The Castle
 
Gaping open lie a mouth
waiting to devour
all who trespass there,
the stolid castle yawns its cursed
and mesmerizing embrace.
 
The eyes of the window peer down
like the hollows of a skull
and behind them
phantoms parade their glittering taunts
and march to the tune of death.
 
The Spirits of the Dead entice the weary
to stay for brandy or a cup of tea,
They hear the silent communication,
then to walk away, if they can,
as if nothing happened
as if they never heard the bitter
song of their destiny.

It has been a very long time since I wrote a blog.  It has been an eternity.  A long time since I have been myself or felt like myself.  The mundane world gets in the way of reality -- the true plane of my existence.  I strive to be better than I am, to be both here, in this everyday place of sorrows and dreads, and to be there, in the world of my imagination.  I long to be in the world of honor, and chivalry and exquisite, sacred love.  But, the daily tedium of the routine catches me just as I plan my escape.  I have escaped for now and maybe I will be able to allude my captors for a much longer adventure this time.

Emanations
 
There is a dual reality – a world
beyond the world where
the ordinary fuses with the Divine;
 
All things are infinite,emerging
as diverse forms in different ages.
 
Sometimes, the ridges of reality
collapse on each other,
like the wave of a perfect storm
pushing out from separate existences,
 
Until the miracle emanates,
fashions itself,  from breath
or cell or flesh or stone,
into a towering entity that rages
out from the plethora and becomes.

Some people say we are co-creators of our own reality, that our subconscious transcends the laws of physics and merges into an oversoul and our desires spreadsout, exploring like a marauder ants, until they find what we want our reality to be and then, like a subatomic weaver, or a spinner of DNA, or an alchemist, our subconscious pulls our destiny into being. There is still so much that we don't know about how reality unfolds.  I heard a there is scientific evidence that a molecule can be in two different places at one time.  So, there could be parallel universes.  Another layer of reality underneath the visible  one.  Maybe, in that reality, our lives are more exciting or romantic or divine, or at least, more pure  Maybe in the other reality, our dreams really do come true. 

The Gulf
 
The deep viridian of the Gulf pulses
with wave after wave, the sun
on the surface more beautiful than gold.
 
Everywhere is the precious entity
of the water and the waves,
the stream of aeons of luminous life.
 
In the distance, the gilt of the horizon
spreads across the miles and miles of sea,
a stunning setting to an enormous sapphire.
 
.

The sea has always been my companion.  I remember visiting it as a child -- first the Gulf of Mexico, then the Pacific Ocean -- and wondering about what exotic places were beyond the waves.  As I grew older, my sense of adventure also grew.  I remember reading Horatio Hornblower books by C.S. Forester  and The Cruel Sea by Nicholas Monsarrat.  Later, I would visit the Caribbean, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea, the Gulf of Japan. I started to scuba dive and dove the 80 foot wall in Cozumel and the Flower Gardens in the Gulf of Mexico.I was both terrified and fascinated at the same time.   In the early days of my career, I wanted to study oceanography and marine biology.  There was no place that I felt more at home than on a ship with the waves rolling underneath and the spray on the bow. I wrote my very best poem about the sea when I was 18.  It is still my favorite. Someday, I may share it on this blog... but I cannot now.  It is an intimate communication between me and the ocean, and still so much a part of me. Every time I visit the ocean, I am consumed by wanderlust. I look beyond the gold horizon and I want to be at sea, sailing, moving across the waves to another place,  an exciting place of new people and new stories, a place beyond the dreariness of the modern, earthbound existence. Every time I go to the beach, I pick up a special shell for luck and whisper my wishes for adventure into it and wait.

Stairway to Heaven
 
The stairs rise toward Heaven
cutting through a field of emerald green.
 
The temple is an immense gray fortress.
The stones are still stained with blood.
 
It is a reminder that rituals
are of human origins.
 
In this place, the grass and sky are holy
and every step is a rung on Jacob’s ladder;
 
The footsteps are the pilgrimage;
a sacred journey of the soul.
 
The burden of the steps is the true sacrifice,
the one that merges the Soul with heaven.
 

Heaven is one step away.  One step.  One step towards the light.  One step into the future. One step towards a loved one.  One step on a short journey. One step on a long journey.  One step around the world.  Sometimes all we need to do is take a step.

Eyes of God
 
The stone petals dance in an air of alabaster,
the lapis trumpets of the blooms open to a passing monarch.
 
The multi-colored onyx leaves curl on languishing vines
that spiral toward the sky.
 
The Eyes of God watch; mysterious, serene;
like the almond eyes of genie or the unknown eyes of carnival mask.
 
The Eyes of God peer over the patterns of matter,
stones or flesh, and see beyond to the invisible, eternal spirit within.
 

Pablo Neruda wrote about the lives of stones, the fire down in the matter of the of the marble or the lapis.The molten inferno that becomes the lava, then the stone, then the mountain, then the continent.  Many poets, physicists and mystics have written about the lives of stones.  If everything emanates from God, why is the stone or the snowflake, or dewdrop, or the sand any less divine than the soul of a human? Everything becomes part of the same mozaic. One small piece of life fits into another and another, until, like cloth, a reality is woven with a  pattern discernible only from heaven..

Wings
 
She rests her glittering wings
and sprawls on the new grass,
hidden in the corner of an overgrown garden.
 
Every rush of wind jars her,
while she shuffles out of sleep,
watching for a wisp of dandelion.
 
Every sweet blossom is a haven,
a shelter that surrounds her and supports her,
until, like a jinn, she spreads her magic.

Sometimes I wish for a fairy.  Maybe a fairy godmother.  Someone to take me away from here, into the past, into the future, somewhere inside the castle walls. Sometimes I wish for a fairy to take me beyond the known world into the realms of imagination, the world beyond the facade, the place where everything becomes new with a swish of wand.

Shrine For St. Dunstan
 
 
Bones move into dust,
            hidden in shadow
            near the holy water.
 
The jewel of the ring glitters
            in the flame.
 
The image of the golden hair,
            the strong jaw,
            flashes in between
            the flicks of fire;
 
Imaginary hounds
            move with intensity,
            and the stone walls tower
            between the darkness and
            the light.
 
Somewhere, deep in the cinders,
            the face of the bride
            sheds tears;
            the face of the patroness
            forms a kiss across time.
 
A hand moves ink across parchment
            to create a shrine –
            a memory of a memory
            of a dream.

Sometimes, it feels like my life is in cinders.  Ashes on ashes of the person I used to be, the things I used to do, the spirit I was.  Months later, I am finding my way back to myself.  One small act at a time.  One small triumph at a time. Fending off the world is a tiring task. It weighs heavy on one's soul. One ferocious labor after another until, like Dunstan or Arthur, I find my self "mortally: wounded" and seeking sanctuary.

Bottles
 
 
The secrets of the world
            are bottled up –
            here, in this dusty place;
 
Bottled up in haphazard
            containers labeled
            “bark powder”
            and “turkey rhubarb”.
 
It’s hard to tell if it is
            a scientists’ laboratory
            or a witch’s lair.
 
Everything is labeled,   
            and categorized,
            and contained.
 
The glass stoppers,
            stuffed with butcher’s paper,
            assure that no secrets escape,
            no magic is revealed.
 
Inside the glistening glass
            the beauty of the world
            lays dormant,
            waiting for an alchemist,
            or a conjurer
            or a thief.

I love to go to museums.  In museums, all the things of life and death are categorized and quantified and  contained.  It is easy to keep everything straight in your mind when you are in a museum.  Everything has its receptacle and its label and its number.  Sometimes, things can get mysterious, though.  I was once in a museum in Oxford where there were all these instruments from The Middle Ages -- gauges, compasses,telescopes, astrolabes. I wondered who had used them, who had touched them.  Maybe Galileo. Maybe Newton. . The science museum there was interesting, too, with artifacts all jumbled inside big glass boxes and cabinets -- all pushed in together as if waiting to be shipped off to a huge garage sale. Sometimes, these instruments and old glass bottles from early science labs, mineral specimens and animal specimens remind me of the tales of the alchemists -- always trying to turn the ordinary and every day objects of life into treasure.  It is a pity that with all their knowledge, they couldn't see that ordinary things are already treasure. . 

Poem for an Unknown King
 
 
 
From high above the door
            at the chapel’s far corner,
            his face leers
            at the passersby.
 
His scowl is malevolent.
His eyes are hollow.
His nose is flattened from
            centuries of wind and rain.
 
He smirks at the world
            that shuffles underneath
            the ancient doors.
 
He is The Unknown King,
            the one who sought immortality
            by patronage and conquest.
 
Like Ozymandias,
            his visage looms across
            an urban desert,
            his power broken
            under the crumbling
            of the ages.
 
Yet, even Ozymandias left
            his name as well as his face.
 
The Unknown King
            peers down from the turrets
            the black shadows of his eyes empty,
            his face contorted,
            as if in vengeful rage,
           in protest against anonymity
            and the futility of fame.
           

There is a certain security in anonymity, in staying "under the radar".  Sometimes, we just don't want life to  happen around us. We don't want the sneers, the looks, the people talking out of both sides of their mouth (or their hat). Sometimes, we just want to be; to be free of all the falseness of the contemporary life where people are like rats -- running over each others' backs to get to the top of the tunnel hoping to find a morsel or escape the yearly flood.  Sometimes, we just need to be quiet, to not have to deal with people who want to use us for our information or our creativity or our talents. Sometimes, we just need to be free of all those greedy expectations and find silence and renewal in the beauty of no thing in the everything that is no thing.

Glastonbury Abbey
 
 
Rain pelts the curvatures
            of your solemn arches;
            your walls high against white sky,
            your layered bricks thrusting out
            like a broken crust.
 
I listened for your voices –
            in the rhythm of rain drops
            in the sounds of unexpected wind.
 
I listened for the chanting of the monks
            in their woolen robes
            pattering on invisible floors.
 
I propped my ears up
            to the corners of the chapel walls,
            sensing the beat of hearts.
 
Somewhere, from within,
            these ancient surfaces
            an unheard voice answered,
            beckoning my soul to communicate,
            to embrace the materialism of stones.
 
Windows leading into heaven, like icons,
            become secret passages to enlightenment.
           

I was told once, by a fortune teller, that I had been a nun in another life.  I had lived in a convent and had been a healer. The people of the village had feared me, but would not let harm come to me because I was so effective with herbal medicine. I often think about this insight into the past beyond my past, the remembering before my birth, the lives that created the archetypes and memories that shape my life today.  I am drawn, always, to cloisters, to ancient places where moss grows up the sides of the crumbling walls, and the silence of centuries can still be heard.  I am drawn to the sound of bells and to the climbing of towers, to the stillness of libraries with very old books, to the joys of opening a volume that has not been read for decades.  I am drawn to stained glass windows that sift light into colors that fall on the floors of cathedrals and to the quiet reflection of reading, all alone, by candlelight. Sometimes, it is the soul which remembers without words, that translates experience into longings that move us toward infinity.