turning the corners / dark world

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Turning the corners / dark world

 

god says today I will make a mute

and tomorrow I will make a king

while planets spin and circle and trine

earthly dynasties and alliances fall in disgrace and ruin

then realign

the kings’ astronomer traces the oppositions and alignments

unconsciously touches the soft of his nape, in silence

watches as mars slows and pauses, then reverses

as if on queue, the whole world snarls

and goes gladly off to war in the provinces

the princess is taken from her hidden realm

smuggled surreptitiously under reckless plot

suffers fools and indignities. Sees beauty entangled with ugliness

feels the sting of peasantry and gravel for the first

on her soft and lovely virgin, white soles

she thirsts for water and hungers for color

is rewarded with random apportionments of debasement and irony

her soul pains to sing a song of honor and grace

something from somewhere other than this place

if she had only bothered to learn the words

somewhere opposite this sorrowful earth, bathed in so many greys,

mossy greens, hopelessness and darkness. a diametric to the sun

effortless, amidst a black sea of profanity and malice

china-white clouds bring sweet, spring rains, refract in buttery, golden hues

the ephemeral pleasures of the floating world, for which she will now forever be unfit

distilling meaning in the face of defeat

a princess longs but loses her lovely head

one must steel themselves for deceit

what is that expression so foreign

to men who work and live and toil

on the face of the dead and vanquished

one can discern the corners turn

peace, transcendence, and the hint of a smile

 

inspired by akira kurosawa’s ‘hidden fortress’

trinity

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trinity

I am time, and I am light

I am a spark, and I am the ghost

circling a nucleus, the father and the son,

there is an inalieble elegance in the way it all works

 

I remember the trips we made on horseback in the foothills in the dark

and in the light. In radiance of full sun and in shadow of sun’s absence

Tarantulas and Agave. Scotch and Saltines.

Thoughtful men, thoughtful women, all

find comfort and purpose in work

arbeit macht frei

 

nature holds her secrets close

waiting for the assassin to steal

in a million years, what harm will come to pass

that couldn’t pass in a millionth of a second

 

a coyote calls, but goes unanswered

the sweat on her sweet neck glistens

in the light of a million vanquished stars

the weapon is poised but the will wavers

 

his deity councils; an action waits for you to accept

that I have already done everything for you

you are merely an instrument, you are nothing,

now do your piece

 

I am time and I am light

I am a spark and I am the ghost

descend, and the radiance of a thousand suns

slaughters the night

 

now I am become death,

the destroyer of worlds

butterfly dreams -final

 

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butterfly dreams

     – george l stein

 

for you and i, there will be a time

in full of sun and gentle wind

for there is a place for you and i

where, floating as clouds and spirits do

butterflies on a summer breeze

thoughts and dreams and playful ease

we transcend this skin and dance

only stars and insight and fireflies

colors flutter and vanish in moonless trance

shed past and present, disappear

all the crystal days we knew

when we were young and two was one

how you, a sight, in shadow and in sun

of a chiaroscuro resplendency

at last ascending, weightless and free,

all we ever wanted and wished

through all the stones and bricks we found

all the holes we trampled through

and the pain and tears we shared

somewhere just past this last intransigence

before the first of autumn breeze

was to transcend , fleeting

for there is such a place

and there was such a time

inevitable that, as summer does,

dreams end

 

butterfly dreams

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DRe9RgwHYLk

butterfly dreams

for you and i, there will be a time

for there is a place for you and I

in full of sun and gentle wind

where, floating as clouds and spirits do

butterflies on a summer breeze

thoughts and dreams and playful ease

we transcend this skin and dance

only stars and insight and fireflies

colors appear and flutter in a moonless trance

shed past and present, disappear

all the crystal days we knew

when we were young and we were two

how you, a sight in shadow and in sun

of a chiaroscuro resplendency

finally, definitively weightless and free,

all we ever wanted and wished to do

through all the bricks and glass we found waiting

and all the holes and swamps we struggled through

all the pain and tears we met

somewhere just past this last intransigence

before the first of autumn breeze

was to transcend , fleeting

for there is such a place

and there was such a time

but summer and dreams do end

spiral

spiral

spiral

   – george l stein

 

spiral

 

pen touches paper, a spark lites in the darkness, then there is a first point.

no breadth, no depth, no measure of will

still… it is something from which to build

and the dot persists

 

short square feet backed right up against the tracks

defines the squalid solitude that no one chooses,

not to come, to live and to die here. In the turn of time

it chooses them and the rest simply follows on

 

logic and purpose become a study in dysfunction

as soon as the cards are re-shuffled and re-dealt.

There is a turn and a change of position

a point becomes a line and a line becomes a curve that goes round and round again.

 

now the land is bare where scant refuge stood, bare but for the weeds,

a pale, cheap wheat, a pleasing illusion to the eye but barren of sustenance

everything makes sense and no sense in some context

the trick is to find the frame.

 

A seamstress thinks of love and drops her pin

and in turn the thin facade of wholeness is pricked

a lucky stroke, or a tragic ending. Spin and position, perspective.

It depends on where one stands.

 

the journey, the stumble, the light and the loss

all that had come and that was to be

ambitions and expectations dashed and naught

nights of delusion and days of future past

 

when she reassembles the pieces just so

accounts for and adjusts the lights and shadows

she smiles and seeks approval for her efforts

but the simplest of glances betrays her

 

no one knew where the line started or ended

thought that their journey was theirs to steer

but time passed in an instant, one single revolution around a single point

the pen lifts from the paper, for better, for worse. the story is cast

fall

Fall
– George L Stein

It’s in the spontaneity of the wind
when the tree, reluctant, bares it’s soul
branches dance and leaves spin
especially under extorts of fall

There are no physics to this gift
no predictive elements to seize
the black frame glasses come tumbling off
madam librarian awkwardly falls away

Oh, how the wind heaves and blows
against her claws and protestations
and animates what was so carefully tucked away
on all those endless, quiet library days

A falcon hovers at the edge of the field
unspoken fear, comes the day when
the poet has no more poems to say, the musician
has no more songs to play, regardless of the vagaries of the wind

The tree breaks it silence, betrays it’s oath
leaves, branches dance and damn the cold
there were so many things we meant to say
before we took the time to play

But we grew old
and bare

An iPhone Photo Journal documenting A Year in the Life of That Tree

photo credit – Mark Hirsch

Like seen on tv

Like seen on tv
   – George l stein
‘                                                                                                   ‘
Her foot lifts slowly and steadily from the curb
and glides effortlessly forward towards the street
an arc is established and plotted, stars come into
and leave existence. her red curls spring, shimmer and dance
‘                                                                                                              ‘
everything transpires in frozen time, as if a memory
only as this cold, oppositional, january day will allow
brown suede, black leather, it doesn’t matter
it’s just a subjective preference in the heart of the teller
‘                                                                                                            ‘
cars in motion, cars at rest, drivers
abide the lights and watch the girl
daughter of darwin, a ghost of happenstance
float like a tryst of poetics, jazz, and cruel existentialism
‘                                                                                                                       ‘
the Click-click-Click, those sharpened metal-tipped heels
on cold, innocent concrete, assassins are kinder
the aesthetics of perfection, the space between
adam strives but fails to touch his god
‘                                                                                                                        ‘
the light turns green.  nothing moves. the gun
in the third act, yet to be brandished and fired
the temporal nature, so conditioned to watch
as life turns, pauses, and smiles, then turns and walks briskly away
‘                                                        ‘
Click-click-Click-click-Click-click
‘                                                                                                                       ‘
‘                                                                                                                       ‘