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Thursday, November 22, 2018

Fare Thee Well

Audio

Fare Thee Well
Who can Tell
If we’ll ever meet again
Fare thee well
Fare thee well my friend

Like the sun
Moon and stars
Setting high upon the hill
Its been good
Resting here a spell

Pour me out of your hand oh Lord
O’er the Mountains like a sigh
Tumbling river winding to the fiord
Windy fountains springing forth from on high

I must go
Don’t you know
For the way has split in two
You’ve been true
Neath the skies of blue

Flying Lark
On the wing
Darting round the fields of grain
Joy and pain
A new day begin

May the wind fare thee well my friend
One and all, fly ye like the wren
Far above the way of common men
In the peaceful place of the great - I Am.




Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Waters Under the Ice




The Crows rode the invisible wobbling top

In spiraling circles on the blue and white heavens

As they danced and played in the morning sun

They called out to one another in their familiar way,

Round and round uncaring of my lowly observation

Taunting and laughing at the curious little cat on the ground

The cat thought - how do they do that - If only I could – I would

Pacing back and forth, sitting with tail twitching, then running and jumping

Up as he climbed and pranced on top of the green ivy hedge and wall

Then without warning one of the crows swooped twice

Cawing and threatening the little predator as did the other from his perch

Frightening the cat so that he leapt down and ran to me with questioning eyes

Then darting along, he was out of sight, crouching and shaded, keeping vigil,

Peering out from underneath the car, puffed up, ghostlike, a shell-shocked soldier

While the black marauders sat like kings on the treetop, seeking treasure below


Later on that day, after laying down to rest, I spun round with the crows like clothes in a dryer

I became like the cat shrouded and hiding in a camouflage cloud of tormented sleep

Out of nowhere on the street a grey van approached, inside eyes watched menacingly

What had I done that I must flee away down under the cover of confusion and slumber

I sat deep in a foxhole trench watching and scooting away from the van, waiting for help

The man inside had seen me somehow and now the van had stopped in the inky silence

Then, I heard a sound, someone was walking on the roof as police helicopters growled and circled above

A part of me knew, inside of the fear and dream, that it was a raccoon up there crossing over the shingles

He was after some snails, slugs and the dried cat food that I’d left earlier on the table outside in the dark

The uneasy feeling would not leave me in peace however, and so I turned in the sheets like a corkscrew

Suddenly, the man from the van had entered the house, grunting and making noise in the other room

So I got up out of bed, put on my pants and shuffled blindly to have a look around the place and outside

But there was no one there and so I sat down in a reclining chair and slept – a restless unhappy sleep

After a while I awakened and ambled back to the bedroom feeling around, stepping through the black

Trying not to bump into anything or stub my toe, then I sank into the blankets, unconscious once more

Day arrived, the crows cawed, I went out into the cold fresh air, and damp yellow light, with a gray mind

My thoughts huddled together and pooled in the garden, where I found a large succulent that the raccoon had broken

I walked about listlessly until finding a good place and with shovel in hand, I replanted it in the front yard

Those mischievous crows and the masked thieving coons, captivating, mysterious roustabouts

Like pirates vs castaways, by sun they spy, flaunt and rob, or prowl creeping and stealing by night - invaders

With the helicopters they speak to us of feral fears and specters in the murky charcoal waters, under the purple ice of cobalt sky, moon and stars.





Wednesday, October 10, 2018

Wisdom Hope and Love


Is wisdom for one to find
Revealed gently upon the mind
Within the engrams and ingrained
On patterns of an endgame yet untamed?

Found deep in your eyes’ embrace
A field of fairest loving grace

Love, the beating rose of life,
O burning assuaging pyre
A healing repose from strife
Dawn of wisdom, hope’s desire.



Wednesday, October 03, 2018

A Healing to Discover


The flowers wilted, and the rains came
A song could not be sung the same
In the deep woods, sadness and pain
Shadowy memories in darkness remain  
I must go, I had to go, to do it again
But had long ago forgotten the refrain
No one to tell, none to complain
Slumbering thoughts are a mind not sane
With the clouds above my heart floats a river
Droplets fall to earth, in cold wind shiver
Grey linen heavens blanket the sun’s quiver
Golden arrows flying, striking at grief’s center
Killing the flames of night, a healing to discover
Milling grains of life, a heart in the day uncover




















(photo by Zolton Kovacs - Hope)

Saturday, September 29, 2018

Poems Naive

Hello All:

The poems herein represent feelings, reflections and moments in time. They are original drafts, some of which remain here in all their glory and have not been edited. The criticism that I get from most of my writer friends is that the poems or stories do not have a beginning middle and an end. Or they don't always rhyme in the prescribed way. This is because most of us here in the west, whether we know it or not, have been trained in the style and structure of classical literature. In the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s, from beat poets, to Bukowski to rap there has been some movement away from that strictness of form, as seen in the visual art world first with the French painters of the late 19 century and the Spanish painters of the early 20th, culminating with folks like Jackson Pollard in the 1930s 40s and beyond. 


In terms of literature in traditional print form, it is not the content of Bukowski that I am speaking of above, but the freedom in the way he uses the language form and style. Emily Dickinson was sort of doing the same thing with much of her poetry that did not conform to what had come before.


That being said the work here is amateur and naive, and without the polish of the outstanding professional training and talent represented by the rich literary traditions available to us in each of our respective places of origin.


I'm not sure that I will get around to tidying up around here, but I just might, so if you see these poems elsewhere in the future looking a little different and some with changed titles its all good. You can say; well I knew those poems way back when, before they were all clean and shiny. 


Comments good and bad are welcome. Thanks for looking.


Best Regards To You and Yours,


Dusty Crucible, at www.cloudywaves.blogspot.com

PS. Check for audio links to hear some poems read aloud.

Friday, September 28, 2018

Pale September Moon



The pale September moon called to me as I sat leaning on the table in the Sukkah
She was high and aloft riding on her throne at midnight, sending ribbons of pearly light
In all directions over the surface of the vast ocean known as the Milky Way
The great lady caught my wanton glances as I gazed up at her train and tresses
In a pulsing tumbling halo She turned her face and looked down intently with love –
Covering the curving terra with the blanket of her aura, drinking up the thoughts of men,
 Her fair round cheeks casting shadows of mystery and enchantment
In that moment the moon whispered something to the captivated –
Barely perceptible a singular silent sighing syllable – “ O “ – and brightened a little
Nay, she beamed in delight, a vain and beautiful queen of hope in otherwise darkened seas
Quixotic, In the early evening fat and colorful, while at her apex seemingly cold, opaque and distant
Reaching, holding, casting a spell over all creation, pulling tides, gravity, creatures, and souls
Toward the moon’s hypnotic journey crossing the heavens spinning riddles and bending light
Softy she sings the songs of lovers bidding each evening blossom to release her fragrance
Enraptured, every budding flower and leafy green foliage opens and grows
Together with the nightingale breathing over all the sleeping countryside
Like a wave the great peacefulness of the experience washed over me in the Sukkah
As I continued thanking the Almighty One for life, seasons, friends and family
Under the watchful eyes of the stars and above each diamond an angel wondering in amusement
At the effect that the wonderful regal shining Orb exerts upon the hearts of humankind
To sway and to swoon, arousing at once passion, romance, love and lighter dreams
Some blessings cannot be measured, cannot made completely clear or quantified,
But may be seen under the cover of a Sukkah wrapped tightly in a warm blanket of slumber
Caressed by visions in the night, comforted for a while under the radiant glowing moon
Until the expectant future carries us to an appointed time of beginnings
When, by the glorious light of a cosmic day, a day more luminous than any other
That allows the sun and moon to rest, one that blots out all darkness and night
Giving birth to the healing of all things and the renewal of all creation,
For in the dawning of that hour the King’s fallen house shall be raised up once again
and it shall be written on the horses’ bells and on the cooking pots –
Holy Unto The Lord!

Saturday, September 22, 2018

Land of The Big Sky


In the land of the big sky,
Spirits dress in puffy white robes
Welcomed us as they wisped over all
Flooding upon the never-ending blue sea
The mountains showed forth their majesty
 Encircling us with evergreen robed hills
Offering watchful protection from crowning
Floral grassy meadows and denuded peaks
Filling the land with the sweet smell of pine
Wending down through every valley from above
Like the many waters that cascaded and flowed along
The ravines and into the earth’s most hidden chambers
Raging there and in lofty streams,
Wayside creeks and canyon rivers
It seemed as if the peaks cried with joy
As the birds filled the air with laughter
The waters spoke of freshness over the rocks
Rounding bends and with them flowed new life
Sure as the sun called the day out of the ground
And the golden warmth from behind the night
People of far off lands swam the tar roads
Like gondolas along every channel
Floating through swaths of trees, fields, brooks
Up and down they went – round and round again
Montana bragged,
“I am the plain atop the foundations of the world,
And none can see as far as I!”
Wyoming howled in wild derision,
“I am the most free of all lands;
A wolf who devours the wilderness.”
“I roam the kingdom of beasts great and small.”
But Idaho let out a growl that boasted,
“ I am a great and consuming hunger -
The terror and power of the Grizzly Bear!”
Then Idaho attached himself his powerful claws
To no less than six states threatening again,
“ I have capture you and will hold on as you struggle
until one or all of you weaken and tires,
For then you shall become food for my winter.”
But the heavens chided the proud states and sent men -
Who came to humble the land by their very persistant presence
The rocks o’er the precipice shouted, “pour forth ye waters
Clear and green, rush on with your solid looking columns,
Forceful fluid body now collapse away!” and –
The waters tumbled and fell, crashing far below
In violence they went, beneath the rising spraying cloud
Just beyond the beautiful emerald river proclaimed to the sky,
“ I am the most powerful and fair among all the wilderness,
High and low.” “ I cut through the jagged rock.”
“yes, I like an angelic sword riding the wind,
Passionately winding and turning, barreling ever onward,
With a voice that none can stop.”
“ I roar on and no man or flame stops my travel –
I sweep them all away – beasts, bolders, trees.”
“Yes I alone pass through the crystal light and
The dark deep forbidden reaches below earth and stone.”
She went on that way in her rapacious beauty until the river
Passed through the valley and out of sight – until at last
Her tumultuousness was calmly swallowed up by a
Great winding serpent – the muddy Mississippi waters of legend.
By the trail the rams foraged among the brush
Oblivious to all, shielded each by two head butting –
Morning glory like horn spirals to the envy of every petrified mollusk
Left behind in the surrounding sedimentary rock layers from eons past
Indecisive Bison so fickle, now gentle and calm with questioning eyes,
Trotting and feeding on the grass, frolicking and turning over in the dust
Over and over, then swaying back and forth in the passing waters.
So soft and serene is he, quiet like the breeze,
Gazing upon the creation in peace… What now?
Wooly headed soul in competition runs lowing and groaning,
Wrestling, colliding, fighting – You display
Wonderous strength and Stamina against all other behemoths,
Who in turn throw themselves at you with weighty abandon.
How do you survive? With nothing to say, you remain
The most existential of the large beasts of the plains and valleys,
Watched over by vanguards of geese and friendly ducks,  
With birds to clean your coat, you remain contented.
“Look at me!” “Look at me!” he exclaimed
There high up on his perch he sat.
“ I am the king of birds, do you see?”
Larger than a small child was he and without peer
Among all his fellows – regal arched back and neck,
Fierce eyes, a pillar of darkness was he.
With a coat of jet black coal, the Golden Eagle,
Though not the least bit golden, truly is the most magnificent of birds.
But the ravens nearby laughed and mocked,
“Look at me!”, “Look at me!” on and on they jeered.
Until the Golden Eagle responded by taking off  
From his place of rest and showing forth the
Bounteous spreading of his awe-inspiring expansive wings.
As the eagle fanned out his every beautiful feathery plumage
They beat against the unseen wind with a whoosh sound
Until the regal raptor rose high above the trees like the dawn
In confidence and pride befitting his station
He sailed and glided the highest heights with our drifting thoughts and gaze.
The ravens cowered and hid shuddering in the nearby pines.
The bear, embarrassed by his grizzled appearance,
Kept out of sight sleeping in the forrest during the day
Only coming out in the early morning, haunting every boy’s dreams,
Letting out occasional, otherwise unavoidable bellowing growls.
Or perhaps its was just the sound of his snoring after drifting fast asleep.
In any case once could never tell, as no creature ever wanted to venture
Close enough that unpredictable and rather burly fellow to find out for sure.
In another part of the woods and hills the Moose wondered and lamented aloud,
“Why was I ever fashion thus?” Why should I have the body and shape
Of a horse but without any of his beauty?” Again he called out to field and forest
To anyone who would listen really, “Why on earth when I sing,
Do I sound like a bull or a cow on a farm instead of the wild beast that I am?”
And he thought, “ What a strange creature I am.” He bemoaned once again,
“ I have wings growing out of my head, but I cannot fly.”
“I frequently wander into towns as if they were my home.”
None of the forest creatures could console him and so he wandered
Next into a vast lake and informed the fish crying,
“ I seem to be the most mixed up and least cleaver creature
Among all the large beasts of the mountain and fields.”
The ground below the caldron moved in the night.
Steam spouted out of holes and cracks in the earth
Mysterious hot fountains of mist under the stars.
Water worked its way from below heated rivers up
Into pools of emerald and sky blue at temperatures of  
Some 300 degrees inviting the winter ice to cool them off.
After we had been washed clean by the waterfalls, rivers,
High plains, and fresh mountain blossomy breezes,
The earth moved again and its warm trembling
Eventually shook us down the road toward the
Ever opening and widening vanishing point
Like a happy party mix settling down in a metal bowl
We traveled onward in our white van leaving Montana behind
Moving forward like pebbles on minor’s sifting table, water by our side
Vibrating and filtering each sunlit moment revealing gems and nuggets of gold
Until stopping, we landed at the edge of a large stony glacier fed lake.
It drank up the valley and out of its reflection grew grand sharp toothed mountains.
Austere and grey they stood anchoring the horizon firmly and cutting against the heavens.
The face of each peak was brushed with snow and ice had grown, refusing to melt
In defiance of the valley’s relentless rising heat below.
It surely was the mother’s milk of mountains spoken of by French fur trappers of old,
Dwelling just beyond the land of steam, minerals, fires, storms, long winters,
Lazy elk filled plateaus, and yellow stone.


Thursday, September 06, 2018

Wednesday, September 05, 2018

She

She

In cool slender silhouettes she 
Of Shadows and light
Playing dancing and merging 
To reveal the world
Freezing time and space into a sigh
Silencing every breath held in suspension 
The unknowable depths of the heart
Shown in this moment 
Of awe and splendor She
Speechless comes the sound
Of wordless utterances
Arresting passion
Even as it moves
Rising and falling inside
Invisible smoldering ink
Within every page
She


Tuesday, September 04, 2018

Rest Comes

In shapes and vapors of the sky
Or on the glow of moonbeams cast about
Rest comes - a gentle angel
She walks in the stillness of dreams
Floats enraptured, enchanted
Gliding upon the ether of sleep
On the outskirts of places forgotten and unknown
Among the quiet trembling of the trees
In the mists of an early dawn
Drawn along between the here and there
Where I was and where I go
A rich rushing canyon river of billows,
Peaceful carriage and turbulent flowing
In the bodiless floating and drifting now
As a vision perplexing the mind
Wonderful, bright, and burnished pure
In the houses and mansions of the soul
Graceful as the wind tracing each slumbering body
She dances o’er the dormant and unassuming
Balancing on the breath and the beating heart
She is the womb that carries dreams
An arch of archetypes and feelings
A flower fragrant in the night
A mirror in the heart - Vanishing by day
Made clear in the revelation of birdsong
Singing for joy under the spell of heaven’s dew
Each morning droplet a blessing left behind
Memories of her cloudy white bridal train


(Pic from Doug Blue - Women Life)