Whispers of the Heart

if love visited me tonight,
would i be the same?

if love touched you tonight,
would you remember his name?

if love visited us tonight...
would we dance beneath the sheets,
or return to the safety of our restless shame?

duplicity and reckless steps are sometimes the symptoms
of passion, but never the cause.

passionate glances, soft touches,
long kisses and dark dreams...
relevant modus operandi.

the nectar saturates my tongue...
canvasses my loins ~
and pierces my heart.

what if love touched us tonight?

would we both be the same?

Gregory

Passion and Grace

Passion and Grace...
a conflagration that touches the listless and dying, searing the despair and hopelessness from human forms...
embracing the child in all of us -
Divine Bellows resounding through all and everything..... His Holy Spirit renewing the old with the new.
Displacing the sour wine with the eternal fruits born of His Salvation .
This Flame still lives within me...
It is born of His Spirit...This Flame that He allows me to hold...to carry on.
Divine Mother of God!  Help me to fan the flames of His Holy Presence -
of His Merciful Love...
of His timeless compassion for all of His children.
Amen.

(Gregory)

notes # 26

tasting the sweet rain tracing down my face...

unitelligible sounds and benign utterances break the silence...

i watch the blue fog slowly move in,

penetrating each and every glance of mine eye...

it is time now, like before.

i watch the blue train slowly pass by ~

soon to be a passenger warming my feet in
in her cabin,
passing in review before her porters and residents.

what will they see of me?
who will i let them see?
not me...
not now...
i want to ferry the passageways incognito....
empty and void is how i feel,
still warm,
but too cold to feel...

like this blue train...
like this choking blue smoke...
like the blue cloak of the morning fog.

meloncholy is my mask and mood,
just now...
for this short ride to nowhere.

Ode to Amergin

When I sit upon this granite rock and look out
across the sound...
everywhere I see parts and parcels of my total being:

I am the woodrose...

I am the river and its course...

I am the Sun from the East...

returning to the West.

I am the death of a child..

I am the anticipated birth of another.

I am the breath...

and bellows of this frame...

I am grateful for this moment .



(Gregory O'Seasnain)

There are Many Tall Trees

There are many Tall Trees"




I stopped by the old court today,

where the Oak and Hickory stand tall,

there are many tall trees here,

all dressing for the eve

and the fall...



When I question my self- worth,

when I hunger for answers...

I come to this grove,

here... there are many Tall Trees...



As their shadows sweep the sidewalks

and carress the faces of the children at play...

I think of my own childhood friends and our endless pastimes under these same trees...

pastimes displaced by the elements of time and fate...

seemingly not noticed by the stand of Oak and Hickory....

rendering me a Grace that permits me to remember the child still at play here within me-

my essence gleaned from the joys, despair and forgetfulness of my own years,


(G. O'Seasnain)

A Bystanders Soliloquy

Where do I go from here?
My question seems to glance the face of the evening sky and disappear into the darkness...
and yet all is not for naught, futility is but a springboard for another chance...
a chance to taste the mornin' dew; renewing my spirit afresh with hope,
and child-like expectations.

This Moment (revised 2010)

Time is no more....

as my senses seem to taste the surroundings;


the crow calls and the door slams shut.

Breathe.

Thoughts still pour relentlessly into my mind...

stirring the bowl of contemplation.

I hold them not...and they go,

to make room for others...

Impressions of fear and loss......

of sensibilities retained for much too long;

slowly disappear, like chasing a forgotten dream.

....no raindrop, no breath of wind, no scent goes unoticed....

as they approach and leave the shore of my mind...

New horizons are opened....new vistas beyond.......

I feel my Heart breaking from its cast and slumber,

soon to be blazing a trail of certitude and countenance I've never known ......

it is Now ...

to where I must return.

(Gregory)

The Mortar and the Pestle

Mortar and pestle...two dissimilars into one.

Striking the flame ,the yellow soon becomes blue...The crucible's contents in flux, changing state.

I await the outcome, pondering my fate.  So it is with two of another kind...contrary, yet only to the blind.

Earth, Water, Fire , Air and Nous,what differentiates them...if only a cosmic ruse?

I stare at the Flame, and from within it bellows a troubadours song and charm; the molten crucible reflects a distorted image, similiar to my own...and yet still unrecognizable.

Like Amergin's vision that summoned the noble to arms. So too, discovery bids me to reflect and rekindle the fires of youth, calling me to don the warriors shield and sword...But not now...No, my life is settled here, like the hundred year old stream that knows its course.

Pen and notebook, like mortar and pestle. The histories and epics of old, the dreams of poets,the words of the stoic mage ground from rough kernals of variance and discord...to a polished compound of one.

Pen and Paper...Flame and Crucible, Summoning words from the silence.. precious metal from the ore...The real - to the surreal.

The surreal - to the real.

Thoughts #356 ; a note for Christine

A concern seems like an obsession to those with a shallow heart;

a loss sometimes becomes a longing...to a broken heart.

....like a child on a farris wheel, catching glimpses of the beautiful horizon...

and then, glimpses of the mud-soaked streets; wondering which will be his familiar?

Streets that bear the weight of each carriage and coach...

leaving traces and tracks, the lighter the less...the heavier the more...

a metaphor...

then, now and before.



I often ask myself why your illness and well being were so important to me...why is it still now?

A childish fancy perhaps...believing that my prayers and thoughts would help you through the challenges that were before you;

Truly, what was that to me? We are strangers to one another...why did I care?

These questions confound me still...and probably always will,

It seems like a century ago, praying for your heart to heal ...

and yet my hope for you still lingers; that fate will fold its sometimes cruel hands and give to you the peace

that we all want for ourselves, our own - and for each other.



A poet's skill and charm, I have not...only this desire -

that you will look out your window...

and see a million reasons to smile.

Those Dixie Storms

Claps of thunder and wisps of coastal winds give signal to the storm approachin',
Drops of a bitter-sweet rain trace down my face...wetting my lips and clearing my frown.


I hear myself whisper - "A truce must be drawn"...between the warrior within, and the coward without.
The cobblestones echo my footsteps as the day seems to hasten below the horizon...
Magnolias and giant Oak canopy the path to the old plantation, and granite stones;
scribed reminders of former generations dot the grave just past the old barn...
now dilapidated and ignored from years of indifference.


I remember growing up here - the heat, the slow pace of life, the white sands, the Live Oaks and Palmettos and of course.....those Dixie Storms.They come...like sheets of celophane racing across the fields, soon to drench the ground and the cobblestone lanes; the rains mirror the fury of the gusts...tossing each and every raindrop like marbles dropped from a bucket - escorted by a celestial drum corps of thunder and cymbal claps...
How I do miss those Dixie Storms.


Gregory Sexton

Another Dream (For Friley, Bobby, Will and Roland)

The scent of a frothy ocean breeze, 
reminds me of a time not long past...
I close my eyes and witness this dream,
a welcome respite that I hope will last...
banana leaves and hibiscus flowers brighten the once dim horizon,
Like a host of smiling faces, they greet me... 
welcoming a long lost friend.


From the old bridge , I see a Pelican meandering slowly ...as if she had time to spare -
passing through the creek , her feathers wet , seemingly unaware.
A crane stands patiently on the flats... waiting for that careless dragonfly,
The silence remains....lifting to the heavens a Morning Dove's cry.
Ah, but this dream seems so real...much too precious for time to steal.
So, I return again to your splendor, my precious isle of light...
a place where time fails to cast its shadow....
and where I go to heal "


Gregory Sexton

Nuances of Love

 

Love is such a subtle thing.

We write songs, poems and stories about it; we construct religions around it...we even call it God.

Personally, I have always believed that if I could understand it ...just glimpse its luster for one second... then I would get what "it" is all about.

But we all have our own idea of love...sometimes it is simply a construct of our environment, our familial-cultural upbringing and other pivotal influences...sometimes stained and fractured from personal relationships gone sour and the inevitable pain and hurt that lingers...

As subjective and irrational as love may seem at times; Let me say that Love in all of her nuances...all of her sensible, and senseless expressions...in all of her grandness and tender mercies, however fleeting they may be...She is my life's desire.

She is the Queen of my Heart.

It is by her Light that I see this world most clearly ; its flaws and majestic attributes, its purposeful conveniences and more importantly , the moments of consolation - and sensing the incredible beauty that is the world around us....and within us

Voices From Across the Pond

(For Ros)

It's like that with me you once said, the tides and the birds...the trees and the sounds of crickets -they give you a hint of joy...amidst the most somber of days.

You love the depth of the writer,and the dances of the thieving crow...you've always been a fighter,even when your highs...were so very low.

The salty mist soaks your skin...whilst ferrying the ride across the sound...to another place.  It is there that you hear his footsteps...It is there that you see his candor; as expressed in his sentiments of short quips and elaborate narratives.

He still walks the old paths...amidst the new.  It's the "real" that you love.  The insatiable desire to know it...to be it...perhaps it would not be fair to tally it as an obsession, only a living prayer, a living moment suspended in time...every bit as real as it ever was...now.

These are the voices I hear....from across the pond.

From the Bottom of the Hill

I look up the hill where your tree once stood...full of life, proud to flare its green penants every Spring for all to see .

Now you're gone...and so is the tree.The minutes fall into hours and the hours inevitably become days...and still your words stand the test of time...your image and voice carry on your legacy...your fans only know the pain of your words; not the pain of your Soul.

You dressed your life in eloquence...the words dancing on your tongue ....dancing like the green penants of the tree...leaves dancing all the year, until they could dance no more;  like you Annie, you 'could dance no more'.

I'll stay here, in this place...this rustic old cabin; waiting for the Spring to bring the tree back to Life again;      and your words to resound again from these green hills...waiting for you....here from the bottom of the Hill.

The Old Path

He rounded the path they had walked together so many times before...there stood her favorite tree...she would always announce to anyone close by that "this was the most beautiful tree she had ever laid her eyes upon". She once got upset with me as she caught me moving my lips to those very words...the leaves glimmered and lay so quietly as the winds had long since fell away,still blustering and disturbing the birds from just over the heights. He walked as if late for an appointed rendevous. That's how it was before, he would stay late and pretend there was extra work to be done, she would leave the workplace as though she had to be somewhere...anywhwere but there. He finally got the nerve to ask her if a cup of tea would suit her one evening after the shift.She obliged and there began the convoluted and yet steady courtship that had lasted all of these years. They married eventually, though they really didn't notice a change of heart after the ceremony...they had fallen in love many years prior to the bouquet toss. Now here he was walking their beloved path by the river. She loved the sound of the watershed rushing over the rocks and through the grass....she always said that "this was her ocean " and that would make him smile...everytime.The path just wasn't the same now, he looked down and didn't see her dainty feet...her lovely curves...he didn't feel her soft, white hand carressing his. It's as though the artist had began the painting of a lifetime...and suddenly abandoned the canvas to the rain and wind.Gone were the anticipated gibes...the long pauses as we stared out across the river and past the valley on the other side. We always wondered why there was never a bridge...we just figured that kept our imaginations running wild; always wondering what it must be like across the river.He looks across the Harnel Bend and wonders if she just may be there looking at him from across the river...from another place perhaps, but she might just be there...watching me look for her.The mind-play wears his patience thin..realizing that his imagination get the best of him these days...warm streams fall from his face as he looks over his shoulder one last time...as if to say (this time) good-bye forever. He waits as if he might wake up and this is all a dream...just a sad, protracted dream brought on by a late supper.No. He didn't eat supper last night, She's not here ...and he walks slowly back up the old path...swearing that he'll never be back. But he will...because he knows that she is there, somewhere, waiting for him

Butternut and Dixie Gray

We lost so many that day,
some wore butternut...
some Dixie gray.

All we wanted then was som' to eat -
hardly a man with shoes on his feet,
but we was ready to march again....
that is certain to be true,
That is if'n it was under the Stars and Bars...
flyin' the Bonnie Blue.

We were strong and ready,
fightin' next to Bobby Lee...
even nf' there was a blue storm near to us,
we were'nt about to flee...

Many a Reb and Yank died that day,
when bastard Abe ordered Fredericksburg to be burned.
Yanks killed some of those that dared to stay,
even before the butter was churned...

I saw the fields of battle with dead and dying strewn,
the fire ran through my veins - my soul aflame ...
like a burning cocoon.

I swore on my Mama's grave I'd live thru this here war..
but I ain't turnin' my back on the soldiers of  the  51st Virginney Corps.

We all heard Stonewall's goin' to flank them yanks come tomorrow morn',
So we'll stand tall each aside with powder dry...
our Colors weathered and torn.

We've been battle dressed...by the Yankee blood on our hands,
and still we've the will to fight,
from this here soil -
now where our battle flag stands.

We'll chase em' back today,
all these brave men and me...
som livin' and som dying...
all wearing Butternut and Dixie Gray.


Posted by Gregory Sexton at 7:40 PM

The Miracle of Life

The miracle of Life is not found in books and research (singularly),
in argument and counter-argument (particularly),
rather... Life is its own testimony, sprung from the depths of pre-existence and clearly reflected and demonstrated in the everyday run-of-the-mill day we all wake up to every morning...
seen in the movements of the earth and her sister bodies...
glimpsed from the simplest life forms...
admired in the noble and complex...
Life is both artist and canvas...her subjects, reflecting the pains and sorrows...the joys and ecstasies of our existence.
Life suffers the fool and touts the genius...and in demonstrating her cosmic humor,
sometimes begets them as one and the same.


Gregory Sexton

The Face of Truth

How can I cloak the Face of Truth with my shroud?
Dare I shadow its splendor and beauty...with my doubt?
Can I impose upon this wonderous ally, my own notions of truth without staining the reflection unseen?
Dare I suppose anything of Truth, other than what it declares itself to be...
born in a babies cry....
shed in a lover's tear....
left on a lonely battlefield...
what I see in your smile....
in the touch of a hand...
in the precious gift of love...
in the radiance of a soul...
These are the badges of Truth I declare...
Let my heart be their beacon, and let my sight be their sword!


Gregory Sexton

Dance of the Crows

"Dance of the Crows" (a suburban narrative)




The frolicking crows in the yard mimic a carribean dance,

one I've surely seen before; jumping and spiraling with twisted gait...

like the red oak that gives way to the gusts.



The black dancers steal my attention for a moment-

they seem oblivious to the storm approaching from just over the mountain...



Where do they go when the lightening shatters the air ?



From where do they come to perform this lively dance for me ?



Is it for me, or just the workings of benign instinct?



The dusty scent of approachin' rain,

threaten notions of solace...if the thunder claps break.



I quickly scurry inside and looking back at the little black dancers....

they are gone.



Out the window , a dim reflection...looking at me... wondering if they'll be back after the storm passes.



"Fix a hot cup of Black English ...and wait"...... i tell myself.



Counting the thunder claps and rolls...



I wait.

The Doll and the Crown

Early in the mornin'...
When night gives way to the day,
You can hear someone cryin' up in that holler...
That's when Mama gits on her knees to pray.
You see...it was two year and some when this stranger came to town,
some say he was a no good poker stud...a "son of a gun", even claimed to wore a crown.
Then one day Ol' Jack Barnes caught him stealin' some bread,
he shot that stranger, in the mud....right in the back of the head.
Folks heard he had some kin in them hills... just outside of town.
Papa searched them hollers for days and nights...
Up one another and down...
all he found thar' was a note, and a doll laying next to a rusty ol' crown...
Papa read the note -"Daddy I knowed that you loved me and did the best you could...but I got cold and hungry and went to find my way out of the wood"...
Now when the winds blow through those dark cold hollers,
Mama holds that doll and crown and begins to cry...
praying for that man...
and his baby girl from just outside our town,
hungry and cold was they...
and much too young to die.


Gregory Sexton

Gold Rush Dreams

The smell of burnin' hickory permeates the campsite,
as morning doves announce the dawn and coming of the day...
the clink of kettles and coffee pots bang out a syncronous rhythm,
mimicking a calypso band from far away.


Eggs and bacon crackling on cast iron,
children stir and the camp dogs begin their play,
the sun cresting just over the horizon....
hints of strong winter fast approaching;
the men speak of it most of the day.


So soon we must prepare to break camp...lookin' west;
some with eyes peerless...some full of fright.
The men and boys tie up the teams, and shake off the cold and damp from the night...
Folks say ther's likely to be injun's or the like where we go, 
but we have enough fixin's and powder to keep us...
before it's time to sow.


So we move on... westward bound, mile by mile, in search of our dreams...
Livin' for the day when we'll lay sight...
on those gold shiny clusters,
and cascading  silver streams.


Greg Sexton

A Day at the Office

Like sap burns from the Ivy,
this day lingers long...the jesters pointing their fingers...
and the coward singing his song....
But I need to rest and leave all of this behind,
as my nerves are a mess,
and peace just leaves more to grind.


Greg Sexton

Thoughts on Time

Time passes in review,
like a celestial rhythm meted out on a cosmic metronome.
Some say it's linear in process, others declare it to be cyclical...
I only know it passes in phases, sometimes its run is spent much too quickly,
or even a slow and leisurely pace.

It is the bus pass we never purchased...with each route subsuming the former.
Time has no face, other than our own...showing the years and scars that pass and heal.
If the future is tentative, then surely time is its catalyst....
establishing limits to every endeavor and every moment.

While tempting the less wary to recognize the seeds of opportunity
that may be born of failure...
Time still holds the cosmic trump card, while hiding its secrets from
behind a pirate's smile.

The signature of a progression as prompted by the maestro...
the compression of a steam engine meting out its interdependent strokes,
the life line of a forest,  or of a pond...or of any given population...
all signatures, sequences, and allotments scribed by the hand of Time; and
Truth...certainty...and inevitability are its are its earmarks.


Gregory Sexton

Morning in the Fog

Like trumpets sounding ~ the geese echoe through the dense fog...
I anticipate the arrival of a barge cutting through the sheets of gray and blue.
She is out early this morning, recruiting me in her tenuous and persuasive fashion,for a slow, and yet exhausting jog.
I'll decline today, as I attend to the many do-nothings that bog down my schedule from time to time.
It's quiet now...like the first 4 inches of a snowfall.
The trees mimic the cobblestones in their drab ensemble - cold to the touch...
but warmed by the memories of the seasons that have passed, the voices they have heard...and by the Spring winds fast approaching.
Grasping at each glance ~as though it could be my last...wonderin' aloud to the possibilties that might lie ahead,I'll attend to my duties....All the while putting this array of thoughts to rest...for now.


Greg Sexton

Encryptions of the Heart

It is upon these barren pages that I find some rest,


to write and convey a thought...an emotion,

or perhaps just a jest.



Hide and seek is the curse of this heart,

contemplating the blue while reflecting the universal muse.

Like Prometheus stealing the spark of life,

only to share it with everything and all...

The heart can steal your repose,

exposing and sharing its list of pitiful flaws...



While you unwittingly hide your gaze,

roaming through your affairs; half awake - half in a daze,

the cause is never too clear,

the cure never so near.



Empty smiles and vacant eyes,

long empty stares...

speak of the pain that remains so very near...

I hide behind my cultured, naive and wishful delights...

Never too close my heartbeat for you to hear.



Hidden away, these tears remain,

as I ponder this course and inaction...

trying to reach you and falling so short,

and words that ever seem the more inane.

Thanks Dad

From my earliest memories as a child, my father was a man that drew my attentions to the finer things in life...the thrill of having a fish on the end of a line...the constant beauty found in God's handiwork we call "Mother Nature"...the strength of a noble character...the comfort and reassurance of a warm pat on the back after a hard fought football game...

....these memories endure the shadow of time and have given me strength when I have found the road ahead uncertain and unstable, lending me the strength to do the right thing.

Dad,  as I sit here at my desk, thinking of this upcoming celebration of "Father's Day"... I wanted to share with your fellow brothers and sisters in the Lord just how grateful I am to you for  brightening my life and its many bridges and horizons with a gentle reminder...and a nudge,  to do the right thing....always, to do the right thing.

Having you as my father,  the Lord has blessed me richly.
Thank you Dad....Happy Father's Day
Greg

Some Thoughts #099

Most often, it's the shortest path that wins the race...I've chosen the round-about to finish my tenure.It's more alluring and satisfying...as I may negotiate the same course again...and again ~I will always see something new on this worn path...To witness, to peruse.... and always another reason to laugh and cry.It's the invite that first brings a smile...It's the warmth of human compassion that makes the mud and rough road...always so worth its while.

Some Thoughts #57

Not all bugs taste the same.If you're eating ham...and it smells like chicken, stop eating it.When I tell you I am big-boned, I'm lying to you.When I look into your eyes and say...I see you as you are...I am telling you the truth.Not all soil is the same...some is white, some brown, some red, some yellow...but Mama Earth uses them all equally.If it snows...and your neighbor owns dogs...that's not lemon flavored snow you see in your yard, trust me on this.Friends are the most precious gift of all, without them...life is a monologue....and a boring one at that.


G. Sexton

Some Thoughts #76

The trees bend and give way to the April winds, but only for a short while -soon the cold will be gone.
This window offers me a place I can divide...that is, divide evenly my wishes and my will.
The door has stood idle for nine years now.
Between two worlds, a buffer of sorts, a windowpane guise, separating the everyday from the dream.
Feeling obliged, I begin to brush the cobwebs from the foyer, to open the door ....
I ask myself; "is the answer always hiding behind a veil of eternal half-truths and probabilties?" 
Should I leave now?
Whatever may come...I sense a need for change.
Perhaps I must leave this mountain, her hills and meadows...her creeks and pastures.
Peering through the window, I know I won't leave if I see these same reminders of why I came....
the momentum carrying me to my next destination,regardless of my doubt and second guesses.
I look at the door...and look back at the safety and certainty of the window -
wondering if I should leave it open...
or just close it for now.


Gregory Sexton

Evening Moontide

Luna.
Mother of the Night,
your vision draws me near to you,
bathing me in your Silver Light.
I sit here...reposed and wanting not.
The Fire lit,
the coals stirred,
dancing as though casting my lot.
Gleaning what I can from this night...
I am restored...
my heart, my strength and my sight.


Gregory Sexton

Tears of a Flame

For some...the stars are just a scattering of light in the early morning sky.
To others, they are the promise of another day.

For some...the sound of a baby's coo is annoying -
To others... it is the sound of Joy,
hoping to find Love's bounty.

The beating of a Heart is an unseen expectancy -
ignoring the romantic embrace -the rhythmic syncopation between the bellows of Life -
and the stirring crimson wellspring of the Soul...
carrying the moist seed and flooding this tenuous matrix with Life -
a certain harbor for the Soul.

While the glimpse of a tear is disheartening and frightful to most -
are not tears simply the silent brook of the Soul ...
bearing sentiment where words often fail?

These same tears sometimes blind and deafen our senses to the world around us...
portending clouds and storms that simply do not exist.
The weight of the unknown is ours to bear -
mindful to all that be,
while not to drown the Divine in tears for the mundane...
and douse this Living Flame between you and me.

I Miss You...

Like rose petals that have long ago fallen and fastened themselves to the earth,
their essence and luster still lingering, in richness, and in glory...
so it is with these memories I hold so dear.
As the years have passed... I often wonder if you still walk the old path...
do you still think of us?
I'm sure if I were there now,
we would meet , somehow, along the way...
..... along the river where we used to stray. 


Gregory

(For Pug)

Some Thoughts #45

Sometimes when we begin a new Walk...it's all so new and unfamiliar - we ignore the simple and beautiful things that surround us. We respond to the outside world with a cold indifference...a buffer for our senses... still reeling from all things anew - trying so hard to meet the demands of the Heart....all splattered against a backdrop of challenges that abound all around us....and within us.It's the challenges within that I face ....and to which I now find myself drawn. My thoughts and emotions have become a paraphrase...what I hold dear seems not to resonate with others as heart-felt emotions of joy...but emotes a childish superstition to even those I hold most dear to my heart. How far will this shadow follow me? From whence has it come? How can Love disintegrate the bonds of love? How many more will I lose at your behest?I turned my head and the Storm approached unbeknownst to me...setting its course upon my countenance...knowing full well His Light is my very breath; my Hope of all hope.Soon the battle will begin and I must choose my strategy and weapons...denial or certitude? Withdrawal or advance?Chance one for the other and the Storm stills heads it's own course...with it's proper path, it will carry its load unto me regardless.But what of courage? What of certitude? What of Faith?These will be my weapons of choice...as they will be my boat -sail - and shield.

Listen

If you're quiet enough,
sometimes you can hear the muffled beat of your heart...
When you are exhausted from the hurries and anxieties of the world,
the heart will remind you of what really matters...
with each anticipation,it rings true.
It goes most times unoticed and ignored...
all the while feeding and nourishing your "little house"with the necessary components of life...
and in return, it ask us for nothing.
Benevolent, patient, forgiving...
this is your heart...
and mine.


Gregory Sexton

This Moment

A moment... now.
time stands still....all my senses seem to taste my surroundings....
the crow calls and the door slams shut.
Breathe.
Thoughts still pour relentlessly into my mind...
stirring the bowl of contemplation.
I hold them not...and they go,
to make room for others...
Impressions of fear and loss......
of sensibilities retained for much too long...
slowly disappear, like chasing a forgotten dream.
....no raindrop, no breath of wind, no scent goes unoticed....
as they leave the shore of my mind...
Opening new horizons....new vistas beyond.......
now my Heart stirs from its cast and slumber,
blazing a trail of certitude and countenance I've never known ......
it is Now ...
to where I must return.


Gregory Sexton

Parting Ways

My fingers touch the outline of her lips...
stopping in mid-sentence,
she declares nothing more is to be said.
Like beads falling from a string,
each moment seems to fall silently to the ground...
lost and trammeled under the sand...
a gift consigned to posterity....
and to anyone that may pick through the ash and rubble.

So it is with this temple.
The caretakers forsake their deed, and walk the shortest path away from each other...
So it is.

Bitter tears and bankrupt emotions rule this day.

If love and hate are equally toxic...and one must imbibe,
I prefer the intent of the former....to the result of the latter.
But mine is not to alter...rather,to forget and to forgive.
So it is...


Gregory Sexton

Some Thoughts #36

Life is born amongst us here, unceasing and always relevant...
we see it with every breath...the crest of the Sunflower so bright,
the unstable footing of the newly born fawn,
the erratic patterns of the Dragonfly.

Ah yes! Even death is but a moment in time, subsumed by the life it replaces...
a doorway perhaps ~ a fortuitous return to what was, only much more....
and even to return to this sacred place...this grove of wonder and splendor.
Through three valleys and seven gates...I remember it all , across glade and spring...
from just below the timberbreak...I see her now.

I've been here before.... to be sure!
Between the hedgerow, she pauses, smiling, welcoming me back once again.
Looking into the heavens, she points me to their path....Luna, Orion and Sirius...
Majestic movements, witness the silent hum of the oribits above!
The music of spheres ring true tonight my friend ~
Under the mosaic of the heavens ... we dance...
the perpetual dance of the the evening sky reflecting in her eyes.


Gregory Sexton

Stolen Lives

Written in memory of my brother who died from substance abuse/addiction}


All around me, I see the starving souls...
full of anguish and fear.
I see minds and bodies warped by "the stranger" ,
disguised and proffered as medicine.
Jackals on every corner...
licking the remnants of another promise from their hands...

So much pain I see in their faces...
so distant and removed from joy.
The life light is but a shadow of what once was,
the pyre burns, the flames licking each regret....
but never drying the tears.

The innocent lust for life...supplanted by the the pale mirror of a stolen conscience.
They walk the dark and lonely streets...
pretending that each day won't be their last.

Lives stolen...for a pence...and a dream.


Gregory Sexton

River of My Heart

Three miles down...You make it look so easy.
White caps meandering slowly through crook and cranny.
Like you, my course is fast and slow.
You share your white, frothy cascades...
and I share my solitude.

Your angry charge of the riverbank hastens my pace....
as the geese scatter and scold me for my rude interruptions...
your churning voice speaks to me -
with distinction and charm.
I can't keep your pace...and you must still move on.

A leaf benignly mimics each of my steps...
chasing away the distance as though teasing me.
Lingering nearby ...you lend me your peace,
as I search for my own.


The day passes...now the course must end.
The Sun leaves its remnants of light,
just enough for my steps to be sure...
an hour and a moment of insight,
tis' why I come here...
always enraptured by your mystical allure.

Going Home

The coastal plain meets the sandy shore,

like a Monet painting...lines of demarcation,

elusive and confused.



Sea spray burst through the rocks,

metered by the grainy boulders that line these shores,

and this town.



It is here that I was born,

and now I have returned to take my leave...

from all of this,

from all whom I have loved,

from all that I have loved.

Straw snaps under my feet as I make way

to the other side of the Grove...

there I will sit and remember who it is I claim to be...

and who is it that I am.



The elderly lady from across the fork wrestles with her linens...

one will subdue the other so it seems.

She smiles and waves, as the bedsheets appear to get the best of her.



I wisk on by wondering aloud "could she possibly recognise me,

or is every stranger a friend?"



The Wisteria trees are in bloom now,

as are the wildflowers that align every street,

children play with everyday items as toys,

while dogs chase them wondering why.



This was my home...yet where is there one that knows my face?

True, I left long ago,

to find the promise of salvation,

a salvation vanquished by my dreams...

without a trace.



If I have a home...it is here.

Still I am a stranger in a strange land...

come home to rest and be reborn -

to relive a thousand memories...

soon I will wake from this dream,

only to wonder again,

from whence it all came...

and to where it has gone.

Posted by Gregory Sexton at 12:02 PM

Alone Instead

I walk by the couple on the bench...
staring into each others eyes - they do,
afraid I might step upon a twig and break their grip...
still not one, and yet, not even two.
tally off I go, if I dare -
somewhere else to loom and not stare...
Where have they all gone...all of them now?
The ones I called friend, all...and each one so rare....
Can fate be this cruel...leaving me here alone,
to bitch, moan and scowl?
I have days ahead,
to read the stars, and slice the bread.
But not alone say I...
no...today, tomorrow?
Rather, I think me dead...
or alone instead.

Shadows of Light

The cold winds sweep through the gate,
tossing the autumn leaves about the garden place,
where the birds would frolic and sing.

Patches of the once green lawn, peering through here and there...
wait patiently for the warm winds to come forth,
and all of the life they will bring.

The Pine has grown little since I planted it last Fall,
casting a small shadow upon the trickling stream...
that slinks so slowly down the wall.

The light of day pauses one more moment,
before sinking into the night sky...
leaving an even balance of shadow and light,
bringing deep calm to the soul,
a pensive thought,
and a tear to the eye.

Epee Nue

EPEE NUE~

Heart unsheathed and unscathed...
tempered in the fires of the Queen.
A forthnight hath passed,
since I've last tasted her kiss ,
The parlor dressed in tile and gold...
blue smoke of myrrh ascend to the heavens
through the portals above.
Her smile brings joy and ease...
anticipating her embrace and warmth,
I walk the stairs to the loft , to her side ...
my heart pounding, sweat beads on my brow...
possessed by her presence, as if I've never known her...

Embracing...no longer two...and yet One.

These City Streets

I have always found solace in the crowds of a busy street. Because it is there that you can be yourself, unpretentious, aloof, unresponsive...
you can read a newspaper while sipping a cup of tea...watch the pigeons defecate on city statues...or more enjoyable to me, watch all of the people; the expressions (or lack of) on their faces...moving about their day, some quickly...others just meandering about as though waiting for the next show to start.
There is solitude of sorts here that one can't find in the country. A wonderful sense of obscurity that is comforting, in fact, too comforting at times.
The gentleman drops his cigarettes on the sidewalk...ignored by the masses as they quickly skirt and maneuver around him, as though he were a lamp post...he picks them up one by one, brushing off the dirt and tucked away in his jacket pocket...then quickly carrying on as if nothing happened.
Yes...there is a strange and certain loneliness to these streets.

Tasting Love

A breath and a sigh...
the look in your eye,
when all else drops from view,
cept' your desire to touch and
ride  the wave of abandon...
eyes meet and carry us on....
hands caress...
heartbeats heard...
and stares through half-closed eyes...
tasting the sweet nectar of your lips..
I disappear,
and now there is only you.


Greg Sexton

The Poem and the Symphony

Time gleans "the sound" from you..
from a distant age gone by.

Body, Neck and Bridge...
Strings, Frets and Keys,
aggregates of this guitarra...

A matrix of wood and bone,
constructs of this Soul.

Embodied in the ink of his pen...
the writer personified -
encrypted in the words,
his art...his life -
each word and rambling
phrase, an incarnation
of the Nous.....truly, an unfettered reflection.

So too, the musician speaks through the sound
of each note...
each note, each phrase,
as if a paragragh...
reflecting sentience and imagination.

Together - they complete the poem
and the symphony...

Separate - they are two strangers
born of a common Mother.

The resonant embrace pierces the 
Heart - fingers dancing into a firestorm .... 
dissonance long removed, they chase away the distance -
forgetting that some are far removed from this joyful mood.


Mirroring one another,  the two strangers renew their bond,
reflecting familiar and a courteous tones, in writ and song -
as thoughts surely become sound,
and all the while,  are so evenly pronounced... 
plucked strings reverberate through the darkness, 
minor and major scales collide...
awakening the dead to life, 


....to the poem within the symphony.




Gregory O'Seanain

A Witness

A witness...
a witness to this world around us,
to the love and the joy...
to the hate and the fears...
and to all of the questions and doubts that
seem to abound in so many of us.

I witness this breath,
it is yours and mine.
I witness this sunset,
it is yours and mine.

I know your tears,
I know the promises broken...
but I can't wipe the tears from your face,
or heal your heart...

I can't answer your many questions...
only to say,
I ask them too.

You see,
it's knowing you are here with me
on this Earth that gives me hope...
that answers a prayer from so long ago,
a prayer of love...
and  of remembrance.

This Dance

If there were days enough...


I would learn the Dance,

to dance with you.



The flood light becomes the sunrise...

as we ascend to the heavens like Icarus,

only to fall to the earth again...

and again.



This is my dream...

to awake to anothers dream

to another time...

when you knew my face,

and I knew yours...

and our dance was not for one...

but two.

Gregory O'Seasnain

Empty Voice

I heard your voice today,

in my mind...thru the voice of a friend.

She asked me about you...

the convoluted answers came from a distant memory,

....funny that I had forgotten so much.



The wounds reopened...

loneliness poured through the

gates...

but quickly closed again.



Pain ensnares the mind...

regret poisons the soul.



I will forget you again...

but not tonight.

I Move the Mountain

I shift to the east...
moving my hands, I move the mountain....

I pivot to to north...
reaching,  I capture the moon.

I spin to the west...
I step,  across the great oceans...

I look to the south,
I return,  from whence I came.

Gregory Sexton (O'Seasnain)

The Leaving Time

~The Leaving Time~~




Life is a mirror of sorts -

dim reflections of yesterday...

images clear and some quite elusive -

will remain, but for only a short while...

then like the mirage,

so very quick to fade.

(Gregory O')

Lakota Dreams

Thunder Birds approach on the horizon...

just before the rain -

four-legged's tapping and banging on this old house

and its skeletal windowpanes...

rain dancing across the tin roof

barely touching the gutter,

the thunder growls,

and south winds howl...

earth, bones and walls begin to shudder.

The Owl perched above the loft sits frozen...

yet always keeping his even and steady scowl.

The Ancient Ones spoke of these harbingers...

These Thunder Birds,

and how they would foretell of the Storms to come,

They come now...in my dreams...

before the thunder clouds,

in a crash...in a whisper,

now as clear reflections in a still pool,

but soon reflections obscured...

dark and lost in the ever turbulent streams.

Kindred Spirits

" Kindred Spirits....""




As a spirit from distant ages,

that portends of a renaissance of mind and heart,

embracing all that I see and hear...



and reaching...and renewing

the depths of the heart's wellspring...

and all of her aggregates,

a collage of experiences -

of forsaken memories that

often appear upon my brow...

and fall slowly from my cheek.



A spirit that now peers upon these surroundings-

that peers upon this soul...withdrawn...recoiled...waiting for the strength to return and imbibe me with a renewed hunger...

that familiar unquenchable thirst for Life.



A spirit that peers at a heart that hides its own forgetfulness well...



yet still charmed by old remembrances....

and new faces.



For the Heart,

Grace tends to her vessel sweetly...

and by its own hand, its own volition,

this Heart.... shall it be healed.



Gregory O'Seasnain