Love Math

Amid the points of permanence
our identity speaks for itself
a voice of essence, independence.

With a different voice was reason
built, a continuum in balance
and its polarity of transcendence.

Does this zero denominate a kiss
of two lovers we sacrafice, risk;
gain relation, seek infinite center.

The bizarre happens by illusion
when the voice has no listener
or speaks, insincerity believed.

But love, unbounded openness
in its honesty, heard in its song,
clears a space where two unite.

So many points go distant, by
what manner for love's desire
shall unity express itself nigh.

Battle Serious

Do you feel a mystery
as a rank recurring rhythm
that answers fail to question
what remains extant in time?

Does the pain building
felt in feeling, privately dreading
in the night shade coming
shake your slumber then?

This instinctive home sucks
and all and everything, mucks
by and large, by certain thought
when our own habits command.

Understanding it doesn't help
or I would feel no pain now.
Would somebody help correct
path to self, as battle, but serious?

rjd

Things I cannot touch

What touches anything, touches this.
Things I cannot touch, sung on a hilltop
one might find closer more than enough.
While our quick dalliances pique upbeats,
it's the clean self reflected so naturally,
where nature holds special places for us
we never knew, or could, to touch;
touching us, but not us, we touch.

Ask the touching fingers, better yet
what they cannot touch, for answers
we see in life of fish living underwater,
touching water in some greater way
isn't the truth in reverse, a paradox?
Most fish are oblivious and ignorant,
never touching what touches them all.

Where anything expands or contains
just beyond the last stop of mind
this measures in permanent fashion
everything untouchable somehow, not
the shock and awe parlay of our drama
that could just as well conceal pride,
narcissitic boneheading, and denial.
Just because one ignores willingly
doesn't mean never-ever is reality.

IBDubie/6/2008

You Who Never Arrived

Pre: Stumbled over a collection of Rilke tonight and found, You Who Never Arrived, speaking loud enough for me to resonate tonight's version...



There where you remain hidden unseen by me
Your arrival made a bed for my dreams, a fast.
My noon hour pause is one long look and beat
left behind when innocence chased hearts away
singing in patient adoration by window's edge.

A looking where nothing is recognized beyond
your immensity, a paradox that overwhelms.

this space I know, longing

but far-off, deeply-felt ground echoes in mind.
The space for your being is breath I so inhale
for promise, lost from the start, that eludes me.
As you still vanish behind dizzy gaze of corner.

6/2008, rjduberg

Today's Gift

I stopped late in life ...
to look at memories fading less
and gaining ground over the crest
laid on us all like the hand of time.

There's no horror equal or real
to finding what's been, turn back round
your lying, the intent, chasing you down
never letting up, cresting repentance.

Failing your humble understanding of this
how your very soul will haunt you 'til death
creates personal scrooges for some, and I.
I seek forgiving counsel from all I've done in.

And, you see, though the past fades
we can never pretend anything ends.
What I've dispatched, reasons aside,
took an injurious force, my lies a farce lid.

Save me enough time to right my wrongs
and count on me for everything else
you've come to know and trust me for.
... before growing wise was enough.

5/2008, rjduberg

Too Pop Too

How big a lie is our stake in this moment?
Our biggest is expressed possessively, mine.
Is stepping forward into hero's recognition
meeting a soul-mate, giving to the poor?
Life without a moment is beyond our sense.
Will anyone renew life's vital source or remains
by living well this time, free and loving?

When sincerity travels to humility, time ends.
Moments unify and life is only a bigger mystery.
Further on, the roll stops in an upward rise.
Our true stake is language, the tool of relation.
Nothing survives unless we keep all things equal.
Juggling words is a spiritual art for these fliers,
where used and discarded never slows down.

For those who spoke up for me when I forgot this
you live for this bollox and its bloody endlessness.
Recycling energy, and the silence of time, these
are warrants offered that lay waiting for what lies.
How dull today, how bloody awful and tired, what
can make this discrete two pop into one mind?

5/2008, rjd