Author: thinayr

Swing Set

The joy of creation,
can only be known,
against a backdrop of sedation.

The pains of the artist,
with too much to say,
are dulled through the mind’s masturbation.

* * *

The seasons turn swiftly,
seeds planted… some grow,
while others rot trapped in hard clay.

The life lived tomorrow,
so seductive and bright,
forever outrunning today.

* * *

Serpant selves shedding skins,
twice born in a day,
thin shells and old eyes never missed.

Once catching a glimpse,
of a muse waxing high,
pulling with it the tides of our bliss.

~r

Patricide

He fathered them all,
Their blushing mother nursed them,
Balanced them in the gentle sway of her delicate fabric.
As children they loved their Mother,
In awe of the Father that provided all.
From a shared cradle they emerged,
Brothers and sisters.

From above, their Father watched their wanderings.
Illuminating their world with light and life,
As He made His way across the sky.
In four directions His children spread,
Chasing horizons over great distances.
Like seeds on a wind.

The Children of the East, welcomed their Father each day.
The Children of the South, best knew their Father’s warmth.
The Children of the West, danced to their Father’s music.
The Children of the North, grew distant from their Father.
Discovering in the shadows of their Father’s absence,
The cold side of a lonely Mother.

Building walls they turned inward,
Growing pale in their solitude.
Nearsighted through honed dexterity,
Pride swelling with the power of creation.
Linguistic palaces ascended to heaven,
Their father and mother subjugated by name.

They charted the distant stars.
They mapped the earth’s contours.
They mastered inferior races.
They worshiped themselves.
Fair skin easily seared,
By a father made sun.

~r

The Buffalo Hills

Full moon rising over the wasteland,
Dry hills harbor dry souls.
Shriveling as bitter grapes,
Tangled vines planted and numbered.
Faces glimpsed but not seen.
In spaces measured by yards,
Untrodden lawns veil chasms.
Grass and rock great waters,
Lapping at shallow coral coasts.
A thousand private islands.
Hidden hearts beating alone,
Full moon setting on shared dreams.

The Peasant King and the Tree of Life

The king rose early. His queen lay still-bound in silk, sleeping soundly atop the toil of faceless millions. Beautiful and delicate, great panes of glass stood as emissary to the cool spring morning; turning away the crisp, earth-laiden air while permitting a tepid flood of pale light to illuminate the intricate fineries of a life possessed.

Amassed over a lifetime of ardently honed discrimination, the king’s estate stood as testament to his worth and individuality. Conditioned since infancy to diligently select or reject from life’s abundant diversity, his sharp eyes scrutinized all they surveyed. Moved to possess beauty, they disregarded any shades of life whose tones did not gratify.

The king’s beautiful world was balanced atop the panicle of a human mountain whose base were the innumerable souls required to elevate Man to such dizzying heights. Well practiced as he was, he discarded such odious musings. He had not chosen this, thus he was absolved.

The king bathed in rose-scented water, dressed in beautifully tailored cloth and slipped soft feet into polished leather.  He emerged from his castle, beholding the realm over which he was master. On either side, from castles of their own, the neighboring kings emerged.

The hollow taste of contempt quickly coated in the dull sheen of habitual friendliness, each king honored the next with a quick nod. A clipped wave. Each boarded their own luxurious vessel and eased it onto the paved vine that connected their kingdoms with millions of identical others.

From deep, unexamined places spun the adage “All men are free. All men are equal.” Within each sovereign were these words seared. Working endlessly in the building and keep of their kingdoms, they asked not by whom.

The King rose as he willed. His Queen, ever-wakeful, hummed with delicate precision the melody of ten billion feet marching in unison. Shrouded as he was by her intricate beauty, The King’s unseen face bore the sly smirk of a magician. While Great Kings of Old bound their subjects in irons, he alone saw the delicate gold chains that everywhere bound her.

On a far away hill, an apple tree rose from the fertile humus of perpetual sacrifice. Its roots wound deep into ancient soil, millions of leaves twisting in the sun before perishing on the heap below.

How sweet the fruit.

How glorious the seeds.

Poem for a Christian Friend

On our knees we pray to heaven above,
As we fear the hell that’s below.
With the earth in between, to us then it seems,
That it’s here where these poles ebb and flow.

Our Father: he dwells in Heaven most high.
We his Children: hence fallen by birth.
From exile we yearn for salvation-bestowed,
As we gaze up to Heaven from Earth.

But what does it mean when that sight is beheld:
Planet Earth amidst infinite space?
Those glorious heavens we’ve seen overhead,
Aren’t different, appart-from this place.

Earth too is in Heaven, as the sun and the stars,
A space trillions of galaxies vast.
So if fallen we are, where from did we depart?
To what ground can the mind not trespass?

Where then be that Hell, or the angels and God,
If not here? And then what need to rue?
For if all Creation is the Creator himself:
In the Creation, The Creator, is You.

~r

The Institute for the Decidedly Not-Funny (Interview)

My guest today is Hillary Hitswith, who has been heading the Institute for the Decidedly Not-Funny (or “IDNF”), for the last quarter-century. The science of what is, and what is decidedly-not funny is complex, its history fascinating, and its ramifications vast. The following is an excerpt from an interview I had with Ms. Hitswith in the winter of ‘Ot-six, as we toured a portion of the institute, which is situated on 150 forested acres in Hobbcleff, VT. Continue reading “The Institute for the Decidedly Not-Funny (Interview)”

The Flow

Two rivers converged,
Their contents combined.
Giving birth to a swirl of life.
From chaos came order,
from void arose form.
A new being danced into the light.

It started so small,
It could barely be seen.
Surroundings and self intertwined.
But the pattern grew larger,
A whirlpool formed.
And with that was its selfhood defined.

As water flowed through,
It twisted in bliss.
Its soul was the cool summer rains.
But its vigor diminished,
As autumn approached.
And the cyclone’s source waters soon waned.

Then the whirlpool said:
“What’s it like to be dead?”
But the water which asked this had gone.
As new water flowed in,
It asked yet again.
But it realized the question was wrong.

“If I’m always changing,
My life but a flow,
How can there be hope that I’ll last?
“When the self that I was,
While pondering death,
In this moment, already has passed?”

As its channels dried up,
It felt itself fade.
Going back into that which it came.
Without fear. Without sorrow.
As it was born again.
Resurrected with each spring’s new rain.

~r

Kali

In the garden, children play,
Fresh petals tease unblemished skin.
Young eyes create the universe,
Unbounded by memory or anticipation.
Wordless but for laughter,
Without definition all is possible.
Stomach full and mind empty,
All is blissful.

In the fields, the young toil,
Backs grow strong with life’s labor.
Deft hands cary the load of old and new.
Love is made to a world of named things,
Children born and cared for,
Tired bodies sleep soundly.

In the forest, the old travel,
Laden with possessions, unknowns regarded with fear.
Patterned behavior flows from patterened minds.
Clinging to good with eyes on salvation.

On the mountain, death sits,
The world illuminated in blood and fire.

~r

The Slam

“Hello everyone, how you doing tonigh?
I have something interesting planned…
My poem for you is unique, and here’s why:
…I’m not sure just when it began…

I came into this place a short while ago,
and was struck by a strange de ja vu…
And I feel it. Right now, as my words fill this space,
And I gaze out and see all of you…

This really is strange, but I think I know why,
This poem is set, well… right now.
This poem consists of this poem itself,
And myself as I read it aloud.

And all of yourselves as these words cross your mind,
which invite you to subtly feel…
That this is the moment this poem belongs.
The moment this poem was real.

As soon as I’m done, these words will return,
To just ink on a page of this book.
They’ll wait there like stones for as long as it takes,
For some reader to give them a look.

And when that reader reads, they’ll project themselves here,
As far as their imagination allows.
They’ll have their own image, but they’ll never know,
How we all feel being here now.

I’m still not so sure when this poem began,
Or if it will ever be through…
But I’ve come to a place where I’m moved to extend,
A humble and heartfelt
Thank You.”

~r

Spilt

This pen I hold is awful sore
At all the things I use it for
It wants, of course, to be a part
Of some fantastic work of art
Intently, exactly, dutifully made
To dance across a virgin page
Laying down its lines and arcs
To illuminate the light with dark

But, alas, I’m sad to say
It saw no purpose in today
In making lists and signing checks
This instrument was never flexed
The ink it spilled was martyred, thus
Without a cause, with no purpose
This human realm sure takes its toll
On me
My pen
Its liquid soul

~r

Solitary Pilgrim

Honed for discrimination,
empowered and passionate.
The spoiled monarch roams,
the heart’s kingdom hungers.

Thirsting for distant waters,
calloused feet resent the earth.
Rivers stand still in grails,
beloved denatured by conquest.

Clinging to beauty found,
the heart weds and guards.
Plucked flowers in gold vases,
wilt behind palace walls.

~r

TAKE

They came in the early morning. They always did. Inhabitants would keep their distance, watching nervously as the strange figures, hooded with faces obscured, made their way silently through the streets. Mounted atop dark, breathless horses, each pulled a tremendous wagon piled high with objects never to be seen again.

The sight was a familiar one, but lately the Takers were becoming far more brazen. Like starving dogs, they came closer with each pass, gnawing away at the unspoken perimeter that had stood for generations. The Inhabitants knew the day was not long before their own meek possessions would be sought to stave the collapse of the few cities still scattered across the scorching deserts of North America.

The Takers paused amid the blistered ruins of the desolate suburb, sand drifting high through the endless expanse of skeletal houses, picked clean through centuries of systematic looting. Nothing of value remained. As I sat in the dirt before my tent, the Takers turned their gaze on me.

~r