Jeremiad
No more climbing, no more fighting, no more hoping for a better day;
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
This time I thought I could make it,
I thought I had closed the door on the devil.
I wanted to believe the angels were with me.
This time I thought I could win.
"Follow your heart, believe in tomorrow, trust the universe" they said.
"It can only get better, you just have to believe in yourself," they said.
"You just have to find your niche" they said.
Maybe this world is comforting for them;
they who carry beautiful memories
of good times, friendship, acclaim and love.
They who have someone to call whenever there are tears,
somewhere to stay whenever they are without shelter,
someone to hold them whenever they need comfort,
someone to applaud them whenever they lift their feet.
They who have not felt the cold of the street.
They who have not felt
the burn of destitution;
the dread of abuse;
the stab of abandonment;
the terror of losing life;
the death of hope.
Not so comforting for those of us with memories full of fear,
struggle, loss and betrayal.
They don't want to look too closely, so they don't. They can't.
They need it to be a bad dream, a dark fantasy that never happened.
No more climbing, no more fighting, no more hoping for a better day;
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
This time I thought I could make it,
I thought I had closed the door on the devil.
I wanted to believe the angels were with me.
This time I thought I could win.
"Follow your heart, believe in tomorrow, trust the universe" they said.
"It can only get better, you just have to believe in yourself," they said.
"You just have to find your niche" they said.
Maybe this world is comforting for them;
they who carry beautiful memories
of good times, friendship, acclaim and love.
They who have someone to call whenever there are tears,
somewhere to stay whenever they are without shelter,
someone to hold them whenever they need comfort,
someone to applaud them whenever they lift their feet.
They who have not felt the cold of the street.
They who have not felt
the burn of destitution;
the dread of abuse;
the stab of abandonment;
the terror of losing life;
the death of hope.
Not so comforting for those of us with memories full of fear,
struggle, loss and betrayal.
They don't want to look too closely, so they don't. They can't.
They need it to be a bad dream, a dark fantasy that never happened.
No more climbing, no more fighting, no more hoping for a better day;
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
Earth From Space
We are publishing these selected photos and related captions on the Internet to provide a glimpse of this national treasure to the public. This database was compiled by our staff to illustrate some very interesting Earth features and processes, including cities as seen by our Astronauts from space"
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Revelatio
Yes, and yes,
you have been spotted,
but not just now.
The heart always knows when its tears are being used
to salve another's wounds.
From the moment you landed I've known
you were seeking love;
to receive, not to give.
to grieve, not to live.
You were mistaken if you thought your wounds were hidden
beneath your leather coat,
blood knows blood.
Your hands felt warm and sweet on my shattered soul.
My hand I let you take; I let you lead me into your arms.
No cries of protest, you say?
The butterfly makes no sound when a child crushes its wings
in order to get a closer look;
the daisy you picked to brighten your breakfast table
was silent as well.
I needed to feel life, I had been staring into the abyss for too long.
(Seventeen lifetimes, perhaps, how many for you?)
The soles of my feet ache from walking this eternal journey.
Bliss to be so easily tolled; at least until the curtain falls,
alas, I am not so lucky.
You may have forgotten, or perhaps you haven't learned yet:
the face of naivete makes for a most clever disguise.
You may be the Artist, but you are also the Muse.
Orchestrate your maneuvers if you must,
but be mindful that when the conductor turns his back
he does not really hide his movements.
I watch from the left mezzanine;
you can not see me for the glare of the stage lights in your eyes.
I watch because you live where I once lived,
in the sanctuary of trustworthy hands at your back
and faith in your stride:
I seek to find my faith again before the end of this dirty road.
Forgiving thieves and rapists is not such a challenge,
there is a tangible reward, the soul feels its righteousness,
and the lessons gleaned are clear.
But to forgive the ones who took refuge in my warmth
when I was freezing;
who rested their weary head on my shoulder when I was exhausted;
who basked in my praise but dismissed my face;
who feigned comfort to gain my trust, so that they may touch my flesh;
who left me behind after I muddied my robes to help them from the dirt;
who gloried in my applause but could not be bothered to notice my song.
To forgive these is the way to peace, and so I remain quietly in my seat,
watching, learning, forgiving.
When your heart is whole again, then you will remember
why it is wrong to use another heart's tears to salve your wounds,
how it burns soft skin like winter wind.
You will remember that there are none lesser than you,
nor you lesser than they.
And you will walk with your back straight,
and you will not need to avert your eyes any longer.
Your youth hides underneath this burden, it is not lost, not gone,
just waiting for you to heal, and remember what you already knew.
Perhaps I will still be watching;
perhaps my heart will be whole again, too.
you have been spotted,
but not just now.
The heart always knows when its tears are being used
to salve another's wounds.
From the moment you landed I've known
you were seeking love;
to receive, not to give.
to grieve, not to live.
You were mistaken if you thought your wounds were hidden
beneath your leather coat,
blood knows blood.
Your hands felt warm and sweet on my shattered soul.
My hand I let you take; I let you lead me into your arms.
No cries of protest, you say?
The butterfly makes no sound when a child crushes its wings
in order to get a closer look;
the daisy you picked to brighten your breakfast table
was silent as well.
I needed to feel life, I had been staring into the abyss for too long.
(Seventeen lifetimes, perhaps, how many for you?)
The soles of my feet ache from walking this eternal journey.
Bliss to be so easily tolled; at least until the curtain falls,
alas, I am not so lucky.
You may have forgotten, or perhaps you haven't learned yet:
the face of naivete makes for a most clever disguise.
You may be the Artist, but you are also the Muse.
Orchestrate your maneuvers if you must,
but be mindful that when the conductor turns his back
he does not really hide his movements.
I watch from the left mezzanine;
you can not see me for the glare of the stage lights in your eyes.
I watch because you live where I once lived,
in the sanctuary of trustworthy hands at your back
and faith in your stride:
I seek to find my faith again before the end of this dirty road.
Forgiving thieves and rapists is not such a challenge,
there is a tangible reward, the soul feels its righteousness,
and the lessons gleaned are clear.
But to forgive the ones who took refuge in my warmth
when I was freezing;
who rested their weary head on my shoulder when I was exhausted;
who basked in my praise but dismissed my face;
who feigned comfort to gain my trust, so that they may touch my flesh;
who left me behind after I muddied my robes to help them from the dirt;
who gloried in my applause but could not be bothered to notice my song.
To forgive these is the way to peace, and so I remain quietly in my seat,
watching, learning, forgiving.
When your heart is whole again, then you will remember
why it is wrong to use another heart's tears to salve your wounds,
how it burns soft skin like winter wind.
You will remember that there are none lesser than you,
nor you lesser than they.
And you will walk with your back straight,
and you will not need to avert your eyes any longer.
Your youth hides underneath this burden, it is not lost, not gone,
just waiting for you to heal, and remember what you already knew.
Perhaps I will still be watching;
perhaps my heart will be whole again, too.
Emeline
Skipping boldly through the mud puddles in your new red shoes
and Sunday dress;
barretts falling askew, soft locks escaping valiantly from their chignon prison.
The lace on your white socks is speckled now with brown;
they will be upset with you, again.
Why don't they understand how the rain water feels so cool on your skin?
You know why the horses gallop straight through the mire,
wild, strident, dashing, crashing,
like a herd of lightning bolts!
Why don't they see your fierce Arabian heart?
You are Daughter.
Fierce is not a word they want you to hold.
Nor Wild, nor Valiant, nor Strident, nor Bold.
It is what they have been, for centuries, told.
They have a place for you, Daughter.
You are molded for It,
not It for you.
And to be kind, they believe it is all for the best;
(it is what they have been, for centuries, told).
Flower of youth, stem of passion, leaves of grass: root of pain.
They do not recognize your father's fortitude
that lives in your soul.
His fervid spirit blazes fire in your eyes;
unheeded, misconstrued;
it does not go with your outfit, my dear.
Your fingers clench with your father's rage
as the world unveils each new cruelty;
your teeth grind with your father's anguish
each time you fall short in your missions;
your heart breaks with your father's torment
to hear the cries of the suffering.
Those that came before had a place for your mother as well.
She was Daughter then, as you are, now.
She has forgotten the days of galloping as a thunderous wild thing,
one with the wind and the earth and the rain,
charging forth and powerful as a cyclone.
She was called down from her fearless climb up the mountain face,
following the steps of those who they had called "noble".
She was chastised for heeding the call to fight for the weak and the afflicted;
dismissed when she shouted for justice;
frowned on when she danced splendidly in the rays of the sun.
The years smooth the mind's sharp edges.
Time rearranges the stories to render them totable burdens:
from leatherbound epics to light paperbacks.
She has forgotten the days before they bound her corset so tightly
it took her breath away.
There will be more rain, dark clouds are gathering above your head now.
Be sure that the rain will be cold, but your skin will welcome it.
There will be tumultuous thunder to sing along with at the top of your voice,
and lightning, resplendent in its fury, coarsing across the sky, to race against,
and driving wind to fly with as it cleanses the gloom from your wings.
And after the storm there will be glorious sun again to warm and bless your weary crown.
There will always be sun again.
You are Daughter.
They love you, there is no doubt, as their very own souls.
Their hearts are not made of iron,
but girded against battles past and future; battles you have not seen.
They carry scars, hidden from your eyes,
buried under layers of armor, some unknown even to themselves.
The world builds cages for Daughters,
gilding the bars to fool women and taunt men.
They will say it is the way things are, as if that is a reason.
(It is what they have been, for centuries, told).
The choice is yours, to walk through the gate,
to let it close behind you, to let it lock you inside.
Or to fight with your father's devotion, your mother's verve,
your own intensity.
They may have built a cage for you,
but if you look closer, you may see that they have built it
from the inside.
Go forth with intent, Daughter,
make your vision clear as the sky after the storm.
Go forth with resolution.
Go forth with love.
M. Black
and Sunday dress;
barretts falling askew, soft locks escaping valiantly from their chignon prison.
The lace on your white socks is speckled now with brown;
they will be upset with you, again.
Why don't they understand how the rain water feels so cool on your skin?
You know why the horses gallop straight through the mire,
wild, strident, dashing, crashing,
like a herd of lightning bolts!
Why don't they see your fierce Arabian heart?
You are Daughter.
Fierce is not a word they want you to hold.
Nor Wild, nor Valiant, nor Strident, nor Bold.
It is what they have been, for centuries, told.
They have a place for you, Daughter.
You are molded for It,
not It for you.
And to be kind, they believe it is all for the best;
(it is what they have been, for centuries, told).
Flower of youth, stem of passion, leaves of grass: root of pain.
They do not recognize your father's fortitude
that lives in your soul.
His fervid spirit blazes fire in your eyes;
unheeded, misconstrued;
it does not go with your outfit, my dear.
Your fingers clench with your father's rage
as the world unveils each new cruelty;
your teeth grind with your father's anguish
each time you fall short in your missions;
your heart breaks with your father's torment
to hear the cries of the suffering.
Those that came before had a place for your mother as well.
She was Daughter then, as you are, now.
She has forgotten the days of galloping as a thunderous wild thing,
one with the wind and the earth and the rain,
charging forth and powerful as a cyclone.
She was called down from her fearless climb up the mountain face,
following the steps of those who they had called "noble".
She was chastised for heeding the call to fight for the weak and the afflicted;
dismissed when she shouted for justice;
frowned on when she danced splendidly in the rays of the sun.
The years smooth the mind's sharp edges.
Time rearranges the stories to render them totable burdens:
from leatherbound epics to light paperbacks.
She has forgotten the days before they bound her corset so tightly
it took her breath away.
There will be more rain, dark clouds are gathering above your head now.
Be sure that the rain will be cold, but your skin will welcome it.
There will be tumultuous thunder to sing along with at the top of your voice,
and lightning, resplendent in its fury, coarsing across the sky, to race against,
and driving wind to fly with as it cleanses the gloom from your wings.
And after the storm there will be glorious sun again to warm and bless your weary crown.
There will always be sun again.
You are Daughter.
They love you, there is no doubt, as their very own souls.
Their hearts are not made of iron,
but girded against battles past and future; battles you have not seen.
They carry scars, hidden from your eyes,
buried under layers of armor, some unknown even to themselves.
The world builds cages for Daughters,
gilding the bars to fool women and taunt men.
They will say it is the way things are, as if that is a reason.
(It is what they have been, for centuries, told).
The choice is yours, to walk through the gate,
to let it close behind you, to let it lock you inside.
Or to fight with your father's devotion, your mother's verve,
your own intensity.
They may have built a cage for you,
but if you look closer, you may see that they have built it
from the inside.
Go forth with intent, Daughter,
make your vision clear as the sky after the storm.
Go forth with resolution.
Go forth with love.
M. Black
Iron Man 2
Ahhh, Robert Downey Jr., voice of my generation-- err, age group would be more accurate, with a bit of even more specific NYC-New Haven dryness and sarcasm, absolutely loved it, cracked up from beginning to end. The effects were, of course, fantastic and believable, the story was interesting and enjoyable, but the dialogue is why I am going to see it again. Good company too, went to see it with a good friend, which always sweetens the experience.
"You try to be faithful
And sometimes you're cruel.
You are mine. Then, you leave.
Without you, I can't cope.
And when you take the lead,
I become your footstep.
Your absence leaves a void.
Without you, I can't cope.
You have disturbed my sleep,
You have wrecked my image.
You have set me apart.
Without you, I can't cope."
— Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi
And sometimes you're cruel.
You are mine. Then, you leave.
Without you, I can't cope.
And when you take the lead,
I become your footstep.
Your absence leaves a void.
Without you, I can't cope.
You have disturbed my sleep,
You have wrecked my image.
You have set me apart.
Without you, I can't cope."
— Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi
Rabbit
Through the backyard,
over the cobblestones,
around the Wisteria arbor,
past the tire swing,
under the gärdesgård,
inside the hidden culvert,
upside the graveled ditch,
down the dirt road,
across the horse pasture,
behind the cedar grove,
beside the osprey nest,
along the glittering shoreline,
onto the macadem highway,
above the brackish river,
beneath the shimmering stars,
after the boarding house,
below the willow tree,
within the sage mist,
wrapped in candle spirit,
inside the stove fire warmth,
out of the cold,
away from the noise,
into your world.
~M.Black
over the cobblestones,
around the Wisteria arbor,
past the tire swing,
under the gärdesgård,
inside the hidden culvert,
upside the graveled ditch,
down the dirt road,
across the horse pasture,
behind the cedar grove,
beside the osprey nest,
along the glittering shoreline,
onto the macadem highway,
above the brackish river,
beneath the shimmering stars,
after the boarding house,
below the willow tree,
within the sage mist,
wrapped in candle spirit,
inside the stove fire warmth,
out of the cold,
away from the noise,
into your world.
photo:James Doyle
"Rabbit In Your Yard"
"Rabbit In Your Yard"
~M.Black
Fire Over Thunder
Swiftly go, do not stay your hand now,
these are not times of speculation and idle discussions.
The sun is waning faster than you can run to catch your shadow.
It will come up again tomorrow,
but the world it lights will not be the same.
Make your jaw set, your eyes glaring, your brow resolute.
There is no one else who will step in, it is you who must be the one.
There will be no speeches stirring your heart to courage;
there will be no proclamations of great expectations
to spark your faith.
Do not listen for warm voices to whisper your soul to love!
There will only be the pressure of silence in your ears.
Teach your own soul to love with mission: fierce! Relentless!
Charge ahead without pause, without doubt;
stampede!
Burn the Soulfire!
Do not be miserly, do not spare fuel,
Stoke it high, blaze it hotter! You will need it.
Your hands must bear the pain from holding the reins,
these are your horses.
No one else knows how to drive them.
Bear your teeth now, these are days of grit;
Go swiftly!
M.Black
these are not times of speculation and idle discussions.
The sun is waning faster than you can run to catch your shadow.
It will come up again tomorrow,
but the world it lights will not be the same.
Make your jaw set, your eyes glaring, your brow resolute.
There is no one else who will step in, it is you who must be the one.
There will be no speeches stirring your heart to courage;
there will be no proclamations of great expectations
to spark your faith.
Do not listen for warm voices to whisper your soul to love!
There will only be the pressure of silence in your ears.
Teach your own soul to love with mission: fierce! Relentless!
Charge ahead without pause, without doubt;
stampede!
Burn the Soulfire!
Do not be miserly, do not spare fuel,
Stoke it high, blaze it hotter! You will need it.
Your hands must bear the pain from holding the reins,
these are your horses.
No one else knows how to drive them.
Bear your teeth now, these are days of grit;
Go swiftly!
M.Black
Memoria
We will not go
headlong into your blinding, bright future.
We will not be pushed
over the edge of your making
to crash into visions that have no memory.
There is life here!
There are lifetimes here!
There is blood here.
Spread your hands in the black, rich dirt,
be still.
Put your ear to the ground, let your cheek rest on the grass.
Be still and listen:
breathe.
There is blood here.
Dropped in the dirt, now part of the earth,
from war: son against son, for your very freedom:
Life for Life.
From war: daughter against her self, for your very birth:
Life for Life.
There is sweat here,
dropped in the dirt,
shed from hands that toiled and planted and crafted;
from brows that wondered and invented and discovered;
from backs that worked from springtide to winter's end.
There are tears here,
dropped in the dirt
from all that has ever made anyone cry with elation,
or keen with sorrow;
from all that has ever made anyone weep,
from all that has ever made anyone weep.
There is peace here.
Lift yourself and close your eyes into the rays of the same sun
that has always warmed the faces of those
who stood in this place,
emboldened and forward bound,
grand hope in their chests.
No, we will not go.
Future will come without goading.
Empty and honorless it will come;
with no foundations it will crumble
back into the earth.
Build your visions, but build them with providence.
Stay alert. Stay watchful.
There is blood,
there is death.
There is life here!
M.Black 4/10
Dedicated in memory of Walter Jones
and in honor of his sisters, his brother, and all those whose lives he touched.
Madescent
My cloak is worn too thin,
the damp gets in.
Footfalls from long ago; another lifetime of mine, of yours; scritch scratch surreptitiously behind me,
not quite keeping pace, without conviction or grace.
When I look there is no one there, the night is empty, and yet~
the back of my neck tells otherwise.
This cloak has worn too thin,
it has lost its billow.
The milk weeds have not yet burst their pods.
Their mission is singular, focused, to their death.
I mean to pluck one, to thwart their noble end, to enter my will upon such a lowly mortal,
gut its unborn seed, occlude its destiny with my own baleful hand,
but the burdock will have none of it.
They catch in my cloak as I lean in to find purchase in the swamp grass.
I will need to pick the burs one by one, needle by hook;
destiny's shook.
My hem has come undone;
Mother will mend it, dear one.
Trailing roils in the gathering fog 'round my knees,
slow whirlwinds winding with my saunter.
Dog cries crack sharply from the edge of the haze, their urgent reports embogged forthwith
before they reach what distant ears so intended;
dire warning of the impending morning.
I have heard them; I pull my cloak tighter, but it no longer swaddles.
My fingers find a hole, a tear; tattered for wear.
My cloak is worn too thin, and now the end begins.
M. Black
2010
Blind Rebellion
Let not my rebellion betray me.
My eyes are open to the hot, mean atmosphere;
they open ever wider.
they open ever wider.
Sand and partiality pelt the corneas;
they open ever wider.
they open ever wider.
Discriminating air dries lubricating tears of denial,
pollen and disillusion swell the delicate capillaries,
threatening to blind me;
in amazement, they open ever wider.
pollen and disillusion swell the delicate capillaries,
threatening to blind me;
in amazement, they open ever wider.
I long to snap them shut, to turn away and
only look at cool, moist shadows!
only look at cool, moist shadows!
I rage slowly to close them, and stay,
rebellious,
not seeing, not caring.
rebellious,
not seeing, not caring.
Let not my rebellion betray me, for then I will be blind.
M.Black
copyright 1992
THE SECOND COMING
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
~ William Butler Yeats
Truth
“Those who can soar to the highest heights can also plunge to the deepest depths, and the natures which enjoy most keenly are those which also suffer most sharply”
~Lucy Montgomery
~Lucy Montgomery
As If
Keep on walking as if
there is no dagger
buried in my heart
stabbing deeper
with every step I take
Keep on talking as if
there is no white hot pain
shooting
through the core of my being
with every word I speak
Keep on smiling as if
there is no rage
behind the flash of teeth,
showing fangs;
snarls look just like grins
Keep on motoring as if
there is no drive
to push the pedal to the floor
careening straight through
the wall
smashing bricks
into the nothing
Keep on laughing as if
I can take the burn
in stride
like it never hurt
like there was no fall
like it was all on purpose
Keep on partaking as if
I pleasure
in the ecstasy of taste
in the bliss of savor
in the company of strangers
Keep on working as if
my hands
are too full
to make a fist
and break the shining face
of the sky
Keep on breathing as if
there is any air left
in the world
at all
Keep on living as if
I am still alive
after this
Keep on acting as if
I still believe
in the Future
in Heaven
in Love
in Magic;
because I do.
~M.Black
there is no dagger
buried in my heart
stabbing deeper
with every step I take
Keep on talking as if
there is no white hot pain
shooting
through the core of my being
with every word I speak
Keep on smiling as if
there is no rage
behind the flash of teeth,
showing fangs;
snarls look just like grins
Keep on motoring as if
there is no drive
to push the pedal to the floor
careening straight through
the wall
smashing bricks
into the nothing
Keep on laughing as if
I can take the burn
in stride
like it never hurt
like there was no fall
like it was all on purpose
Keep on partaking as if
I pleasure
in the ecstasy of taste
in the bliss of savor
in the company of strangers
Keep on working as if
my hands
are too full
to make a fist
and break the shining face
of the sky
Keep on breathing as if
there is any air left
in the world
at all
Keep on living as if
I am still alive
after this
Keep on acting as if
I still believe
in the Future
in Heaven
in Love
in Magic;
because I do.
~M.Black
"We Are All Connected"
My friend Silas Lane posted this on his Facebook page, this is amazing. The artist's name is John D. Boswell.
"'We Are All Connected' was made from sampling Carl Sagan's Cosmos, The History Channel's Universe series, Richard Feynman's 1983 interviews, Neil deGrasse Tyson's cosmic sermon, and Bill Nye's Eyes of Nye Series, plus added visuals from The Elegant Universe (NOVA), Stephen Hawking's Universe, Cosmos, the Powers of 10, and more. It is a tribute to great minds of science, intended to spread scientific knowledge and philosophy through the medium of music."
Mr. John D. Boswell's website for more original music:
http://www.colorpulsemusic.com
"'We Are All Connected' was made from sampling Carl Sagan's Cosmos, The History Channel's Universe series, Richard Feynman's 1983 interviews, Neil deGrasse Tyson's cosmic sermon, and Bill Nye's Eyes of Nye Series, plus added visuals from The Elegant Universe (NOVA), Stephen Hawking's Universe, Cosmos, the Powers of 10, and more. It is a tribute to great minds of science, intended to spread scientific knowledge and philosophy through the medium of music."
Mr. John D. Boswell's website for more original music:
http://www.colorpulsemusic.com
Sarah and Me
“Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music.”Angela Monet 
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