Author Archives: faucon
FITZ SEED: “stands tall through the fresh snow fall”
TITLE: Stand tall, my friends, as the cold winds blow
The cycle of nurture, bloom and harvest,
lies quiet now ‘neath sleeping snows –
though some must refuse to play the game,
from hearing some other song
that calls to stand guard and protect.
Do not lie down easy,
nor strip off your passions,
nor fear the waning, barren sun;
but stand with me
I promised a Fitz fro any who would come to the Abbey,
though I hadn’t planned on four at once —
but will if you insssisst.
SSSEED: ’skwour skafire skeathers’
Translation: “even thee Jan as now”
Open and shut – black and white,
here, there and gone –
feather fire lost in rush,
and soul’s need
Yet was not always so –
before man decided duality must reign,
and everything judged better than —
while the mere act of creation
strikes fire in eternity,
and showers down
to light the way for others.
It is mightly silent here in these dusty halls, usually swept clean by the dashing about of creative minds. So, while I am stirring a pot of stew in the kitchen I will relate a little excercise that might enflame your spirit — our drive you to the Gypsy Camp, which is all right too.
Several years ago I was substitute teaching an Honors English class with no clear assignments left undone save that they were used to daily writing in some form. So I gave them a story/riddle on which to write a pargraph or two — and we spend two days discussing the results as it drove to the heart of their perceptions of being prepared to meet life’s challenges.
The trails were well kept though little used – strange; and the course considered easy or difficult in ceaseless debate amongst the travelers, methinks more dependent on selection of foot-gear than else. So, the size of our group ebbed and waned in size and personality; never less than three nor more than eight, and each of us the better for the variety. Thus it was that when we came to a mountain crossroad a decision had to be made with no practiced structure or confidence upon which to rely. A pair of newly special friendship turned back – intending to focus on more important things, I suppose – leaving but four hikers to brave the unknown trails. A vote could not be taken as no majority was allowed, there being three paths from which to choose. As we were all of stalwart ego dimension and experience, simple math will extend that the opinions of action exceeded 36 – as factors of mind, heart and spirit had to blend with path and imagined goal. As a storm was pending it seemed unwise to pursue any rational evaluation of all options in a ‘guns and butter’ tradeoff, nor did playing at ‘scissor, paper, rock’ meet with approval. Yet, by some instinct little understood we knew that splitting up was not an option – “all or none at all” echoed in my soul.
Of course, I am not there at all – you are! What would you propose?
As children we were gifted with imagination,
instead of carefully entrenched dilutions
that smudged smears and grime
on the rosy panes of our lantern
of joy and innocence.
There was no question of what Light shone through and about,
and people marveled at our gleaming soulful eyes
that lit up lonely hearts
and brought each back unto creation
of love and enchantment.
Again and ever again we tried to fan the flame
as we gather fireflies and phosphorescent moss
that shed no awesome light,
but kindled some simple happiness
in shadowed hearts and minds.
Oh, what can I do by today my slumbering friends
to become a lantern for your search and all,
and ease your troubled soul
that wants to remember tomorrow
as a dream of yesterday?
By free choice and whimsy (be there such a thing),
or pleasant coincidence (be there such a thing),
I lay claim to a tiny niche
just off the Abbey kitchen (as if I own anything at all),
and often hear words of wisdom (a non-sequitor perhaps)
not meant for me at all,
but just stirrings of the soup (that secret spice)
One such phrase lingers still
as an aroma of simmering soul –
“The secret of good cooking
is to anticipate problems,
and through preparation
to blend gift and will into love.”
and the guests above will speak of perfection,
and give thanks to God for a splendid feast,
and not even know her name,
or that she dines alone.
This song is written in an 11th century split form that may not display well on WordPress,
but were I there with you at the Abbey portal at dawn’s kiss, I would would sing to friends old and new — who know of the pains of creation.
The songs are from the willows scarce heard before the dawn,
and n’er know a single voice, nor ancient earth bound thrum.
‘Tis the echo of my yearning, a quest for ever gentle –
eager hand to join with mine ‘round the Staff of Covenant.
Are you the one I’m needing to complete the Braid of Tears?
Will you brave the rift of scorn and tame the flailing seasons
that will shriek of icy souls burned in the Forge of Greed,
or load my pack with thorny rocks that rend my guileless flesh ?
Do not answer, lest you lie and shatter my velvet dreams
of children’s eyes of wonder at the prancing of the rain,
and whispers of the moonlight that ride the birthing waves
out – out to the beginning of this Path of Orthenbe.
I gird my loins with petals fresh from the nether bloomings
of the silent shuffle thistle that can scratch the itch of time,
for bitter arrows of fear cannot pierce the weave of trust
that dusts the glomming hush that caresses innocence.
I need no squire of renown nor muscled arm of boastful,
but seek a minstrel of Light that can pluck the fluted reeds,
and coax the notes of knowing from betwixt the space of be;
for the battle is ‘gainst lonely and the enemy ever me.
I attempt to never tell others what to do – preferring to use story and example of directions and paths than might benefit and enhance one’s life. But I will tell you all what NOT to do. A week ago Sunday I cut up a felled tree into 12 fence posts and hauled the debris to the street. After setting the posts I connected them with rails and woven ‘rick-rack. It wasn’t lunch time yet so I mixed three bags of concrete to patch a leak in the basement wall, painted a door, cut up an old gas line and installed a set of lights and switches and fixed the fountain pump – and wrote three poems. I was hurting quite a bit by then and decided (stupidly) to have a couple of drinks to relax. Later, in the hospital I learned that my body no longer metabolizes alcohol – even a single glass of wine will poison my system.
Being 62 isn’t as much fun as I thought it might be. Rats – I forgot to change the spark-plugs in the car. Take care, my friends. I guess I don’t know how! Creation is everything for me. Guess I am going to have to ask for help.
While one may seek solitude and peace
within the protecting stones,
pray do not forget the Calling …
and she sang in longing,
”In misty moors we now repair,
the Grail’s wine of wisdom to be shared,
hear Myrddin’s Harp surround us there…
for He shall guide His Children.”
to which he echoed a decade later,
”Weaving, wandering, threading thrice ’round.
Does not the foot prance but lightly
on Earthly form of chance encounter?
Lead, love, guided by spirit surround.
It is new footprints in morning dew
that call me to wisdom’s misty share.”
and they now seek in twain
within and out — of then and when
the secrets of a bard’s rebirth
in the whispers of sisters and ancients
and faint tracings in Lemurian sands.
The call is to quest and aspire
to find the Elixir of Creativity –
a Grail perhaps …
or to gain clarity of vision to see it
were it held forth in trembling hand –
or embrace the courage to grasp it,
and sip and taste and savor and breathe –
or, having found wisdom along the way;
to pass it to another more needful,
and drink instead from an offered open hand
ever filled with promise and simple love.
a musing – faucon
There are memories most pervasive
of thoughts beyond the lost words endured
in seeking truths as foundations
for my yearning, churning youth.
Then there are phrases caught forever
in the web of my patterned constructs
that guide the search for balance
on the fulcrum of my soul.
Two such glimmers of gifted wisdom
seem to be in conflict of intent,
and I sense that life’s mysteries
are found in such discordance.
“To love any woman profoundly,
you must love all women a little!”
“If I am to see love in everyone,
I must first embrace love of one alone!”
How can both thoughts be true in wonder,
if one must listen to mind and heart
to forge a plan of human touch
and echoed painless passion?
Within Phinominal Expansion
one might project:
“The relationship of the love of one
to the love of every man,
is as the ratio of the greater part
to all of love imagined”
Yet this universality
doesn’t direct which should be the greater;
nor if by expanding all love
the distinction may dissolve.
A mystic might cleave this Gordian Knot
by surrendering to Divine love first;
and then approach each new stranger
as both ‘the one’ and ‘of all’.
A pensive crone or wizard might allow
that ‘to love oneself’ is paramount –
with all love flowing naturally
from knowing love by living.
But, as a poet with a sense of awe,
I might leave such mysteries alone;
and just craft a lens and mirror
that thee might encounter love.
I am nestled in the tiny niche beside the Abbey Door,
wating for those who will come to see the dawn —
and have time to practice a song upon my Gusli
in preparation for Emmie’s birthday — no melody,
just a gentle strumming as in ancient times.
I am but a drop of sparkling dew
on the tip of a trembling fern,
proof of the endless Source of all,
in a Song of Everbe.
For I am the breeze ‘neath the angel’s wings,
and the far whisper of lovers apart,
and as you m’love, a slip of memory.
Each brief gifted life feels my breath and Yours,
and they will recall the brief silent tears;
saying, “twas only a slip of memory!”
Don’t dance — fly — drift — cascade;
all to the tinkling of a single crystal chime
and an orchestra of ‘everbe’
and fine applause of laughing stars.
Oh, how to capture the caressing breeze;
dancing, gliding, entrancing spirit,
a dreamed hint of Myrdinn’s falcon wings,
whispered enchantment of EverSong.
I could share this past thrill
in many tales of the child within,
for memory needs no second chance
to create and nurture everbe.
You dance lightly in my thoughts;
a flutter of wings against my cheek;
a giggled breath to stir anew
the pulse of Spirit’s swing
above the Soul’s grasp.
To know life in fullness – grow to everbe;
you must live life and be alive right now,
reborn in brightly gifted dawn.
Then brave sieze the hand of Alcuin
and gather stardust in your pouch,
to heed the winds of everbe
to prance with fairies of wisdom
by the glow of the embers of now.
and loveswim in the Currents of everbe in awe;
they will beglide on stardust breath.
Behind their joyful, undulating spirit swing
will wave a wake of rainbow laughter,
seen by artists and mystics as angel wings.
What we create is joy-song in hearts and souls
of unknown strangers of quickened spirit
that will be-come to EverBe.