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

Comment Graphics and Myspace Layouts at pYzam.com

~Light of Otherwise

I have committed acts, walked naked by choice
outside in the dark blanket of heavy snowfall.
That rosy path, with thorns of wrath, our nemesis...

I know I've stumbled upon it so many times
it no longer shocks me to lose my mind.
Nobody is safe from the demons of sleep.

I've less strength than ever, to stay awake
for being eternal; that, and nothing less,
resolves the issue in a balanced polarity.

Victims like confusion with loss of function
which doesn't get noticed; while false engages
everyone with horror, blinders hasten the decline.

Excuses and complaints form this path to hell.
Our worst denigration, groggy sleep, its passage.
Logic suggests non-dualism stops bleeding, rose.

I endlessly search for such mental expedience,
for consolidating mountains of debt, past due;
without any promise my home is where I left it.

In the seizing of every moment to purely act,
never running from consequences, this creativity
describes being, a force and influence; learning.

Purity of truth defies all common sense attempts
in response to limiting hell, by not venturing back
across boundaries while keeping an eye on fence.

A fence separating our lives from being identified,
summarizing life's memory and its influence here
to choice, the act, and our escape from mechanical.

Evolution's Ghost walks the bloody rose lane to death.

As long as I do not go to sleep and observe opposition
taking my best shots at finding orbits' flat burn release.
When that opportunity comes, the choice will be made.

Keep teaching yourself to turn along with the world;
if persistent, one's roll will eventually preside inside
as grandest map possible, paid in thorn's pricking pain.

There's no simple way to say non-word of eternal light.
Neither word can be heard, nor shadow of light seen.
So it goes... words from elsewhere light the otherwise.

5/10/2008, rjd

~The Spiral

What could that possibly mean about writing for me
to say that finding freedom in rhetorical expression
is central and or at the core of my poetry's aesthetic?

When use of rhetorical style becomes a habit of pursuit
perhaps freedom is lost much like mileage to gas hike,
knowing freedom's purchase requires higher resources
relativity at work in the most basic sense, felt as free.

But not...

And to maintain freedom in one's life evolves a process
with another degree of will signaling an actual potential
and applying that will, effectively, gains a right to surreal.

Freedom is an interpretation about higher awareness
when focus finds chaos decreasing in rise of certainty
leveling odds create circumstance resonating harmony.

Oddly enough, it is precisely in this situation of freedom
where the only result can be reversal of such fortune.
and so it goes... with perfect ascension's formal spiral.

5/2008, rjd

Poems about my Love

Choking on It

Choking on what thought,
the chemistry of love on top,
those molecules and this chaos
they wrought, scat, in the backyard,
so used and thrashed.

A single's work cleaning the litter,
leveling the ground, in cooling endorphins,
and wafts of air stale with memory,
and tuneless whistling.

So what, you say; with your shadow in place
lifting instruments to play virtuosic riffs a bit,
in front of locked-down stores lining the street.
You have quit believing that there's more, but
still stirred, enough to stop, and wait, listening hard.

-Rewritten work of found poem by Kim Addonizio

And then by Andre Breton....

Always for the First Time

Always for the first time
Hardly do I know you by sight
You return at some hour of the night to a house at an angle to my window
A wholly imaginary house
It is there that from one second to the next
In the inviolate darkness
I anticipate once more the fascinating rift occurring
The one and only rift
In the facade and in my heart
The closer I come to you
In reality
The more the key sings at the door of the unknown room
Where you appear alone before me
At first you coalesce entirely with the brightness
The elusive angle of a curtain
It's a field of jasmine I gazed upon at dawn on a road in the vicinity of Grasse
With the diagonal slant of its girls picking
Behind them the dark falling wing of the plants stripped bare
Before them a T-square of dazzling light
The curtain invisibly raised
In a frenzy all the flowers swarm back in
It is you at grips with that too long hour never dim enough until sleep
You as though you could be
The same except that I shall perhaps never meet you
You pretend not to know I am watching you
Marvelously I am no longer sure you know
Your idleness brings tears to my eyes
A swarm of interpretations surrounds each of your gestures
It's a honeydew hunt
There are rocking chairs on a deck there are branches that may well scratch you in the forest
There are in a shop window in the rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette
Two lovely crossed legs caught in long stockings
Flaring out in the center of a great white clover
There is a silken ladder rolled out over the ivy
There is
By my leaning over the precipice
Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion
My finding the secret
Of loving you
Always for the first time

~Return From Summit

I heard said, reaching the summit,
when no summit I had ever seen,
left a wake descending complete.

This truth returns nay but why?
When the uncommon rides high
does a descent fulfill the stride?

Years climbing in apparent futility
have I daily felt pinnacle's peak
only to stop when at the top.

Something I forgot surfaced today
nothing achieved is overcome
unless returned level with love.

We see what we find and forget
never returning endowed possibility
to place depth where surface lies.

4/2008, rjduberg

~Ode to Oxy

Pream: Confused and considering the strophe, antistrophe, epode idea, I penned this, but wish to stipulate to its vagueness. Perhaps, I shouldn't have shared/posted it.

~
The variance of your reply, the skew and difference
set upon the express summary by timed default
inspires just one impulse in my sea of madness.

I will never stop paddling around, despite the odds.
While fluidity has its own science and religiosity
the art requires a dimensional aesthetic, a break.

Look for good maps and remote locations
Stock up necessary resources and head there.
For nothing is remembered as well as being there.

4/2008, rjd

~Along with Less than That

On the face, there was suddenly a place
a spot on which my hand raced
turning the dials about.

Not like a bell, but twilight at dawn
this place grew strong
from inside.

When points in references reached
on latest maps detailing something odd perhaps
they do not steel my provicincy and commitment

The teardrop is something I have patience for
nobody else seems to find so disturbing, if I may know.

map includes horizons and plots for each other 3 shots
pictures of my internam, hard and soft target overviews or discussions are find be yond anyone's ability to make me here. If there is any link in to situation to speak with them. Not sure what that need is to be closer with my ability to access the car taking or emerging with a mean ready to go so I don't have to continue driving tonight.

Gonna start with laundry I guess ... Bye!!


and my hand points it there.

5/2008, rjd

Vignette about Family Estate Karma

I can imagine writing a scene in a novel or book about you and I and this life. We’re revisiting the Duberg estate, in the country made up of family estates, a kind of spiritual repository of karma which is so tightly knitted together for us in our relations to our families. We stroll through the gate, the grounds, the house, reminisce about everything left as recorded history in displays mounted on walls and other types of artifacts, and then making our way through garden and backyard in a far corner of the land we come to an old well, barely visible for never being maintained or used. We’re kids, leaning over the wall, peering into the blackness, and I ask (semi-rhetorically now), how far down does it go (posing with a rock in my hand, prepared to let it drop) and you grab my wrist with this look of utter horror on your face, and you say, “You don’t want to know!” The look just paralyzes me, but your consternation melts into a comforting whisp of a smile, reminding me of how much more you’ve suffered on this spot, and I realize such wisdom is priceless and never to be ignored. This doesn’t extinguish my natural curiosity so compounded by the fact of my karmic inheritance which is some sense being incarcerated and thus limited or constrained; by itself, undeserving and unjust.

You release your grip and I let my hand fall to my side, the rock I toss aside, and then turn and glance back at the blackness with only patience in mind. We shall see then, how this all plays out. We begin our hike back to the estate’s compound with you rambling on about how one day all this will be mowed under and landscaped with a fresh grove of trees, going over some list in your head, the pros and cons, and all I can think about and wonder is which one might be least conductive of the demonic. For who knows just what doorways exist in blackness so deep, through which the nightmares of babes might wake up the curse of this karmic unrest once again?

As we close in on the garden and our senses are awash in a phalanx of spring fragrant sprouting, we turn outward and receptive to the primeval beauty of love’s light. Nothing is forgotten, especially buried secrets which are still so black. ~

~But Wait

For the lithe, supple, breathing
a child at play, blends fantastic,
over the falls of words sacraficed...

But wait...

This current of words flows not
but is stopping, being held anon
here, a small pittance with love.

I'm starved instead by such joy,
but would have nothing anyway
but useless hollow flabiness.

3/2008, rjd

~What is HER Problem?

I'm now convinced it matters more
my discontinuous view of amore
not because losing to this flow
happened, but that it won't stop.

The profundity of loss is lost here.
Am I the only victim of this travesty?
Or, as she thought selfishly, suggesting?
Like asking why God kills the innocent!

Past this connumdrum, personal issues
and all... nothing changes this process
where love for me was once continous
stopped, and became solidly discontinuous.

OK, maybe for you it's different,
self-improvement as narrative focus
still remains as gravity for most of us
and yet, what is HER problem?

3/2008, rjd

PS: Unless I offend please understand that what I'm closing here with is a very sketchy (to give perspective to plain I guess) way of expressing feminine dominance as a central and coalescing influence which any story about what would improve being alive necessarily focuses on.

Please don't limit your notion of feminine dominance to some kind of socio-sexual stereotype to avoid the offense. Clearly, this is my assertion about the ISSUE or subject which I'm referring to innocuously yet at the same time saying is singular and continuous among all categorically similar narratives per se, negative or positive.

I wish my thesis wasn't so weakly put, but its a start I think for now .

~Sparse Frivolity

Notes to oneself, to the other, are endless with (k)nots.
Hum of the drum, beats us all down, even now.
And then, comes Rumi's white miracle of round,
when just like a beautiful spring day, new is found.

There's one sure promise here in so many miles
paved with broken hearts, love's recompense.
Long riders learn how to bite their tongues
for risk of missing opportunity to exit (here)with.

Longer and farther one treads, rot settles in.
Close to the start, is where to find surest bow.
There, knarly pain controls mind spasm totality
just as before - God created Universe - this time.

We're simple and sparse in any grand comparison.
Tragic misfortunates, suffering the mystery unseen.
Our stories are all, little more than Potter's Daubie,
sure fire failures forsooth as profit rushes to defend.

Truth is not narrative, while narrative claims what is.
We claim narratives our own, and then stop asking.
Our erudite moral thinkers persuade how valuable
the story told must be, identity's fashionable package.

Nice and tidy they say, providing continuity with past,
a frivolity which defines our spirituality, our essence.
I bite my tongue, and choose to close in on the start.
It hurts most when I forget how really meaningless...

But at times like this, burning intent at my ready,
the challenge to untell is at once all I perceive.
So far as that maintains the inquiry, will I return.
Straight lines and circles, my digital age narration.

2/28/08, rjduberg

~def Challenge II

Of 3 positions, none offered
your life rests there, each moment
Beginning, Inbewteen, and Endding.

Why no one remembers dynamic
denies many rights and genius.
This past, genius, for endding?

This little set is our beginning
and this middle plays healing
on the start of a mystery ending.

Mystery, Inbetween, Endding.
Could it be a verse of Karma?
Better yet, final recurrence?

Well, simplicity must act now.
Beginning, swings a middle process
to middle that ends to roll of end.

rj 2/2008

~Where You Is

Before you went
to inhaling insist
was effervescent

OK some roost
around a nest,
some scoot scatter
fly founder fume.
Everything poops
their own place.

Why your poop
left me so sad?
My little mask
is now offhanded.

I know better (the)
where you go
is the miracle (of)
where you are.

Rose Peddles/sun

Why do roses suffer the liquid of our being
so much we've grown yet so little sown
regarding nature's story of pain.

And the beauty of the thorn seen in water
is made by the sight of its crown in blood.
The color is a match, hook, and tackle.

My liquid rose over the lips and was free
what I don't drink runs down my face
this better be where you find solace
after you stop deifying words peddled.

rjd, 2/2008