SEVEN PILLAR VILLANELLES FROM THE TEMPLE OF LIFE
With echoes of mid-Wednesday from the seven days of Altarpieces, with poem iv from Sympathies as midwifery pillar balanced here by the three on either side; and the aahh of aum as mid-pillar of the seven aspirations of breath in Auguries. Recalling the seven pillars of the temple and the poet’s cry the “arch is alive, singing, a restless choral” in unison like the seven voices of a choir & seven colors of the rainbow & seven covenantal affirmations of the UU tradition — the mid of which is “a free and responsible search for truth and meaning.” Well, so many disciplines of thought and action have seven principles from alchemy to chakras to the USA constitution and concepts of sin and divinity. These all occurred to me after i’d put these in this order — with its freeing of one’s essence from the mix of life. Perhaps — as from the midwifery of alchemy’s ‘conjunction’– there manifested this collective ‘transmutation’ straight out of Jung’s ‘mysterum coniunctionis.’ perhaps as likely, from flutterances of a fireflies at dawn poiesis. Also to add here — that the odd numbers such a 3-and-5-and-7-and 9, etc., will play an increasingly significant role in comprehending the “palindromion” alignments in existence and consciousness in general.
by
‘apo’kstrophes’
I – come my children
Come, my children, to the surge of this earth.
Breathe hard upon the shore, look deep to sea.
Come, gather round, for each dune-scoop of worth.
This place is old, older than any truth.
It’s full of ghosts and love’s futility.
Come, my children to the surge of this earth.
Come to ventures cradled around its girth:
Crags, plains, mountain tops, and rivered valley.
Come, gather round, for each dune-scoop of worth.
We’ll enter jungles where there is no path
And caverns so dark there’s no light to see.
Come, my children, to the surge of this earth.
We’ve a universe where space has no width
Or time the dimensions of destiny.
Come, gather round, for each dune-scoop of worth.
Tempests and cruelty will tempt us to wrath,
So, stay close, for beauty’s sake.. . .close to me.
Come, my children, to the surge of this earth.
Come, gather round, for each dune-scoop of worth.
II – Where to wound is to heal
Grow us wild to slay, but pray tombs won’t seal.
Give us life hunting by tooth’s hurt to thrive.
Game us to play where to wound is to heal.
Roam us fair as game, each stalked as a meal.
Make us weaponry and fit to survive.
Grow us wild to slay, but pray tombs won ‘t seal.
Raise us to prey upon the commonweal.
Power us to sway swarms doomed for the hive.
Game us to play where to wound is to heal.
Inspire us to create hope in our deal.
Cut us deep in the shuffle to revive.
Grow us wild to slay, but pray tombs won’t seal.
Teach us the games with rules we can’t repeal.
Lead us to feed where we are most alive.
Game us to play where to wound is to heal.
Wake us quick to catch lightning to reveal.
Bless us in darkness that our truth arrive.
Grow us wild to slay, but pray tomb’s won’t seal.
Game us to play where to wound is to heal
III – Saddled on memory
Saddled on memory we stride the wind,
Thundering hooves bounce us clung to the mane;
Borne by memory to begin again.
The hands on the clock have their clinging spin,
As in its face we whip our trusty cane;
Saddled on memory we stride the wind.
Tracks and trails recall summits in our mind,
As we sing songs made from rules of the game;
Borne by memory to begin again.
Manificent the ride on dawn’s whirlwind,
Leaping through sunsets across the moon’s wane;
Saddled on memory we stride the wind.
Oh, hug the neck of our courser as kin,
Feel from the hide’s wildness rhythms to name;
Borne by memory to begin again.
Forgetting’s easy in the racing wind,
And stumbles in the stretch can make us lame;
Saddled on memory we stride the wind,
Borne by memory to begin again.
IV – We long to belong and sing to say so
We long to belong and sing to say so.
The little brook’s waterfall sings its glee.
Every trail’s to home that sings the way so.
Every forest tree tunes the winds that blow;
The grand canopy’s a grand symphony.
We long to belong and sing to say so.
We roll with earth to dawn’s opening show.
Warmth of hearth and sun show their sympathy.
Every trail’s to home that sings the way so.
Everywhere bands are marching in a row;
Natural as pollen that clings to the bee
We long to belong and sing to say so.
The world’s a trail-place everywhere you go;
Finding the altars keeps our spirits free.
Every trail’s to home that sings the way so.
Travelling in time we go as we must go;
Never footsore of authenticity.
We long to belong and sing to say so.
Every trail’s to home that sings the way so.
V – I heed it still – that clarion dream of mine
I heed it still – that clarion dream of mine
Climbing old persimmon hill in the fall
Picking fruits before they fall out of time.
Holding hands is grace as we make the climb
While sunshine sparkles through the leaves its call
I heed it still – that clarion dream of mine.
Many the paths that wander out of rhyme
Many the pitfalls to cause us to stall
Picking fruits before they fall out of time.
There’s a wonder holding us that’s sublime
Like petals floating a stream past the pall
I heed it still – that clarion dream of mine.
Like children we swing and slide through our clime
Persist through cries with songs of joy withal
Picking fruits before they fall out of time.
Life can nick-in-time or just nickle-dime
Yet treasures beauty-bold scale tallest wall.
I heed it still – that clarion dream of mine
Picking fruits before they fall out of time.
VI – I ponder much
I ponder much of truth’s love of beauty,
Beauty’s give of truth; each lighting love’s way,
Holding love’s hand, where beauty talks truly.
Butterflies finding fall’s buds are lucky.
Soaring songs hug littlest birds in life’s fray.
I ponder much of truth’s love of beauty.
This trek’s a night-task midst dawns so pretty.
Volcanoed rainbows!!! Poets fish that spray,
Holding love’s hand, where beauty talks truly.
Telescopes probe infinity’s duty.
Spacecraft wander beyonds where unknowns play.
I ponder much of truth’s love of beauty.
I wonder how stones hold waters fully.
I wander-bold death’s cliffs of one’s last-day,
Holding love’s hand, where beauty talks truly.
There’s proof our living fires hearths ideally;
Yet caught in mystery with much yet to say.
I ponder much of truth’s love of beauty,
Holding love’s hand, where beauty talks truly.
VII – Still booking passages
Still booking passages from deep-breath hill,
Our mortal-immortal tuned sing-a-long:
Our lookout — look-out! — midst crests of the will.
Seems holds of longing hands will never still:
New borns, nebulae, noondays — each love song,
Still booking passages from deep-breath hill.
Breathless, we view o’er clouds horizon’s thrill;
Vistas of hope inspire where rainbows throng:
Our lookout — look-out! — midst crests of the will.
We count galaxies like coins in the till,
But the tide-swell of earth grows ever strong:
Still booking passages from deep-breath hill.
Rumbles of stones and voles make night owls shrill,
Traffic, steeples, geese honk each dawn its gong:
Our lookout — look-out! — midst crests of the will
Our play-ground see-saws bounce each jack and jill,
Magic holds — all aboard! — crafts to belong;
Still booking passages from deep-breath hill:
Our lookout —look out! — midst crests of the will.
mdo’kelly as ‘apo’kstrophes’ from Afiradapo’s
mdok ‘s — manifest destiny’s odyssean kairos
body and spirit homing as one