The bird on the moon writes how great is the right to love.
One for the nameless
It has been windy
Here in this valley of winter
Here in this fantasia of familiar turned skeletal
Here in this body, even, this weathervane of memories.
With the wind, much is scattered about
Reckless debris being driven to who-knows-where
And who-knows-why.
Among the leaves, the bottles, the crumpled rejects of some scribe,
I know that scraps of love, pure love, are on wanton trajectory.
Ownerless love, spent and used love, outgrown love, love beyond repair…
Blowing around as plentifully as any other careless thing
You wouldn’t know that there’s so much orphaned and stained love
Rambling about each time the wind picks up.
There may be a worried and passion-worn photograph
In a flurry with all our other forgotten nameless jetsam
Skittering across the road, and you’re lost in your own whirlwind,
You might not see that one scrap winging by,
You might not see your own face
Caught in an amber of momentary bliss
Now darkened, now sloughed off, now as common as twigs and paper bags.
With all this bluster,
Let there then be a madman…
One who chases fruitlessly after all the trailing bygones
Who stitches together the improbable random stories of love lost
Who collects the discarded tears of broken dreams
Who exalts the song of love from atop a heap of time’s rubble
Who, though sullied and calloused by dashing here and there,
Vindicates love even in its waste
And from his daft collecting,
Holds up one for the nameless, the forsaken, the broke,
Summoning light to again enter the trashed years
I’ve left thoughtlessly behind in the wake of desires untouched.
Let the madman’s work remind, no, exclaim,
How great is the right to love
And cruel we are to toss it out the window
Wheeling down the road
Done with it
Without passing it on.
Let us all be madmen.
And bird on the moon writes for all of us.
Written for Friends
Love is the force most mysterious
For it abides through dark and light
Above and below
Through the royal sky of day and the bejeweled canopy of night.
Love has infinite names and no definite place
Yet it is written in your own bones
It wakes you and dreams you
Crystallized in a clear moment which none can own.
Love compels us to know ourselves
When distraction and hullabaloo competes to win
Self knowledge is galactic
Through it, we propel forward, and give from within.
Love propagates from itself
And creates potential in its wake, a gypsy dancer
You cannot help but to jump and exalt
For the question of love is its own answer.
Love is the force most mysterious
Yet somehow, you can touch it now, here;
You chose it, love chooses you,
Just this once, trust its embrace, for as with all Creation
It is ever present, and yet you are the one who chooses to hold it near.
The bird on the moon combines,
Madness and Love, Perpetual
O Virtue of the starry night
In the affirm’d sanctuary of friendship
That carries aloft the tears to the clouds
To let the crazed proclamations of seers and sages
Rain down as love and goodness upon the drought-strick’n land
I raise to this the offering my own heart’s illogical celestial drumming
…that through the life-willingness of the Earth
Shall ever deeper love and faith sprout
From the smallest and hopeless of
Seeds.
Just as the highest and the lowest notes are equally inaudible, so perhaps, is the greatest sense and the greatest nonsense equally unintelligible. – Alan Watts