"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
Thursday, May 30, 2013
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.
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