The Day I Awoke Without Her / Ray’s Hymn

If you would smile it’d be much like The Morn,

eager to cast it’s lot of Heaven’s Dew,

on the breath of flowers Dawn cast anew,

the heady swill of lavender so borne,

has licked the wick of imagination,

so tender I must be in your hands Love,

what grace abides you like the stars above,

if I’m yours then you must be my Nation.

Would you know me as deeply as all trust?

My Promise and my Triumph lie on you,

of everything, you are everything true,

Because you are The One only I must,

immortalize thy frame in wicked verse,

and offer this psalm to the firmament,

you’re name, a wish cast in Dream’s Parliament,

burning forever in memory’s curse.


Butterfly in The Night

Stranger things have happened…

Somewhere in the vastness of a churning ocean once, as waves berate rocks into sand.

Under a twilight sky of mystery and intimation, as stars alight dreams and daring of impetuous mortality.

Maybe if I…

Could steal some late hours from you.

Duality is selfless, its hold on individuality selfish.

Soft smile aloft fragile shying wings.

Can I twist the vapors that shapeth aero-space, for you?

Lay your pinions betwixt the aether, scrape aloft stellar parades for you?

March at celestial pace for you, lie in wait attuning Heaven’s gate for you?

Selfishness, that begets selflessness.

These things I feel. And are true.

Eyes that hum like levitation, in the silence of the cosmos, as I lay bare my truths to the peering, beckoning Sun.

Body built like obliteration, humility, worship…My last to be offered beyond my sake.

In you I am lost…

My center redeemed.


Against The Still Wood

The sprightly spider spins it’s silk as thoughts give way to dream. The dawn weaves through eaves of leaves towards hallowed eves of rites belonged to dusk…
All against the still wood.
Nests nestle, songs settle, birds bellow…
All against the still wood.
As life endeavors to the sun in mottled leaves and aged fibers, deep channels, and stirred soil, Steel tries it’s might. It must yield as stone does…
All against the still wood.
Fire maybe or poison perhaps, all is sheltered beneath the frayed fractals of the still wood.
Air exults as rain tumults, force fractures the sky. And still against calamitous end perseverance tensed it’s roots.
Stalwart seeds sift through space, tending towards the terminus. Solemnity is ripened and plucked as humility is laid to rest…
All against the still wood.

Beckoning of The Numinous

Space speaks to something very deep within us.  The Universe is full of intricate and deliberate astounding almost incomprehensible beauty.  Nebulae and galaxies filled with light and matter drawn inexorably towards one another across an endless, ever stretching expanse.  The Universe offers something far beyond beauty, to compare the greatest endeavors of human expression against the majesty of Space and Time and it becomes clear to any true critic that our attempts at aestheticism are laughable at best.  When we stare long into the beauty of Space we don’t simply feel moved, we feel a resonance.  Something deep within us pulsing and pulling towards the entirety of existence.

We come to know, to understand, the at once inconceivable glory that is the presence of reality.  When we stare deeply into our true world it becomes clearer that reality is not simply some cloak we drape ourselves with and freely change or discard depending on where we are and the people around us.  Space reminds us of the presence of Reality that exists concurrently with our subjective experience.

When we inhale it isn’t simply some function of biology but rather we pull against and draw in the fabric of reality in tandem with something ancient and immutable.  Physics and Chemistry do a great job of demonstrating this concept empirically, for the very material of the human being is the essence of deceased stars.  It is humbling to reflect on the fact that the seeds for our existence were cooked in the furnace of boundlessly powerful stars that once illuminated vast regions of boundless Space, like the will of monarchs manifested in antiquity.  But perhaps the most moving and humbling truth of existence is that despite the fact that we are formed of the very material that constructs the most fanciful and transcendent objects in existence, we can never call that beauty into being through our own endeavors.  We will always fall short.  But at least there is comfort in knowing that the glory of the numinous actively lives within, and is the final fate of all agents of reality.

Behold The Storm

They called you Shango in ages past perhaps or maybe Indra, Zeus , or Thor.
There is of one thing to be absolutely sure,
You come with promise of howling wind and scattered shores.
I can’t imagine what it must have been like for them to gaze upon you for the first time.
I remember mine, seeing you stir the sky and cleave the heavens, the roar of thunder as your accompaniment.
Ever present the serenade of water sundered, thousands of splintered streams splattering against soil, sand, and stone. It’s no wonder to all you were a god…once.
But now all of your edifices have faded away like stone eroded.
Like a cloud too bloated.
Like a tear emoted.
But there still lies within a little of you left.
When beckoned you reap through the mortal flesh. Skin teared, seared, till nothing is left, like a sky bereft.
The lightning from your nest dwells within my chest.
You live on in all of us, even if forgotten.
Is that your fury? Your fate?
I can relate.
The grave for us lies not in the folds of Earth, but the mausoleums of memory.
I too will revolt.
Like scattered, frenzied, bolts of light, I will illuminate the sky.

In Fields of Grain

You open your eyes, dainty clouds lazily trek across the sky. As you lower your gaze to eye level you take notice of your surroundings, a field of grain stretches in and endless expanse around you. Each grain pleasantly stretching into the atmosphere like tiny hands entreating the clouds to come down and play. The smell of grain and damp soil wafts into your nostrils. You like it here. The cool soil clings to your bare feet and happily braces against your gravity as you shift your weight to stand in comfort. As you reach forward to touch the grain it caresses you tenderly. You reflect fondly on how much you’ve missed this embrace.  A cool wind ripples through you and the grain each of you yielding ever so slightly. You sigh as the grain and wind whistle in concert. After the wind passes you take notice of a familiar presence behind you wrapping you in warmth. You turn your head behind you and remember The Sun. The grain seems delighted it dances without the wind. You look around you and smile, you had forgotten her too. Old Earth, she’s weary, and weak, and tired, and yet she smiles. You’ve lost your way…and yet you are home.