~Not An Option For The Dead

Not An Option For The Dead

Do you know how little I have,
how selfish and unproductive?
These social measures I dodge,
but by any standard measure
was dumbest staying with you.
A belief hiding your evil care
The unsupportive poetry boots
hesitating to pink your slip final?

Rules basic to survival I ignored.
Inviting you to be my predator,
I will not hurt you for cause either,
but wait till your finished dining
belly full on my bloody carcus
entirely gone to final departure.
Nothing to be gained trampling
Your peace offers, which alone
deserve respect and support my
psychotic mind knows not why.

Your responds became dessert
wasteland I fought in wild dust
backing off I came to my senses.
Your less than what Paula made
but you got your hook under lips
of poetry to flatter me into idiocy
onward then to worst I can offer
that was quick again to the fore
with grandest shit illusion in store.

Maturity over time gets gray pay
which I made into a goober drug
to survive the painfulest agonies
past loves will always remind me,
compounding what should never
have come to ruin like this, again!
It’s the willingness to keep pushing
through whack of wracking pain,
no matter how bad the pace slows
or how little one’s step will shorten
love is not an option for the dead.


© 7/28/2004, RJDuberg

Recoil of Mystery

The emptiness of sound
inside a bare cavern lair
hides dark in a troubled
soul's perogative there.
In the backward return,
past the future present.

Past breeze parted lips,
a floating quiver on air,
daddy sings tidal eddy.
Pink tongues its cheeky
setting fleshy to aim
blurry music steerage.

Lyrical binds aliveness.
Spirit spikes, a kinetic
crown filling the sound
word after word on words
exhale weirdest blushes
uttering spin in a thrust.

Secrets only soul knows
hear burdens overturned
unruled by thinking choice.
Listening gets conscience
encompassing next strike
to force recoil of mystery.

© 7/28/2004, RJDuberg

The Secret Stone Shapes

The odd things we receive from life
along the way, sticks of love to chew,
tasty and fine or grit to grind, eschew.
Some lasting sage, a senatorial inkblot
progressing as my aging perspective,
but never changing that original face
of love’s radiant grace we make visible.

Diamonds are shadowed by rich cliché
and only discussed by the upper crust
Elite sparkles of pricey disconnection
in brilliant rocks of inspired perfection.
Much comes through informal usages
allowing implied secrets real presence,
in object's clarity for horizoned insight.

Translucent degrees signify essentials
which support the desired resonance,
absorbing light of love and reflecting.
The crystalline cornerstone made way
powerfully, for then retained as now
a gift of grace, stones may remind us
as golden mirrors for such a memorial.

Inspired, in love, a muse begs a secret
until a lover’s essence is your moment.
Become formalized seeking structure
which if genuine fortune dares arrive
then naked, we’ll enjoy slow wrapping
foils and bowtie ribbons in toiless bids
to present a sacred space for our love.

© 7/27/2004, RJDuberg

Steel A Great Irony

That one gets lost in one’s own mind
occurs as necessity before salvation,
our nakedness robed, but unfettered.
Where the mental landscape’s redux
in all ways expresses fine moderation,
smoothing is a way for stream travels.
Where error is ruined by false images,
dance is rife on walls of Plato’s cavern.

No bonehead graybeard broken sod.
No character defines grace like that.
No good comes in whimsy of diversion
No greater feat strikes, save to a destiny.
No love shudders reverb without a beat
No life gains, born to chaotic mysteries.
No trick either to witness being present.

Essence of drama glorifies blindly dense.
Give me a hammer to pound on hollow
what word humbles the solid of masses
into backdoor hollow swinging forward?
A worst cost is my being ideal of whimsy
having to believe will steel a great irony.

© 7/18/2004, RJDuberg

Returning Word

Don't you know I would make it all good
in the image and spirit of all that is good.
There is no mountain tall enough
nor sea deeper than my love for this,
for you have touched me beyond reason
and you found my solitude
with no words spoken for the fragrance
that respects and that respect alone
will never be questioned nor rescinded.
That gift was a dawning star in a gesture
where such a gift means action
and gestures meaningless, save
that which brings forth radiant things
by such means as a simple nod
an unheard motion or voice emboldened.
A language heard by galaxies as poetry
laughing fat and heavy like any progeny
such as you, keeper of my silence,
illuminated of those listening within.
Bearer of heavenly bodies rank and file
sweet brigand radiant lovers of peace,
you manifest light silent but penetrating
manifesting now honor and my thanks
Making a solitary moment of smiling
from here below on all you've done
acknowledging you're immeasurable
surely the source of everything with
a face of peace to which I listen.

(c) 7/9/2004, RJDuberg

Originally written in 1999, revised today and enjoyed once again.

The Hidden Show Metaphor Stages

Last night about mid evening, it occurred to me to dump my bedroom trash and in so doing stretch my legs for a much needed period. On the way back from the garbage bin out back, which is wheeled to and fro from the east side of the house to the street, I encountered a rare and nice little suprise in an adult catepillar crossing the sidewalk in front of my path. The first one this summer so far I've happen to run into, my first thought was of my roommate's little girl and how she would get a big kick out of my sharing this very special form of life and metaphor with her.

The metaphor of the butterfly, of which the catepillar transforms into finally after spinning itself a cocoon and then disappearing inside for a time has always been a favorite of mine. I think the creatures are precious and in a class by themselves. It is perhaps one of the most powerful and widely known metaphors, signifying higher consciousness for some but in an even more general way it has always signified transformative power, based in its being born of the hairy worm first into this really beautiful and fragile being being of flight.

I took that hairy worm up to Zoey (1.5 yrs of age) and it had curled up into a ball and wasn't having anything to do with Zoey under the kitchen lights while only seconds before she and I (the catepillar) were dancing up a storm down stairs as I went about corralling the little queen ... Finally, Zoey began to blurt wake uppppppp, wake uppppppp, wake upppppppp. I waited patiently and no such thought of ending the game and declaring myself victor once again appeared from or near that little bit of worm now curled and looking as best she could as a dead piece of dirt perhaps.

I decided to leave Zoey on watch with her new friend and here's where this confluencd of events just continued to deepen. Not a minute afterwards, on the internet and Compuserve, who would show up like the most casual of catepillars herself? Here comes my biggest flame in the universe to chat after weeks of dodging me, Brenda C. Sounding very good and playing the old game but nevertheless wanting to still play even after I trashed our previous rapport pretty badly truth said.

It was such a powerful moment, as always when life's drama, artifacts, and props signify something outside our attentions clearly operating a precise dynamic having authority over this level of existence in the universe.

7/7/2004 ~ sincere Rift #1: Conspiracy Between Bren and Catepillar Spirit