Wonder Tree

Like you, I change with the season...
like a shape-shifter...we seem to always alter our appearances
to fit the model...the design....
but unlike you,
I morph into a multitude of sentiments...
until only a mirage of my former self remains.

...now i am a stranger to you,
and even to myself.
...i close my eyes and wait for the Spring to come.

gregory

shopping madness notes

the crowds are stampeding through the mall,
spending what little they have,
anticipating sales and "events"...
packed in aisles...backs to the wall.

what is it they really hope to find?
something small, something big...
one of a kind?

no...just deeper in debt...
more stuff...no job to pay for the stuff...
and a new calendar to plan for next year's
blackest of Friday's.

sitting....

so i sit.
staring at this wall...
neither alive,
or dead.

somewhere in between...
i am.

somewhere folded upon my breath...
i rest.

somewhere touching the icey cold window pane...
i look.

it is this stillness the gives me identity...
neither irish nor american...white....nor black...
male nor female...

...just still awareness...
i am.

notes to the Elves...

i walk these paths with ease now...
still pondering the choices i have made,
still hestitant to claim my innocence,
or my shame.
i look for your dwellings that once gathered in clusters
'round the Oak Groves of days past.
i search through the brush hoping to find a trace
of my "traceless friends"...
hoping you will share your words with me,
and listen to another lonely voice.
i am a stranger, except here.
this truth i have known for many, many years.
i come to this grove if only to discover what i have lost;
gather what i have gained.
through the branches...the leaves and brush...i see the fireplace waiting
to warm my feet.
i will return to my small cabin,
still to look over my shoulder for your footprints in the snow.

Epitaph

He was prone to tolerance...
and yet steeped in bias.

He searched love...
and when it found him,
he ran like a coward from the field.

He loved life...
and yet, never really lived.

He dabbled in music, prose
and poetry...
Yet struggled to understand the
obvious.

Here he lies...
Under the fallen leaves and ton
Of dirt...

Morning Dew

at my feet,
prisms of dew splash the ground cover before me...
potential  composite rainbows of light within each drop... a majestic microcosm of
their sky-clad kin.

...the drops of pure moisture are as sweet nectar to the marsh rabbits and fairies that inhabit these woods...
cold dampness permeates my clothing,  but it will disipate soon with the coming of
the morning sun.

...the clang of pots and pans behind me, a reminder of the breakfast that must  soon  come.

...inhaling deeply the moist air about me,  I break the new silence with a heavy exhalation...
stirring some grouse nearby.

a newness seems to frame the morning air... interlaced with the bitter-sweet smell of  campfire coffee...a still moment precedes another still moment...

i ask myself, "do you think this can be real"?

I taste the fresh brewed coffee....and conclude that this must be real, as I am certain a phantasm
would surely taste better than this!

Gregory Sexton

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

Through the Flame

"Through the Flames (When I look in your eyes)"

 

 I stoke the the embers and another log catches while releasing another plume of smoke into the night skies...

I see the fire light dancing upon your face and in your eyes looking through the flames back at me, and mine pretending not to notice.

In silence...you are asking me questions that I want to answer... and all the while i too want to ask...

It it true that we are born to love... my friend?

Should we search the hills and valleys for our other?

 When do we surrender, and aquiesce to the castings of fate?

Or do we?

What do I see in your eyes...eyes I've never seen?

I too wonder who you are...

My vision is born of the Heart...

I see the warmth of a friend ...

whispering assurances that all is well.

I see the beauty of the heavens in all their grandeur,

and pale in comparison to your beauty. I see two souls alike....

perhaps like the sparks from this fire...

we have taken similiar paths...

I see the flames dancing in your eyes...

 ....and now I am burning... like the fire before us.

(Gregory)

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The Leaving Time

" The Leaving Time"




Through the tangled branches,
I see the hues of scottish tartan hills...
i see the hints of sunlit fingers reaching
this dark forest floor,
to stroke my cold body,
warming me...
deliberate and steadfast,
the darkness becomes less so...
i am leaving this place now...
where i hid from myself...and from you.
walking, but not running...
glancing back,
but once.

I leave.

Introspect (dazed and left wondering)

I wish you could analyse me...
I wish you would.

Write a chapter for me.

Tell what you see,
what you hear me saying...
because i can't seem to see myself anymore...
i can't hear my voice.

it reverberates the abode of a strange place,
a foreign land...

I don't recognise my face...
i don't see the newness in mine eye,
just confusion...and a tear.
racing in parallels,
questioning every fear.

I wish you could analyse me...
tell me what i see is worthy of sight.

I wish you would analyse me...
and tell me what i hear is beauteous,
and not discordant and brash.

I am weak now,
but i will be strong again...
Humpty Dumpty has fallen...
where there are no "King's Men"...
there is Self.

G.

When Blue was Green (Thanks Miles)

Before the fall...
when blue was green,
i could see the exception to every rule,
the Light would shine through every seam.

When blue was green -
your face captured me...
your eyes downward turning,
the smile that saved me from my own
tempest...my own darkness...my silly plea.

Green they were,
the hills...the valley to the east,
your eyes.

Blue now hides the rainbows,
blue now covers mine eyes...
glimpses of green
still  swipe the landscape...
oils the painter left behind.

When Blue was Green.

(Gregory)

My last breath...

The days ahead of us are never written in stone,
only the impressions of the past are due their memories.

As I look to the future I wonder when I will  take
my last breath,
where will It be?
will I be alone or will someone be holding my hand,
attending to my last glance?

Silly thoughts such as these ensnare my attentions from
time to time...
and yet they bring my focus to bear upon the
ultimate reality..
So as these last days hurry by and run swiftly away to
another place and another time,
I will allow the tea leaves cast the lots of the unassuming;


I pray that in my hearts-mind....to have tasted your lips,
to  have touched your face...
to have held you in soft embrace...

....

Song of the Multitudes

Song of the multitudes"




I serve the order, the kings, the wealthy,

until mine fingers swell and numb...

I roll the wheels,

when the night watch beats the drum.

....to this fate i am forever bound i ask?



....she paints her face to lure their attentions...

to sweep the night alleys,

with her long dress of red...

tis' this life she has grown accustomed to,

and each breath she draws with solemn dread.

......to this fate is she forever bound she asks?



...a trick for a pound,

...a broken hand for a pence...

nar' enough for crumbs and a drink,

not this night,

no...not this night...



Gregory.

Que hora es ya?

Time is sometimes unforgiving...


a silent witness to each breath and the convolutions

of our lives.

Spellbound I am...

by the chants of crickets and tree frogs outside my window...

somehow making light of this strange meloncholy that blows

across the windowpane from time to time...

Ultimately, I am becoming more amd more each

day the person I recognize from eons ago.

.....and this reflection is somehow still incomplete...

without you.
 
Gregory

The Crucible and the Flame

They said you walked through these very streets...
now as I close my eyes  -  I can almost hear the sounds ...
the children playing, the dogs barking...the muffled voices in the marketplace.

A dusty blanket seems to cover the village,  like a light-brown cellophane,
riding the breeze from one end of town to the other.
I seem to leave no footprints behind as I walk up the hill...
...the hill where they say you still hang from a tree.

I find myself following a small crowd as they appear to know where they go,
it is then that I see you...
still hanging from the cross...
motionless...still...
and yet....

The old lady whispers to me that he was the son of Mary and Joseph,
she is quick to follow that he is the Promised One..
I stare upon His Face once again....
only this time,
something is different...

Like a Flame that has harnessed my Heart...
burning... the pride, the hatred...the selfish lusts...the fears born of ignorance...
removing the dross to expose the priceless ore...
this crucible,
this all consuming Flame that devours my doubt -
as I watch your Face...

I hear cries and weeping all around me...
the soldiers begin to scream and shout ,
chasing the crowds away for another day.

I hear a soldier say aloud to his comrade,
"is He truly the Savior of the World"?

Walking with the small crowd to the village,
I pause and glance back up the hill...
expecting that you may not still be there...
no...hopeful notions are put to rest...you are still there...

...and yet I know that you will not tarry long there...
as your work is just beginning to bear fruit...

Here....here amongst this very crowd....this town...these cities...
Yes...you have shared the Flame of Love with all that will hear...

and to us,
let us bear your message in our hearts...
for eternity.

The Strings of my Guitar..

These six strings have run their course,
galvnized steel threads lost their voice -
like so many generations before you,
phrases and scales have taken their toll on you....
so now I will return you ultimately to the earth;
only to restring my guitarra with like kind...
I hope.

Gregory

Through the Flame (When I look into your eyes)

I stoke the the embers and another log catches while releasing
another plume of smoke into the night skies...

I see the fire light  dancing upon your face, and in your eyes.
looking through the flames back at me,
and mine pretending not to notice.

In silence...you are asking me questions that I want to answer...
and all the while i too want to ask...

It it true that we are born to love... my friend?
Should we search the hills and valleys for our other?
When do we surrender,  and aquiesce to the
castings of fate?

Or do we?

What do I see in your eyes...eyes I've never seen?
I too wonder who you are...

My vision is born of the Heart...

I see the warmth of a friend ...
whispering assurances that all is well.

I see the beauty of the heavens in all their grandeur,
and pale in comparison to your beauty.

I see two souls alike....
perhaps like the sparks from this fire...
we have taken similiar paths...

I see the flames dancing in your eyes...

....and now I am burning...
like the fire before us.

(Gregory)

Whither will you go?

I see you return to this place each and every season,
always in awe of your creations of mud, thistle and grass.

You scurry about looking for grubs and seeds...
nar' giving me a hint of attention,
or detection.

Your colors are resplendent as the rainbow herself.
and yet sometimes,
much more subtle and sure to amaze.

I break the ground again...
I'm sure you have anticipated this for some time?
... if the machine is beyond repair,
fear not...I will use hoe and rake
to ensure a good Spring planting...

....and of course, plenty of worms.


When this season completes its course,
and the colds winds return...
where will you go?


What plains and valleys will you see?
Rivers and mountains and marshes will be your home once again.
If I stare south of this mountain,
and close mine eyes,
I can go with you...

if only for a little while...

(Gregory)

Blue Train (revision 36)

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...


i watch the blue train slowly pass by ~
soon to chase away the distance between now and then....
acquiring rights of an assumed passenger ~
warming my feet within her cabin's frame,
passing in review before her porters and residents...I ask...

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 to touch,
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.

Gregory