Morning Fog

“We live in a world with wars, oil spills, pollution and rapid deforestation. Our generation is feeling the effects of global warming. And here in Kamloops, a handful of kids are building a few jumps and catching rides uphill. Is that really so bad?” Bike magazine; May 2005.

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My words are sporadic. My thoughts, scattered. Sometimes it is hard to step outside my front door. Life is a circle; day into night. Year into year. The rain drops make circles within the puddles, they are simple. And yet I bury my head in my hands when I try to comprehend infinity. Dudley Dee

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Morning Fog

It was that moment in time
when a tranquility
passed over the earth
stilling the madness
into silence.

Apocalyptic winds
sent us to the hills.
But, it was in these very hills
we all discovered
the trivialities of the beast
and the madness
our souls generated
from greed and hatred.

We were all wrong.

And our separate gods came together,
as we all held a piece of knowledge,
to an understanding
of who our God is;
and we once fought wars
over the derivations of our understanding.

In the end the truth becomes known.
The silences passes
between the ubiquity of night
and day.

The poet,
the artist,
the dreamer,
the farmer,
and the blacksmith,
all knew the answer.
The others
did not,
and they cried into the night.

Simplicity,
the Celtic dance offers nothing more
than tranquility
in the midst of the morning fog
of summer. EjG

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And Solomon asked the scribe, “What do you say is beautiful?”

To which the Scribe replied, “A mother’s love, a father’s guidance, a summer rain, and all that comes forth from the earth. That is what is beautiful.”

So Solomon further asked, “What do you say is necessity?”

And the Scribe answered, “Air, water, food, art, and God. Our body is sustained on air, water, and food. Our soul is sustained on God and art.”

And at that they prayed over their meal.

The mountains outside the window stood in a majestic silence.

montani semper liberi

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Dudley Dee

Requiem

We go out in the world and take our chances
Fate is just the weight of circumstances
That’s the way that lady luck dances
Roll the bones.
Neil Peart; taken from Roll the Bones

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Requiem

Tonight I tried to write, but nothing came.
The silence of madness plagues the soul
as it continues to search for tomorrow.

And these words,
written here,
are not what I wanted on the page.

Why can’t I pour my soul
upon the page?
Is the soul’s complexity so great
the simplicity of words
cannot explain it?
I think not,
yet I cannot express
my inner most thoughts.

So I think of her,
of you
of them,
of me,
of us,
of today,
of yesterday,
of what was,
of what could have been,
and of what is not.

Solomon tells me nothing.

Are these pains in my chest fear
or the precursor of death?
Is this numbness in my mind insanity
or the instability of madness?
Is this sweat upon my face fear
or just a rendition of my insanity?

I think I am afraid to truly open
the door to my soul.

The fire dances among the logs tonight;
as the night air penetrates my senses.

My soul dances amongst the demons;
of which my grandfather once knew.
His photograph haunts me.

Our souls can no longer escape this existence.
And our souls are mixed with our grandparent’s;
their demons haunt us all.

Tonight’s damnation is nothing more
than the simplicity of the forevermore.

Requiem. – EjG

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This past weekend I realized I am not who I pretend to be; anxiety demeans the soul. I am not a worldly man; nor am I an overly educated, sophisticated man. I am of simple mind; of simple pleasures.

I can speak on the love of a guitar, the intrigue of language, the simplicity of the garden, and the beauty of the trail. I can even speak somewhat on poetry. But, I relegate myself to insignificance and focus on the triteness of my imperfections when in the presence of others. No more.

My crossroads.

I want to be a farmer, a poet, and writer of songs. A simple man; a respected man.

My crossroads, they’re taking me back to simplicity. – EjG

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Dudley Dee

The beautiful and the cherished

Sing and dance together and be joyous,
but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of the lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music.
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

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The beautiful and the cherished

What is beautiful;
and what is not.

What is cherished;
and what is not.

She sleeps.

It is dawn of night,
when soft rains
cleanse the earth,
the trees,
and the soul.

Breathe, my dear maiden
breathe.

There is no difference
between the beautiful
and the cherished
when grandeur of night
is celebrated
among terms
of sexuality,
sensuality,
and endearment.

Her breast becomes my life.
Succulence.

Her body becomes my passion
Serendipity.

Thunder echoes,
once more,
through the forest,
as I breathe in the night air.
It is midnight.

She sleeps
among the night songs
to which I seek
her sensuality.
She is my soul.
My existence.
My song.
My being.

And her body lies
in sweet state
of my endless
desire.

A poet expresses this within written word.
A musician expresses this within music.
And a dreamer expresses this within thought.

And, in my soul
I am a poet,
a musician,
and a dreamer.

But, the night only offers silence,
soothing rains,
And a solemnity of her existence.

Kiss me, my dear,
the moon offers no consolation,
and the night
offers no repentance,
if the lovers dance no more
in the midst of the thunder
and rain.

Listen…

there is a soliloquy
playing among the
saints,
gods,
and the blessed.

See us no more,
lest we laugh in the face
of the moon,
stars,
and sun.

She is my silence.

My silence.

Our souls dance in the midst
of night winds.

Yes,
the night winds,
my dear,
the night winds,
they call us…

silence -- EjG

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our voices echo in silence
our souls dance in unison
and our heads are filled with the madness
of infinity
may we dance to infinity. Solomon

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My wife is both beautiful and cherished. EjG

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Dudley Dee

Confessions

And what is good, Phaedrus,
And what is not good—
Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?
Taken from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig.
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The following is written in similar style to some of Jorie Graham’s poems in The End of Beauty. My metamorphosis.

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Confessions

1
There comes a point when you are faced with three options: suicide, mediocrity, or change. We all dismiss two of those options. Which are they?

2
My angel holds on for the soliloquy. Sing, my lady, sing, into the night winds. Operetta. Where is she? The violin plays softly into the sunset.

3
Suicide and mediocrity are virtually the same. Redemption is only man’s terminology; damnation is the demarcation between heaven and hell. Phaedrus and Solomon see it…

4
Relieve me, dear Solomon, of this madness. Relieve me of this incessant madness; to which I call for God, challenge my God, question our normality, and celebrate the winter solstice.

5
The winter solstice, it encapsulates the soul. Breathe in the breath of the dawn’s fair maiden, she knows no redemption (semantics). Brevity, the definition of man’s time, of which the soul knows no end and the conscience knows no lies.

6
Amidst white pines I smell the mountains. They call me, the mountains, dear Phaedrus, they call me. My soul searches for them; mediocrity nor suicide have caught my soul. Not yet, at least.

7
I fear death, but more from the perspective of damnation. My iniquities are my damnation, may my soul rest one day. The soliloquy continues…

8
At some point all love is lost. The dawn no longer offers a horizon for tomorrow, and paradise is an illusion for the artists, dreamers, and poets.

9
Do you not hear me? Our souls search for the evermore, and yet we negate the premise that damnation lies within the ignorance of our being. Silence encompasses us.

10
The simplicity of our silence stifles us. Our mediocrity kills us. And we can longer see beyond tomorrow, because today limits our imaginations.

11
There is no reality. All I see is black, all I hear is silence, and all I comprehend is my reality. We are all illusions.

12
Confessions. They tell nothing, and yet they tell everything. A dyadic anomaly. EjG

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Without a thought
Without a voice
Without a soul
Don’t let me die here
There must be something more
Bring me to life.
Taken from Bring Me To Life, Evanescence

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Dudley Dee