasies of our existence.
She suffers the fool and touts the genius...
and in demonstrating her cosmic humor,
sometimes begets them...
as one and the same.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
About this poem:
Just some moments of inspiration...loving life
The Face of Truth
The Face of Truth
How can I cloak the Face of Truth with my shroud?
Dare I shadow its splendor and beauty...with my doubt?
Can I impose upon this wonderous ally, my own notions of truth without staining the reflection unseen?
Dare I suppose anything of Truth, other than what it declares itself to be...
born in a babies cry....
shed in a lover's tear....
left on a lonely battlefield...
what I see in your smile....
in the touch of a hand...
in the precious gift of love...
in the radiance of a soul...
These are the badges of Truth I declare...
Let my heart be their beacon, and let my sight be their sword!
Gregory S
Dare I shadow its splendor and beauty...with my doubt?
Can I impose upon this wonderous ally, my own notions of truth without staining the reflection unseen?
Dare I suppose anything of Truth, other than what it declares itself to be...
born in a babies cry....
shed in a lover's tear....
left on a lonely battlefield...
what I see in your smile....
in the touch of a hand...
in the precious gift of love...
in the radiance of a soul...
These are the badges of Truth I declare...
Let my heart be their beacon, and let my sight be their sword!
Gregory S
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:36 PM CST
About this poem:
Thinking...about "stuff"
Thinking...about "stuff"
Parting Ways
Parting Ways
My fingers touch the outline of her lips...
stopping in mid-sentence,
she declares nothing more is to be said.
Like beads falling from a string,
each moment seems to fall silently to the ground...
lost and trammeled under the sand...
a gift consigned to posterity....
and to anyone that may pick through the ash and rubble.
So it is with this temple.
The caretakers forsake their deed, and walk the shortest path away from each other...
So it is.
Bitter tears and bankrupt emotions rule this day.
If love and hate are equally toxic...and one must imbibe,
I prefer the intent of the former....to the result of the latter.
But mine is not to alter...rather,to forget and to forgive.
So it is...
Gregory S.
stopping in mid-sentence,
she declares nothing more is to be said.
Like beads falling from a string,
each moment seems to fall silently to the ground...
lost and trammeled under the sand...
a gift consigned to posterity....
and to anyone that may pick through the ash and rubble.
So it is with this temple.
The caretakers forsake their deed, and walk the shortest path away from each other...
So it is.
Bitter tears and bankrupt emotions rule this day.
If love and hate are equally toxic...and one must imbibe,
I prefer the intent of the former....to the result of the latter.
But mine is not to alter...rather,to forget and to forgive.
So it is...
Gregory S.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:39 PM CST
About this poem:
I wrote this (a premonition) about my divorce from my wife.
The divorce came 4 years later...
I wrote this (a premonition) about my divorce from my wife.
The divorce came 4 years later...
Epee Nue
Épée Nue (naked sword)
Heart unsheathed and unscathed...
tempered in the fires of the Queen.
A forthnight hath passed,
since I've last tasted her kiss ,
The parlor dressed in tile and gold...
blue smoke of myrrh ascend to the heavens
through the portals above.
Her smile brings joy and ease...
anticipating her embrace and warmth,
I walk the stairs to the loft , to her side ...
my heart pounding, sweat beads on my brow...
possessed by her presence, as if I've never known her...
Embracing...no longer two...and yet One.
G.S.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:43 PM CST
About this poem:
A romantic tale I dreamed up between me and a beautiful
Lebanese/Mexican friend of mine...it's ok...she knows
I wrote it for us. ;)
A romantic tale I dreamed up between me and a beautiful
Lebanese/Mexican friend of mine...it's ok...she knows
I wrote it for us. ;)
Stolen Lives
Stolen Lives
(Written in memory of my brother who died from substance abuse/addiction)
All around me, I see the starving souls...
full of anguish and fear.
I see minds and bodies warped by "the stranger" ,
disguised and proffered as medicine.
Jackals on every corner...
licking the remnants of another promise from their hands...
So much pain I see in their faces...
so distant and removed from joy.
The life light is but a shadow of what once was,
the pyre burns, the flames licking each regret....
but never drying the tears.
The innocent lust for life...supplanted by the the pale mirror of a stolen conscience.
They walk the dark and lonely streets...
pretending that each day won't be their last.
Lives stolen...for a pence...and a dream.
Gregory S
All around me, I see the starving souls...
full of anguish and fear.
I see minds and bodies warped by "the stranger" ,
disguised and proffered as medicine.
Jackals on every corner...
licking the remnants of another promise from their hands...
So much pain I see in their faces...
so distant and removed from joy.
The life light is but a shadow of what once was,
the pyre burns, the flames licking each regret....
but never drying the tears.
The innocent lust for life...supplanted by the the pale mirror of a stolen conscience.
They walk the dark and lonely streets...
pretending that each day won't be their last.
Lives stolen...for a pence...and a dream.
Gregory S
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:45 PM CST
About this poem:
My brother Bobby died if substance abuse in 1991...
he was 39. RIP brother.
My brother Bobby died if substance abuse in 1991...
he was 39. RIP brother.
Shadows and Light
Shadows and Light
Author: GMS75
The cold winds sweep through the gate,
tossing the autumn leaves about the garden place,
where the birds would frolic and sing.
Patches of the once green lawn, peering through here and there...
wait patiently for the warm winds to come forth,
and all of the life they will bring.
The Pine has grown little since I planted it last Fall,
casting a small shadow upon the trickling stream...
that slinks so slowly down the wall.
The light of day pauses one more moment,
before sinking into the night sky...
leaving an even balance of shadow and light,
bringing deep calm to the soul,
a pensive thought,
and a tear to the eye.
tossing the autumn leaves about the garden place,
where the birds would frolic and sing.
Patches of the once green lawn, peering through here and there...
wait patiently for the warm winds to come forth,
and all of the life they will bring.
The Pine has grown little since I planted it last Fall,
casting a small shadow upon the trickling stream...
that slinks so slowly down the wall.
The light of day pauses one more moment,
before sinking into the night sky...
leaving an even balance of shadow and light,
bringing deep calm to the soul,
a pensive thought,
and a tear to the eye.
POSTED BY GREGORY
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:47 PM CST
About this poem:
Just a mood...
Just a mood...
These City Streets
These City Streets
Author: GMS75
I have always found solace in the crowds of a busy street. Because it is there that you can be yourself, unpretentious, aloof, unresponsive...
you can read a newspaper while sipping a cup of tea...watch the pigeons defecate on city statues...or more enjoyable to me, watch all of the people; the expressions (or lack of) on their faces...moving about their day, some quickly...others just meandering about as though waiting for the next show to start.
There is solitude of sorts here that one can't find in the country. A wonderful sense of obscurity that is comforting, in fact, too comforting at times.
The gentleman drops his cigarettes on the sidewalk...ignored by the masses as they quickly skirt and maneuver around him, as though he were a lamp post...he picks them up one by one, brushing off the dirt and tucked away in his jacket pocket...then quickly carrying on as if nothing happened.
Yes...there is a strange and certain loneliness to these streets.
you can read a newspaper while sipping a cup of tea...watch the pigeons defecate on city statues...or more enjoyable to me, watch all of the people; the expressions (or lack of) on their faces...moving about their day, some quickly...others just meandering about as though waiting for the next show to start.
There is solitude of sorts here that one can't find in the country. A wonderful sense of obscurity that is comforting, in fact, too comforting at times.
The gentleman drops his cigarettes on the sidewalk...ignored by the masses as they quickly skirt and maneuver around him, as though he were a lamp post...he picks them up one by one, brushing off the dirt and tucked away in his jacket pocket...then quickly carrying on as if nothing happened.
Yes...there is a strange and certain loneliness to these streets.
POSTED BY GREGORY SEXTON
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:50 PM CST
About this poem:
Just observing
Just observing
Heart Murmurs
Heart Murmurs
Author: GMS75
If you're quiet enough,
sometimes you can hear the muffled beat of your heart...
When you are exhausted from the hurries and anxieties of the world,
the heart will remind you of what really matters...
with each anticipation,it rings true.
It goes most times unoticed and ignored...
all the while feeding and nourishing your "little house"with the necessary components of life...
and in return, it ask us for nothing.
Benevolent, patient, forgiving...
this is your heart...
and mine.
Gregory S
sometimes you can hear the muffled beat of your heart...
When you are exhausted from the hurries and anxieties of the world,
the heart will remind you of what really matters...
with each anticipation,it rings true.
It goes most times unoticed and ignored...
all the while feeding and nourishing your "little house"with the necessary components of life...
and in return, it ask us for nothing.
Benevolent, patient, forgiving...
this is your heart...
and mine.
Gregory S
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:54 PM CST
About this poem:
Yeah...I admit it ...I wrote it, and its corny as hell.
Yeah...I admit it ...I wrote it, and its corny as hell.
Going Home
Going Home
Author: GMS75
The coastal plain meets the sandy shore,
like a Monet painting...lines of demarcation,
elusive and confused.
Sea spray burst through the rocks,
metered by the grainy boulders that line these shores,
and this town.
like a Monet painting...lines of demarcation,
elusive and confused.
Sea spray burst through the rocks,
metered by the grainy boulders that line these shores,
and this town.
It is here that I was born,
and now I have returned to take my leave...
from all of this,
from all whom I have loved,
from all that I have loved.
Straw snaps under my feet as I make way
to the other side of the Grove...
there I will sit and remember who it is I claim to be...
and who is it that I am.
The elderly lady from across the fork wrestles with her linens...
one will subdue the other so it seems.
She smiles and waves, as the bedsheets appear to get the best of her.
I wisk on by wondering aloud "could she possibly recognise me,
or is every stranger a friend?"
The Wisteria trees are in bloom now,
as are the wildflowers that align every street,
children play with everyday items as toys,
while dogs chase them wondering why.
This was my home...yet where is there one that knows my face?
True, I left long ago,
to find the promise of salvation,
a salvation vanquished by my dreams...
without a trace.
If I have a home...it is here.
Still I am a stranger in a strange land...
come home to rest and be reborn -
to relive a thousand memories...
soon I will wake from this dream,
only to wonder again,
from whence it all came...
and to where it has gone.
and now I have returned to take my leave...
from all of this,
from all whom I have loved,
from all that I have loved.
Straw snaps under my feet as I make way
to the other side of the Grove...
there I will sit and remember who it is I claim to be...
and who is it that I am.
The elderly lady from across the fork wrestles with her linens...
one will subdue the other so it seems.
She smiles and waves, as the bedsheets appear to get the best of her.
I wisk on by wondering aloud "could she possibly recognise me,
or is every stranger a friend?"
The Wisteria trees are in bloom now,
as are the wildflowers that align every street,
children play with everyday items as toys,
while dogs chase them wondering why.
This was my home...yet where is there one that knows my face?
True, I left long ago,
to find the promise of salvation,
a salvation vanquished by my dreams...
without a trace.
If I have a home...it is here.
Still I am a stranger in a strange land...
come home to rest and be reborn -
to relive a thousand memories...
soon I will wake from this dream,
only to wonder again,
from whence it all came...
and to where it has gone.
Posted by Gregory Sexton
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:58 PM CST
About this poem:
About " Going Home"...but maybe being gone too long
About " Going Home"...but maybe being gone too long
This Dance
This Dance
Author: GMS75
If there were days enough...
I would learn the Dance,
to dance with you.
The flood light becomes the sunrise...
as we ascend to the heavens like Icarus,
only to fall to the earth again...
and again.
This is my dream...
to awake to anothers dream
to another time...
when you knew my face,
and I knew yours...
and our dance was not for one...
but two.
Gregory
I would learn the Dance,
to dance with you.
The flood light becomes the sunrise...
as we ascend to the heavens like Icarus,
only to fall to the earth again...
and again.
This is my dream...
to awake to anothers dream
to another time...
when you knew my face,
and I knew yours...
and our dance was not for one...
but two.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: January 20, 20146:00 AM
About this poem:
For Anna Rose....
For Anna Rose....
Tasting Love
Tasting Love
Author: GMS75
A breath and a sigh...
the look in your eye,
when all else drops from view,
cept' your desire to touch and
ride the wave of abandon...
eyes meet and carry us on....
hands caress...
heartbeats heard...
and stares through half-closed eyes...
tasting the sweet nectar of your lips..
I disappear,
and now there is only you.
Gregory S
the look in your eye,
when all else drops from view,
cept' your desire to touch and
ride the wave of abandon...
eyes meet and carry us on....
hands caress...
heartbeats heard...
and stares through half-closed eyes...
tasting the sweet nectar of your lips..
I disappear,
and now there is only you.
Gregory S
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 6:04 PM CST
About this poem:
Me thinks it speaks for itself....Yolanda's once again
Me thinks it speaks for itself....Yolanda's once again
Alone Instead
Alone Instead
Author: GMS75
I walk by the couple on the bench...
staring into each others eyes - they do,
afraid I might step upon a twig and break their grip...
still not one, and yet, not even two.
tally off I go, if I dare -
somewhere else to loom and not stare...
Where have they all gone...all of them now?
The ones I called friend, all...and each one so rare....
Can fate be this cruel...leaving me here alone,
to bitch, moan and scowl?
I have days ahead,
to read the stars, and slice the bread.
But not alone say I...
no...today, tomorrow?
Rather, I think me dead...
or alone instead.
POSTED BY GREGORY
staring into each others eyes - they do,
afraid I might step upon a twig and break their grip...
still not one, and yet, not even two.
tally off I go, if I dare -
somewhere else to loom and not stare...
Where have they all gone...all of them now?
The ones I called friend, all...and each one so rare....
Can fate be this cruel...leaving me here alone,
to bitch, moan and scowl?
I have days ahead,
to read the stars, and slice the bread.
But not alone say I...
no...today, tomorrow?
Rather, I think me dead...
or alone instead.
POSTED BY GREGORY
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 6:08 PM CST
About this poem:
Swimming in self-pity....shame on me!
Swimming in self-pity....shame on me!
I Move the Mountain
I Move the Mountain
Author: GMS75
I Move the Mountain
I shift to the east...
moving my hands, I move the mountain....
I pivot to to north...
reaching, I capture the moon.
I spin to the west...
I step, across the great oceans...
I look to the south,
I return, from whence I came.
Gregory s
I shift to the east...
moving my hands, I move the mountain....
I pivot to to north...
reaching, I capture the moon.
I spin to the west...
I step, across the great oceans...
I look to the south,
I return, from whence I came.
Gregory s
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 6:10 PM CST
About this poem:
Dai Qi anyone????
Dai Qi anyone????
Morning Dew
Morning Dew
Author: GMS75
at my feet,
prisms of dew splash the ground cover before me...
potential composite rainbows of light within each drop... a majestic microcosm of
their sky-clad kin.
...the drops of pure moisture are as sweet nectar to the marsh rabbits and fairies that inhabit these woods...
cold dampness permeates my clothing, but it will disipate soon with the coming of
the morning sun.
...the clang of pots and pans behind me, a reminder of the breakfast that must soon come.
...inhaling deeply the moist air about me, I break the new silence with a heavy exhalation...
stirring some grouse nearby.
a newness seems to frame the morning air... interlaced with the bitter-sweet smell of campfire coffee...a still moment precedes another still moment...
i ask myself, "do you think this can be real"?
I taste the fresh brewed coffee....and conclude that this must be real, as I am certain a phantasm
would surely taste better than this!
Gregory S.
prisms of dew splash the ground cover before me...
potential composite rainbows of light within each drop... a majestic microcosm of
their sky-clad kin.
...the drops of pure moisture are as sweet nectar to the marsh rabbits and fairies that inhabit these woods...
cold dampness permeates my clothing, but it will disipate soon with the coming of
the morning sun.
...the clang of pots and pans behind me, a reminder of the breakfast that must soon come.
...inhaling deeply the moist air about me, I break the new silence with a heavy exhalation...
stirring some grouse nearby.
a newness seems to frame the morning air... interlaced with the bitter-sweet smell of campfire coffee...a still moment precedes another still moment...
i ask myself, "do you think this can be real"?
I taste the fresh brewed coffee....and conclude that this must be real, as I am certain a phantasm
would surely taste better than this!
Gregory S.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sun Apr 21, 2013 3:05 PM CST
About this poem:
I probably should not post this as I think it needs work...
.....but....
I probably should not post this as I think it needs work...
.....but....
Thoughts on Time
Thoughts on Time
Author: GMS75
Time passes in review,
like a celestial rhythm meted out on a cosmic metronome.
Some say it's linear in process, others declare it to be cyclical...
I only know it passes in phases, sometimes its run is spent much too quickly,
or even a slow and leisurely pace.
It is the bus pass we never purchased...with each route subsuming the former.
Time has no face, other than our own...showing the years and scars that pass and heal.
If the future is tentative, then surely time is its catalyst....
establishing limits to every endeavor and every moment.
Time still holds the cosmic trump card, while hiding its secrets from
behind a pirate's smile.
Running its course, we participate only as silent partners...
Each of us destined to our own fate by the constructs of a benign
entity....we call "Time".
Gregory S.
like a celestial rhythm meted out on a cosmic metronome.
Some say it's linear in process, others declare it to be cyclical...
I only know it passes in phases, sometimes its run is spent much too quickly,
or even a slow and leisurely pace.
It is the bus pass we never purchased...with each route subsuming the former.
Time has no face, other than our own...showing the years and scars that pass and heal.
If the future is tentative, then surely time is its catalyst....
establishing limits to every endeavor and every moment.
Time still holds the cosmic trump card, while hiding its secrets from
behind a pirate's smile.
Running its course, we participate only as silent partners...
Each of us destined to our own fate by the constructs of a benign
entity....we call "Time".
Gregory S.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sun Apr 21, 2013 3:22 PM CST
About this poem:
I think I noticed some more wrinkles the day I wrote this....
so, I stopped shaving using the mirror and just go at it blind in the shower.
I accrue a few more cuts this way, but I have not written about "Time"
since then!
I think I noticed some more wrinkles the day I wrote this....
so, I stopped shaving using the mirror and just go at it blind in the shower.
I accrue a few more cuts this way, but I have not written about "Time"
since then!
Encryptions of the Heart
Encryptions of the Heart
Author: GMS75
It is upon these barren pages that I find some rest,
to write and convey a thought...an emotion,
or perhaps just a jest.
Hide and seek is the curse of this heart,
contemplating the blue while reflecting the universal muse.
Like Prometheus stealing the spark of life,
only to share it with everything and all...
The heart can steal your repose,
exposing and sharing its list of pitiful flaws...
While you unwittingly hide your gaze,
roaming through your affairs; half awake - half in a daze,
the cause is never too clear,
the cure never so near.
Empty smiles and vacant eyes,
long empty stares...
speak of the pain that remains so very near...
I hide behind my cultured, naive and wishful insights...
Never too close my heartbeat for you to hear.
Hidden away, these tears remain
as I ponder this course ....
trying to reach you and falling so short,
and words that ever seem the more inane.
Gregory S.
to write and convey a thought...an emotion,
or perhaps just a jest.
Hide and seek is the curse of this heart,
contemplating the blue while reflecting the universal muse.
Like Prometheus stealing the spark of life,
only to share it with everything and all...
The heart can steal your repose,
exposing and sharing its list of pitiful flaws...
While you unwittingly hide your gaze,
roaming through your affairs; half awake - half in a daze,
the cause is never too clear,
the cure never so near.
Empty smiles and vacant eyes,
long empty stares...
speak of the pain that remains so very near...
I hide behind my cultured, naive and wishful insights...
Never too close my heartbeat for you to hear.
Hidden away, these tears remain
as I ponder this course ....
trying to reach you and falling so short,
and words that ever seem the more inane.
Gregory S.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sun Apr 21, 2013 3:34 PM CST
About this poem:
Looking for Love "in all the wrong places"?
Looking for Love "in all the wrong places"?
Genesis
Genesis
Author: GMS75
Life is born amongst us here, unceasing and always relevant...
we see it with every breath...the crest of the Sunflower so bright,
the unstable footing of the newly born fawn,
the erratic patterns of the Dragonfly.
Ah yes! Even death is but a moment in time, subsumed by the life it replaces...
a doorway perhaps ~ a fortuitous return to what was, only much more....
and even to return to this sacred place...this grove of wonder and splendor.
Through three valleys and seven gates...I remember it all , across glade and spring...
from just below the timberbreak...I see her now.
I've been here before.... to be sure!
Between the hedgerow, she pauses, smiling, welcoming me back once again.
Looking into the heavens, she points me to their path....Luna, Orion and Sirius...
Majestic movements, witness the silent hum of the oribits above!
The music of spheres ring true tonight my friend ~
Under the mosaic of the heavens ... we dance...
the perpetual dance of the the evening sky reflecting in her eyes.
Gregory S.
we see it with every breath...the crest of the Sunflower so bright,
the unstable footing of the newly born fawn,
the erratic patterns of the Dragonfly.
Ah yes! Even death is but a moment in time, subsumed by the life it replaces...
a doorway perhaps ~ a fortuitous return to what was, only much more....
and even to return to this sacred place...this grove of wonder and splendor.
Through three valleys and seven gates...I remember it all , across glade and spring...
from just below the timberbreak...I see her now.
I've been here before.... to be sure!
Between the hedgerow, she pauses, smiling, welcoming me back once again.
Looking into the heavens, she points me to their path....Luna, Orion and Sirius...
Majestic movements, witness the silent hum of the oribits above!
The music of spheres ring true tonight my friend ~
Under the mosaic of the heavens ... we dance...
the perpetual dance of the the evening sky reflecting in her eyes.
Gregory S.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sun Apr 21, 2013 3:38 PM CST
About this poem:
A mixture of a dream and some observations from my window.
A mixture of a dream and some observations from my window.
My River ( a distant glance)
My River ( a distant glance)
Author: GMS75
Three miles down...You make it look so easy.
White caps meandering slowly through crook and cranny.
Like you, my course is fast and slow.
You share your white, frothy cascades...
and I share my solitude.
Your angry charge of the riverbank hastens my pace....
as the geese scatter and scold me for my rude interruptions...
your churning voice speaks to me -
with distinction and charm.
I can't keep your pace...and you must still move on.
A leaf benignly mimics each of my steps...
chasing away the distance as though teasing me.
Lingering nearby ...you lend me your peace,
as I search for my own.
The day passes...now the course must end.
The Sun leaves its remnants of light,
just enough for my steps to be sure...
an hour and a moment of insight,
tis' why I come here...
always enraptured by your mystical allure.
Gregory S.
White caps meandering slowly through crook and cranny.
Like you, my course is fast and slow.
You share your white, frothy cascades...
and I share my solitude.
Your angry charge of the riverbank hastens my pace....
as the geese scatter and scold me for my rude interruptions...
your churning voice speaks to me -
with distinction and charm.
I can't keep your pace...and you must still move on.
A leaf benignly mimics each of my steps...
chasing away the distance as though teasing me.
Lingering nearby ...you lend me your peace,
as I search for my own.
The day passes...now the course must end.
The Sun leaves its remnants of light,
just enough for my steps to be sure...
an hour and a moment of insight,
tis' why I come here...
always enraptured by your mystical allure.
Gregory S.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mon Apr 22, 2013 11:40 AM CST
About this poem:
A "conversation" I once had while running next to "my river"...
Conversation with whom? Well, it swells of pantheism,
but a conversation with the river. Just one of those days.
A "conversation" I once had while running next to "my river"...
Conversation with whom? Well, it swells of pantheism,
but a conversation with the river. Just one of those days.
Epitaph
Epitaph
Author: GMS75
He was prone to tolerance...
and yet steeped in bias.
He searched love...
and when it found him,
he ran like a coward from the field.
He loved life...
and yet, never really lived.
He dabbled in music, prose
and poetry...
Yet struggled to understand the
obvious.
Here he lies...
Under the fallen leaves ....
and a ton of dirt.
Gregory
and yet steeped in bias.
He searched love...
and when it found him,
he ran like a coward from the field.
He loved life...
and yet, never really lived.
He dabbled in music, prose
and poetry...
Yet struggled to understand the
obvious.
Here he lies...
Under the fallen leaves ....
and a ton of dirt.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mon Apr 22, 2013 8:03 PM CST
About this poem:
Obviously this one is on the dark side.
In fact, I think it's rather ugly.
Obviously this one is on the dark side.
In fact, I think it's rather ugly.
A Note to the Elves
A Note to the Elves
Author: GMS75
i walk these paths with ease now...
still pondering the choices i have made,
still hestitant to claim my innocence,
or my shame.
i look for your dwellings that once gathered in clusters
'round the Oak Groves of days past.
i search through the brush hoping to find a trace
of my "traceless friends"...
hoping you will share your words with me,
and listen to another lonely voice.
i am a stranger, except here.
this truth i have known for many, many years.
i come to this grove if only to discover what i have lost;
gather what i have gained.
through the branches...the leaves and brush...i see the fireplace waiting
to warm my feet.
i will return to my small cabin,
still to look over my shoulder for your footprints in the snow.
Gregory S.
still pondering the choices i have made,
still hestitant to claim my innocence,
or my shame.
i look for your dwellings that once gathered in clusters
'round the Oak Groves of days past.
i search through the brush hoping to find a trace
of my "traceless friends"...
hoping you will share your words with me,
and listen to another lonely voice.
i am a stranger, except here.
this truth i have known for many, many years.
i come to this grove if only to discover what i have lost;
gather what i have gained.
through the branches...the leaves and brush...i see the fireplace waiting
to warm my feet.
i will return to my small cabin,
still to look over my shoulder for your footprints in the snow.
Gregory S.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mon Apr 22, 2013 8:07 PM CST
About this poem:
It's the Northern European blood...
we just can't forget our "myths"!
;)
It's the Northern European blood...
we just can't forget our "myths"!
;)
Wonder Tree
Wonder Tree
Author: GMS75
Like you, I change with the season...
like a shape-shifter...we seem to always alter our appearances
to fit the model...the design....
but unlike you,
I morph into a multitude of sentiments...
until only a mirage of my former self remains.
...now i am a stranger to you,
and even to myself.
...i close my eyes and wait... for the Change to come.
gregory
like a shape-shifter...we seem to always alter our appearances
to fit the model...the design....
but unlike you,
I morph into a multitude of sentiments...
until only a mirage of my former self remains.
...now i am a stranger to you,
and even to myself.
...i close my eyes and wait... for the Change to come.
gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Thu Apr 25, 2013 7:06 PM CST
About this poem:
Human propensities...to adapt...to change when it seems necessary...
like the tree moth, the chameleon...adapt, or be extinguished.
Human propensities...to adapt...to change when it seems necessary...
like the tree moth, the chameleon...adapt, or be extinguished.
Savannah Cafe
Savannah Cafe
Author: GMS75
Voices mingle with the scuffle of shoes clicking,
and doors slamming shut.
The smell of coffee and cinnamon buns permeates
the air...
Movement...sound...senses rage in overdrive,
and yet still.
Questions of whether the coffee is actually tea,
or are these simply pancakes...just not so flat?
I recognize some of the faces from long ago,
especially the man in the glass.
He stares into my eyes without notice,
melancholy and mystery hovering close by...
It is his frozen voice that I mimic from time to time.
Standing to shuffle my way to the door and you
are here too, in the corner alone..
I had hoped you'd never find me here...
Slicing through plumes of blue smoke,
Your eyes invite me to sit with you.
I am near you now... settled in this booth,
and not so alone.
Gregory
and doors slamming shut.
The smell of coffee and cinnamon buns permeates
the air...
Movement...sound...senses rage in overdrive,
and yet still.
Questions of whether the coffee is actually tea,
or are these simply pancakes...just not so flat?
I recognize some of the faces from long ago,
especially the man in the glass.
He stares into my eyes without notice,
melancholy and mystery hovering close by...
It is his frozen voice that I mimic from time to time.
Standing to shuffle my way to the door and you
are here too, in the corner alone..
I had hoped you'd never find me here...
Slicing through plumes of blue smoke,
Your eyes invite me to sit with you.
I am near you now... settled in this booth,
and not so alone.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sun August 2015 6:45 PM EST
About this poem:
For Judy
For Judy
From the Bottom of the Hill
From the Bottom of the Hill
Author: GMS75
I look up the hill where your tree once stood...full of life, proud to flare its green penants every Spring for all to see .
Now you're gone...and so is the tree.The minutes fall into hours and the hours inevitably become days...and still your words stand the test of time...your image and voice carry on your legacy...your fans only know the pain of your words; not the pain of your Soul.
You dressed your life in eloquence...the words dancing on your tongue ....dancing like the green penants of the tree...leaves dancing all the year, until they could dance no more; like you Annie, you 'could dance no more'.
I'll stay here, in this place...this rustic old cabin; waiting for the Spring to bring the tree back to Life again; and your words to resound again from these green hills...waiting for you....here from the bottom of the Hill.
Now you're gone...and so is the tree.The minutes fall into hours and the hours inevitably become days...and still your words stand the test of time...your image and voice carry on your legacy...your fans only know the pain of your words; not the pain of your Soul.
You dressed your life in eloquence...the words dancing on your tongue ....dancing like the green penants of the tree...leaves dancing all the year, until they could dance no more; like you Annie, you 'could dance no more'.
I'll stay here, in this place...this rustic old cabin; waiting for the Spring to bring the tree back to Life again; and your words to resound again from these green hills...waiting for you....here from the bottom of the Hill.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 27, 2013 8:32 AM CST
About this poem:
In memory of Anne Sexton
In memory of Anne Sexton
The Poem and the Symphony
The Poem and the Symphony
Author: GMS75
Time gleans "the sound" from you..
from a distant age gone by.
Body, Neck and Bridge...
Strings, Frets and Keys,
aggregates of this guitarra...
A matrix of wood and bone,
constructs of this Soul.
Embodied in the ink of his pen...
the writer personified -
encrypted in the words,
his art...his life -
each word and rambling
phrase, an incarnation
of the Nous.....truly, an unfettered reflection.
So too, the musician speaks through the sound
of each note...
each note, each phrase,
as if a paragragh...
reflecting sentience and imagination.
Together - they complete the poem
and the symphony...
Separate - they are two strangers
born of a common Mother.
The resonant embrace pierces the
Heart - fingers dancing into a firestorm ....
dissonance long removed, they chase away the distance -
forgetting that some are far removed from this joyful mood.
Mirroring one another, the two strangers renew their bond,
reflecting familiar and a courteous tones, in writ and song -
as thoughts surely become sound,
and all the while, are so evenly pronounced...
plucked strings reverberate through the darkness,
minor and major scales collide...
awakening the dead to life,
....to the poem within the symphony.
Gregory
from a distant age gone by.
Body, Neck and Bridge...
Strings, Frets and Keys,
aggregates of this guitarra...
A matrix of wood and bone,
constructs of this Soul.
Embodied in the ink of his pen...
the writer personified -
encrypted in the words,
his art...his life -
each word and rambling
phrase, an incarnation
of the Nous.....truly, an unfettered reflection.
So too, the musician speaks through the sound
of each note...
each note, each phrase,
as if a paragragh...
reflecting sentience and imagination.
Together - they complete the poem
and the symphony...
Separate - they are two strangers
born of a common Mother.
The resonant embrace pierces the
Heart - fingers dancing into a firestorm ....
dissonance long removed, they chase away the distance -
forgetting that some are far removed from this joyful mood.
Mirroring one another, the two strangers renew their bond,
reflecting familiar and a courteous tones, in writ and song -
as thoughts surely become sound,
and all the while, are so evenly pronounced...
plucked strings reverberate through the darkness,
minor and major scales collide...
awakening the dead to life,
....to the poem within the symphony.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:53 PM CST
About this poem:
Relationship betwixt writing prose/poetry and music..
Relationship betwixt writing prose/poetry and music..
Ode to Woden
Author: GMS75
(Wodensday)
Passion and Grace...Strength and Courage....
a conflagration that touches the listless and dying, searing the despair and hopelessness from human forms...
embracing the child in all of us -
Divine Bellows resounding through all and everything..... The Spirit renewing the old with the new.
Displacing sour wine of our youth with the eternal fruits born of trials...tears...and victory.
This Flame still lives within me...
The blood of my ancestors course my veins
like the stallions lead...
Every moment, I am born anew.
Reflections of mine own, Mystical archetypes, nameless in essence..
countless in forms....but still comprise the horizons of my Life..
and the tempest of my "death".
Divine ...is the Mother of us All...
Holy .....is the call of the Heathen Pantheon...
Mundane ....are the fears and anguish that
befall me now.
I loose the sceath from my waist...
the Broadsword bemoans its eternal respite.
Here by the River...close to Asgard...
I stand alone.
Gregory S.
Passion and Grace...Strength and Courage....
a conflagration that touches the listless and dying, searing the despair and hopelessness from human forms...
embracing the child in all of us -
Divine Bellows resounding through all and everything..... The Spirit renewing the old with the new.
Displacing sour wine of our youth with the eternal fruits born of trials...tears...and victory.
This Flame still lives within me...
The blood of my ancestors course my veins
like the stallions lead...
Every moment, I am born anew.
Reflections of mine own, Mystical archetypes, nameless in essence..
countless in forms....but still comprise the horizons of my Life..
and the tempest of my "death".
Divine ...is the Mother of us All...
Holy .....is the call of the Heathen Pantheon...
Mundane ....are the fears and anguish that
befall me now.
I loose the sceath from my waist...
the Broadsword bemoans its eternal respite.
Here by the River...close to Asgard...
I stand alone.
Gregory S.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mon Apr 22, 2013 8:29 PM CST
About this poem:
Hmmmm...it's a long story. It's a very old story.
Hmmmm...it's a long story. It's a very old story.
A Witness
Witness
{for Anna Rose }
A witness...
a witness to this world around us,
to the love and the joy...
to the hate and the fears...
and to all of the questions and doubts that
seem to abound in so many of us.
I witness this breath,
it is yours and mine.
I witness this sunset,
it is yours and mine.
I know your tears,
I know the promises broken...
but I can't wipe the tears from your face,
or heal your heart...
I can't answer your many questions...
only to say,
I ask them too.
You see,
it's knowing you are here with me
on this Earth that gives me hope...
that answers a prayer from so long ago,
a prayer of love...
and of remembrance.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Monday 1/27/14 7:56 AM CST
{for Anna Rose }
A witness...
a witness to this world around us,
to the love and the joy...
to the hate and the fears...
and to all of the questions and doubts that
seem to abound in so many of us.
I witness this breath,
it is yours and mine.
I witness this sunset,
it is yours and mine.
I know your tears,
I know the promises broken...
but I can't wipe the tears from your face,
or heal your heart...
I can't answer your many questions...
only to say,
I ask them too.
You see,
it's knowing you are here with me
on this Earth that gives me hope...
that answers a prayer from so long ago,
a prayer of love...
and of remembrance.
Gregory
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Monday 1/27/14 7:56 AM CST
Good bye
It's quite natural I suppose:
I looked into your eyes and saw my reflection.
I watched your subtle movements
and dancing shuffle through the halls as my
Heart burst into Flames...
I fell in Love with you.
A glimpse of your Heart
I saw that morning (all those years ago.)
I could have turned away,
I tried....
but would not.
I tried again...
I did not.
Without expectations,
I stumbled into your life...
You whispered,
" I love you Gregory"
through that pirate grin of yours,
my face blushed as so many times before...
so many times before.
Now you are gone...and I am gone.
Both of us the victim...
both of us the perpetrator.
Only my eyes speak of you now;
my lips cannot move.
Passions dimmed, and distorted...
our regrets manifest only as sighs.
A glimpse of your heart,
memories now strained...
eclipsed by ours betrayed,
torn, tattered and frayed.
Gregory
I looked into your eyes and saw my reflection.
I watched your subtle movements
and dancing shuffle through the halls as my
Heart burst into Flames...
I fell in Love with you.
A glimpse of your Heart
I saw that morning (all those years ago.)
I could have turned away,
I tried....
but would not.
I tried again...
I did not.
Without expectations,
I stumbled into your life...
You whispered,
" I love you Gregory"
through that pirate grin of yours,
my face blushed as so many times before...
so many times before.
Now you are gone...and I am gone.
Both of us the victim...
both of us the perpetrator.
Only my eyes speak of you now;
my lips cannot move.
Passions dimmed, and distorted...
our regrets manifest only as sighs.
A glimpse of your heart,
memories now strained...
eclipsed by ours betrayed,
torn, tattered and frayed.
Gregory
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