17 August 2011.1

Oh, you of little faith,
You of doubting persona
You who wonder how God
Made all these horrific mistakes.

Oh, you who love the wind and the sun
You who know the good of even the vile
You who understand rain and cold
And, you, who need not tolerate adversity.

Give me a hand, Give me a shout.
Please help me to bring a change
Bring a fervor to life that has been missing
And, find a friend in all of this dislocation.

Help us all, together, in concert
To keep the flow going
To keep our families celebrating
To leave something behind we can enjoy when we return.

31 Dec 97.2

there exists in the freshly
cut rose
a sure sweetness
a surety that sweetness
will emerge through you
as surely as the bees converge
in their dance before
the mating begins
before the honey flows
before the energy of life
burst magically upon
that delicious scene of
greeness, yellow daffodils
and the brightly painted
faces of little children at
the merry-go-round
and their laughter
filling the air and the hearts
and the spirit of millions
of those who before
them made these routines
for happiness
for joy
for the pure exuberance of
being
these things were not made
for you or me or for those
men, and yes, women
in the offices to put upon their
billboards, in the super markets
or to use as adornment for their
very important desks
this joy,
those thorns that prick
and the blood that trickles
from them onto the newly
laundered white play dress
are but the perfect
and plainly good examples
of the essence of life
the magic of breath
and the expectation of elation

Ahhhhh, the beauty brought by Spring. What is more beautiful than the fragrant, undulating rose? Just my love. Just my love. Just, my, Love.

Oh, it's Spring and your essence brings me to song,
Brings me to celebration and boisterous rejoicing,
Leads me to jump, to shout, to run all about,
And, leaves me so breathless I fear the end is nearly near.

Oh, the Daffodils are braving their merry heads,
Heading towards the sky, loving you all the while,
Knowing that when you glance their way,
Every One who passes by will sing their praises, Oh My!

And even the Winds do put on a lusty show,
Blowing your love here and there, and virtually everywhere,
Hoping that some of it will rub off on the sky
And, in the end all of us will be happier, for having loved you
Bye and Bye.

3 March 2011

what's the matter with you?  what the matter with me?
where's those things we worry about so needlessly?

you're a marvelous one, so sumptuous, so bold, so wonderful to hold,
no matter what's the matter with you, with me, with eternity,
no matter what may seem like it may stop the game we now play,
no matter whatever else we may be down that long road of destiny.

there's not a thing worth the fuss, worth muss, worth our dying breaths,
that will not resolve into the laughter and merriment of our pasts,
nothing that will come to be less than we are, less than we glow,
less than the joys, triumphs and eternal celebration we so richly deserve

take this time, if you will please, to recognize the beauty you immortalize
take this moment, i implore you now, to stand up and beam your gentle love
rejoice in the knowledge that all that you are you brought here into life
and, regardless of what we will make, where we will be

i so thoroughly, and for all eternity, do, indeed, love thee.

16 December 2010.1

This Ain’t So Bad



I love it here. I love the light. I love the wind and the sun and the sounds.

I love all that there is and all that there could be.

And, yes, indeed I do love the sumptuousness of thee.

No matter your problems, no matter mine.

No matter the seriousness from which we sometimes think we’ll just die.



We ought to run around, and sing and shout and have a grand time.

Reveling in what we’ve got and the time we can make to take it all in.

Rolling down the hill into the arms of yonder rambling stream.

Basking on the slopes of the mountains that fuel our fantasies with its view.



Let’s just live in love. Let’s just find the harmony in what we can.

Let’s just know the time to see each other breathe and sigh.

Happy to know that we are in love with a beautiful girl, a sweet guy.

And, frolicking through the tall grasses we’ve found on the side of the road …

… where we stopped just for a moment to savor just this.
 
 
12 July 2010 A

as sweet as your bosom always seems to me now
the light of your soul is far sweeter
and the succulence of our hands twined together
fills the aches of my voids from which love
had long since seemed to have evaporated
until that sumptuousness of our first syllable together

30 January 2008

This day in the Fall, the Sun shining bright

I adore you against the clouds, on through the twilight.

18 September 2008

Incite


 incite me to learning, incite me to love, to yearning, to the heart's palpitations that men can but live a mere second without

 incite in my passions the desire to know all that there is to know about you, how you tick, how your heart beats when i am near

 incite in the lovers around you the desire to be the best for their loves that they can be, that they can imagine, that they can feel

 incite in these words the dedication of one who can know no further, no better, no more immaculately conceived feeling than the touch of your warming hand in winter.



 and, my dear, my friend, my long lost companion, please play for me that soul's music, the poetry of the blessed, or the children at play

 play for the scores that are wrought from the effervescence flowing from Mt. Olympus down into the valleys at noon

 down into the streets and the cafe's where the workmen, the washer women, the mothers and fathers take their mid-day meal

 thankful and relieved that they have, this day, met with the love that they had waited upon for so long, for all those years when they had no hope.




 yes, please, concoct those verses, those melodies, those rhythms that play on long into the night, wafting through my heart's strings, setting me to singing

 setting me to a chorus of accolades for the brilliance that i have felt through the reeds that blow upon the lake's shores,

 in the warm days of spring, just before the Sun's setting moments bring me back to the recognition that it is your touch that brought me here

 it is my searching for you that has kept me going on into the night, into the days, into the creations that guaranteed my joys would overtake my cries and disappointments.




 incite me to playing that wondrous song that flows all around us when we are hidden beneath our bedclothes, snuggled against the cold

 snuggled against the uncertainties that others have tried to impress upon us, others have tried to make us believe are the hallmark of love

 others have not recognized are nothing to do with love, but rather the traitorous lies of the few that would separate us, would have us forsake our future

 the future which, because we have been brave enough to love, no matter what, we have now found assures us a blessed and beautiful life in the arms of the one we love as if they were life itself.

29 January 2010.1

I think this scene is perfectly marvelous. And, I don't know where it is. Or even, for that matter, if it is a "real" scene. What with the ability of artists and technicians to concoct all manner of seeming reality out of 'whole cloth' (as people were wont to say at one time), one could take the pessimistic view and lose the pleasure of seeing a beautiful scene merely because it might not be "real". Real or not, I like it.

Now, for those fascinated (or worried) by the question of whether a "real" experience is better or more to be preferred than an "imaginary" experience (or perhaps more accurately, an "imagined experience") -- which should not be confused with the question of whether the content of a drug induced involunatry hallucination is "real" -- it seems to me that the question of whether "imagination" is as good as "reality" makes a fundamental assumption about the nature of "reality" which just may be false. I think that those people who vehemently insist that there is just ONE reality, and it is the SAME reality for everyone, are the same people who insist that we, human beings, are nothing but a remarkably complex collection of atoms, electrical charges and chemical interactions and that we have no uniquely, and non-corporeal, 'mental' or 'spiritual' component. In other words, there is no "ghost in the machine" (or deus ex machina). The machine simply runs itself. Of course, the assumption --- and it is an assumption --- that one must prove the existence of an un-seeable soul, spirit or other non-corporeal agent, for the simple reason that one can't see it, really ends the inquiry before it starts. If you're interested in this kind of inquiry, you really have to ask yourself from the get-go, why it is that you assume that you've got to be able to see, touch, taste, smell, hit, gouge, run over and otherwise mechanically manipulate in order for "it" to be "real"?

So, to bring this 'round back to where I started ... while writing this post, I realized that part of what makes this photograph/representation so inviting is, for me anyway, that it actually represents a "real" scene which has been 'created' and actually exists in the firmament. I'd still think it is a pretty and impressive bit of art work even if it were made from 'whole cloth'. But, for me, its (presumed) representational nature makes a difference in how thorougly I enjoy viewing this scene.

In "Don't Fact-Check the Soul" (New York Times, April 29, 2008), Rosanne Cash observes that creativity is "outside" linear time and that commitment and diligence are more valuable, and productive, than infatuation, or as she calls it, youthful inspiration.

And, she's right. The supposition that everything we do, say, or feel must be a 'confession', or a reflection of some unyielding superstructure which exists entirely independently of our mark, our contribution our development of IT, is a misguided Freudian-style bias which wholly robs the soul of its power to create life, beauty and harmony.

We --- each of us, and all of us together --- are the creators of what there is, how it is conceived and what comes "after" now. Someone who is inclined to wallow in victim-hood would demur, I am sure. But, the fact remains that we aren't mere observers of what has been set in motion by forces greater than ourselves and which runs independently of our contribution to it. We are the authors of life, the architects of beauty and the managers of our self-directed fates.

Don't look for the truth. Create it.

Mother Earth, much like old Mother Hubbard who lived in a shoe, with so many children she didn't know quite what to do, is groaning from her childrens' wanton fertility. Today, January 30, 2008, it is reported in the New York Times that it is estimated that Mother's children will increase from 6.6 billion today to 9 billion in 2050 -- an increase of 2.4 billion souls in 42 years.

I suppose if you're a PC maker, chewing gum manufacturer, software vendor or pharmaceutical manufacturer, this news will be met with great relish and renewed vigor to plan on how to profit from this inevitable invading horde.

But, what if you are someone who relishes open, unspoiled, unregulated, naturally majestic and aesthetically and spiritually inspiring spaces? What are you to do? How can you preserve your dreams without seeming to be (or being) reactionary? Is it inevitable that crowding, poverty, squalor, division and discord become the norm? Do we have any right to load Mother down so thoroughly that we return to the medieval norm, in which, as Thomas Hobbes put it, life was "nasty, brutish and short"? Do we, in other words, have the right to shirk our responsibility to leave future generations with some fighting chance of creating good, worthwhile, reasonably pleasing and productive lives?

Is is right that we escape our bodies, knowing that in our wake, we left our Mother bedraggled, besotted, bereft and not even a little bemused?

Saving our Mother from an iniquitous future, which will almost certainly involve mass genocides the likes of which no rational sane being willingly contemplates, is a little like a weight-loss diet or improving your health after a long endorsement of indolence and irresponsibility and sloth: You have to take it one step at a time, on a gradient. But, if you don't get started, no matter how long it will take you, no matter if you have no idea how to reach your goal, or exactly in what direction it lays, then your good intentions, as the saying goes, will "pave the path to Hell".

So, let's get started. One gradient step at a time. Let's make our Mother proud. Stop our bickering, maligning, carping and complaining. Get along. Join in the one goal that each of us must share, if we share anything at all ... and that is to leave Mother better off than she was when we first laid eyes on her. Let's all, each of us in his or her own way, leave the world a little better off than when we got here and, when we come back, we'll surely be glad we did.

“We act as though comfort and luxury were the chief requirements of life, when all that we need to make us really happy is something to be enthusiastic about”

Charles Kingsley

Today, I would like to grant myself the honor of paying tribute, as it were, to a fellow of my acquaintance, David St. Lawrence. David is a wonderful chap, cheerful, intelligent, hard working, good company and married to a lovely woman named Gretchen. David and Gretchen live in the hills and valleys of southwestern Virginia near the town of Floyd.

I say 'grant myself the honor', because I believe that it is my honor to have had the fortuity to meet and spend a few days of my life in David and Gretchen's home and environs. Why? Well, that's a good question. I'm not exactly sure I can explicate, in an organized concatenation of symbols and spaces -- in words -- why, exactly, I like having met David. Actually, why I like David and find him a valuable fellow.

(Which is, a lot, different than merely liking to have met him. You could have liked to have met someone because they are much uglier than you are, and it made you feel better to know there is someone worse off in the world, in terms of ugliness, than you are. Mind you, however, David is not ugly, but a rather handsome chap in his own right -- which I feel I must make clear lest someone skate through this tribute over quickly and draw an invalid inference.)

In any event, David and Gretchen live in a lovely and charming home just suited for the two of them and their two cats, Buffy, who is a sweet, cream colored, friendly and appreciative tiny cat, and Sherman. Sherman doesn't socialize much with those he doesn't know very, very well, so I really never got to learn much about Sherman, except that he is diffident, or timid, or shy or whatever the appropriate term might be. And, he is pure black. I also hear, through the grapevine that he is a more than passable hunter, and has recently taken pains to show David so. David, Gretchen and the cats live on a good sized parcel of property, once covered uniformly in trees and assorted creations of nature, but which now sports a central clearing within which they built their home a few years ago.

I suppose the best way I could describe David and Gretchen's home, from my point of view, obviously, is to say that it is well-ordered, peaceful, welcome and creative respite from the turmoil and strife and vagaries of the world. One feels, when one is at David's and Gretchen's home as if the world is alright and, despite the horrific matters that seem to threaten to inundate us all every day should we pay too much attention to the "press", everything will be alright. You feel, when you are around David and Gretchen, in other words, that "It's all good." as a friend of mind is wont to say.

I'm afraid I could, however, write for eons and not tell you enough salient facts about David to give you a full enough understanding of him and his nuances and the goodness which he brings to the world, and so, what I figured I'd do is let you see David for himself, by providing you this link to his very own blog:

Making Ripples

I invite you to make the acquaintance of Mr. David St. Lawrence and to join those many others who have found that David acknowledges portions of themselves which they had forgotten, or never had known, existed.

Cheers and salutations ....

It was a rather conservatively adorned day. Not too bright. Not too dark. "Just", as the baby bear is said to have said, "right". Oh, well, it wouldn't have been just right if you fancy a nice clear sky bright blue sun blazing kind of day. Today, however, I'd have felt even more depressed than I already was, had I had to suffer one of those glorious bright blue clear sky days. All I wanted, and perhaps all I needed, was some peace and quiet, some insulation from the spiritual -- or perhaps 'metaphysical' -- noise that almost invariably seems to pervade my subjective universe when I'm walking near where I work. And, it seemed like that is what I was going to get. At least until I rounded the corner and spotted him. That same fellow who has darkened my path many another day. That homeless street dwelling fellow loudly hawking the "Street Sense" newspaper on the street for "just one dollar". He is very loud and very invasive and makes you (or me, at any rate) feel as if I've committed some crime against humanity by passing him by without having contributed a dollar to him. I find myself having this conversation in my head in which he insists that it is my moral duty to buy this rag, this paper, even though I have not the slightest interest in what it is "reporting", for the simple reason that it costs "only" a dollar. And, then I feel bad and come up with a 'rational argument' in my head why I shouldn't have to buy it, and why he should get a job and why it is bothersome of him to stand in the driveway of the CVS and slow people down before they get to their cars in order to guilt-trip them into paying for something that 'no one' wants.

It doesn't matter whether I'm "right", whether he's "right", whether my imagination is over active or whether he's selling the next Pulitzer prize winning short story. What mattered to me, today, is that, instead of being left alone, I had to walk by his contribution to the metaphysical noise that I so desperately wanted to avoid.

Next time, when I first catch sight of Mr. Street Sense, I'll turn right around and walk all the way 'round the block in the other direction. That'll teach him!

Today is a new day. Of course it is. But, in particular, it is a new day for this, Magic Poet, blog. Up until now, I've treated it, more or less, as a neglected step child ... yearning for my attention, which I only sparingly meted out with the most stingy of dispositions. No wonder it never gave me anything back. And, in addition, I suppose I treated it like a disguise, instead of a river from which to wave to my friends and meet new adventures.

I'd quote some Emerson now, to the effect that I'm happy if I've changed one life for the better. But that would be entirely too erudite (and perhaps even using the word "erudite" is too erudite) and possibly pedantic (another one of those words) for this forum (or should I call it a "venue"?). And, it wouldn't be true. I won't be happy, at the end of my current life if all I've done is improve the life of one being, besides myself. A tiny little goal like that is a bit like admitting that you're a failure before you even get started. Goals were meant to be big. Life is meant to be lived. Not shyly diffident, but with head-high-chest-out-balls-to-the-wall-gusto.

Let me smell you
Let me have you
Let me eat you with my pie
Let me see you in the night
In my dreams
In the dark and glistening sky.

I am enamored of your soul
As much as I am intoxicated with your smell
Feeling my heart beat like a drum
When ever I chance upon your scent
Giving me ideas of wonders heaven sent

All that I am sometimes feels all that you are
And it then becomes nearly impossible
To know an unhappy thought, a moribund joy
To know anything that is not graceful and free
This having begun the moment I met thee.

13 November 2007.1
Copyright by Scott Weible
All Rights Reserved

there will never be a time when i am not with you
never an instant when i am less than enthralled with you
never a thought in my head that you are not the one
that the others who caught my eye might have been better

and this is because you are the essence of the beauty of life itself
you make my blood warm as you approach, even in the most disheveled state
and you, even in your most intemperate times, smooth my wrinkles
make me feel as if the energy of the universe is flowing through me

i know that there are those moments when our reactions throw us against each other
so please hold fast as you run into me at high speed and i will catch you
and i promise that i will not recoil, i will not rejoice in your misery
for that would be jubilation at my own death, my own annihilation, my nothingness

of course it can sometimes feel hard, as our passions seemingly seek to incinerate us together
hoping, against all hope, that this match made in heaven, is consigned to bitter hell
but that is the jealousy of dubious and debauched alien spirits, feverish at our approach
appalled at the immortal and unforgettable beauty of our allness, our love, our souls together.




31 October 2005.1
Copyright by Scott Weible
All Rights Reserved

Climb Aboard

Climb aboard little darling

Climb with me to the heavens

Let’s go where spirits soar

And, love each other ever more

Let’s laugh amongst the grasses

As we crest that long, long hill

Before we plummet with lovers’ gleefulness

Straight down in to the blue green pond

And when the fireflies are on their nightly parade

I want you to give me your arm

Let me smell your pretty scented hair

While we relax beneath those bright, sparkly stars

Oh, how good it is to be me

When I am with you

When we are on our path together

When love is as it should be

When you are mine


5 June 2007.1
Copyright by Scott Weible
All Rights Reserved

-the imposter

-well, it wasn't you after all, but an imposter, masquerading as love, covering for a damaged, unintentionally critical heart
-it wasn't the beacon that i had hoped for, although she seemed like she knew where she wanted to go
-it was not the essence of the artist's heart, the beauty that creates and enlivens all eyes, blesses the soul,
-no, it wasn't you, after all this time, after all this searching, after all of the trials, tears and tribulations of the hunt,

-the hunt? the hunt? the hunt, for what? for a woman? for a love? for a companion? for a heart as pure and true as you
-you who elude my grasp, elude my soft and gentle kisses, elude any snare that might retard a spirit's flight
-you who rise above and far beyond the pettiness of this eventually moribund existence to occupy my thoughts,
-my heart's words, the sounds of the notes of music that pervade the breezy afternoon when the band is inspired?

-i thought it might be you. i was, sure, in fact that i loved her, and, in truth, i do. more than my heart can stand, almost
-more than i thought it possible and not have found you. i love her in her beauty, in her skill, in her talents, in her directness
-in the way that she emulates the soul of the artist that i know you Are, that i know you exude from even your most intimate pores
-yes, my eternal love, i love her, as i have loved many, as i may love many more if you do not, first, save me

-if you do not show me mercy and swoop down from the heavens (and from Zeus' own table) and take me, lead me
-encourage me to accompany you along a path of greatness, of understanding, of a translucent love that is never shy,
-never bashful to report upon it's own goodness, and to exhort all others to match it, to revel in how sweet a love can be
-how utterly endearing My love will always be, no matter the year, the lifetime, the universe; no matter if at home or at God's table.

- i had really thought she might be you, my darling, sweet essence of the bird's soaring flight, unruly spirit who cares,
-cares not just for me, not just for the others, but for an excellence of manner, deportment, of understanding and grace,
-who unstifles the imagination, gives free reign to the creations of cooperative souls, striving to erect a monument
-to that purity of creation that is stoked and fired with the emotional resonance of those multitudes of who have loved by your example.

16 December 2002.1
Copyright 2002, by Scott Weible
All Rights Reserved.