Natural Mystic

Natural Mystic, 1999

A deaf man sings though cannot hear,
like a blind man lost in long blank years.
I see a sick man in the cold,
in the mud and growing old.

An elephant with a lotus, sings,
to Maya lost in twilight dreams:
to you a son will come, fulfill,
and roll stray pebbles up the hill.

Do not indulge, he says, don’t feel.
Serenity and harmony—still,
do not be taunted, selfish heavens,
white doves, four horses, seals, and seven.

Candle sticks flicker in the night,
to and froing as they might.
revealing one seal, two seal, three seals,
four;
all of them opened with a door.

Beyond, inside now, prying still,
as pebbles rolling down a hill.
Like moths burnt by manmade light,
as Icarus burnt at the height of his flight.

Good and evil, one situation—
the rest is just interpretation;
there is no moral litigation,
all good works are inclination.

Evasive will up to the light,
struggling through the dark of night,
like snow dissolving in one’s hand,
like an hourglass without sand!

From some he takes,
to others, give;
to some gives death,
while others live.

Our voice echoes down time’s hall—
transparent paintings line the wall.
In each we see the same man laugh,
a public face behind a mask.
And man is but a pyramid,
each moment but a stone.
Memories in veneer is hid,
and in completion carries on.

Through tall hills of thick green grass,
reflected by a sky of glass.
Orange, flutter butterflies,
admired by some childhood eyes.

Spin you clock, and take me home.
Tick tock tick tock; carry on.
Gone like God and all the rest,
shaken off as though a pest.

Perhaps within this supposition,
with no one listening there, around,
a solipsist dies out in the woods,
does anyone make a sound?

Running nowhere, like running still,
just as ink flows from a quill.
Time is always moving, and,
it drags us like a slave—
to nothingness so soothing,
forgotten in a grave.

With clouds comes the prophet,
will he our dreams fulfill?
And answer riddles, like our life?
Or will he tell us we were right?

Nothing to say, no voice his own,
laid out in rags, silent, alone.
Alone with words, and just his mind,
he watches clocks and cries for time.

Time around him slips away,
as midnight beheads yesterday—
and then itself is conquered too;
that’s all miss destiny seems to do.

The day from darkness, midnight too,
is the light from me to you;
it was arranged for you to see,
if you look long enough for me.
In all my wonder, anonymous,
not dogmatic, or pious;
neither intent on destruction or hate,
intent to let man write his own fate.

We fritter all our lives away,
with little left to do or say.
Without much left to see, to do,
tomorrow comes to take us too.

The dew of dawn, the tears of mourning,
out on the lawn under the storming.
Under the lightning, and the thunder,
creation is a madman’s blunder.

Why waste time to wonder?
An answer doesn’t solve a thing.
Not one bit of peace,
can a simple answer bring.

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