Toasting the Sun's Massif and Other Poems

Leland Jamieson



Leland Jamieson Reads "Toasting the Sun's Massif"


Toasting the Sun's Massif


The teacher said: You toast an earth massif

with river water’s silt, and muck, and stone.

You gulp down each opaque apéritif,

yet thirst for more, grumbling, “Garçon, garçon!”

You crave warm body-knowing for your own,

just ache for it, hoping to feel complete,

but you have yet to taste it, pure and sweet.


It’s neither Fire, Water, Air, nor Earth,

nor Gold, nor Sex — nor, yet, to be thought Chic.

The yearnings of your soul to feel of worth

(in its Third Eye, and other souls’) can pique,

obliquely, your own body’s “sight,” though weak.

Look inward.  You will find it, not abroad

but in those depths of self where you feel awed.


In Sun’s electromagnetic spectrum’s sweep,

your skin perceives but heat, ear sound, eye light.

They’re but a millionth of the vibes that bleep

computers tuned to waves that man could cite.

Distinctly tuned to vibes (not noise), heard byte

by byte, computers sense “the genuine article” — 

while you embody it — both wave and particle.


You turn away with scorn.  It can’t be done,

you think.  You’re blinded by denial’s vibes,

can’t see the hidden radiance of our sun.

Al Einstein’s E= MC² describes

a cosmic whole no thinking circumscribes.

It’s by holistic, vibrant openness

you tune in what can help you reassess.



Wholly, Wholly....


What some call sanctity is not

the censor’s smoldering bright brass pot,

the sweat confession box has wrung,

the wine as blood, or host on tongue,

the soot of sputtered candle wicks,

the moldy holy water’s flicks —

the priest or preacher’s strong cologne

murmuring thanks in monotone . . . .


Could be it’s knowing who one is,

living one’s life without show biz,

respecting others, head to toes

though they may all one’s goals oppose.

Could be it’s sparing them one’s rants

on one’s most cherished cans and can’ts

their own transcendence-immanence

reveals Divine Intelligence . . . .




Scrabbling For Scarlet Oaks


A poet scrabbles in his Mother Tongue,

lays down not words with letters scoring high,

but lines of words to hear what’s not yet sung

which – ringing true — will need no alibi.

With serendipity he stumbles on

those sensate words that rhyming lines evoke,

with images a meter spawns, clear-drawn —

rough acorns which prefigure scarlet oak.


A reader reads across the meter’s beat

with speech-stress sounding cadenced counterpoint,

inviting heart and mind to dance with feet.

The scrabbler’s and the reader’s work — conjoint —

conspire, creating out of faint thin air,

with Mother Tongue, her foursquare oak, mon cher.


Leland Jamieson, a performing arts center manager for most of his working life, is retired and lives in East Hampton, Connecticut, USA. His recent and forthcoming work appears in Bellowing Ark, Blue Unicorn, Neovictorian /Cochlea, Raintown Review, and 3rd Muse. He has gathered a number of published formal poems, some with streaming audio, under the title Needles in a Pinewood at He is hawking a 60-page book manuscript by the same name.

Photo Courtesy of 123rf.




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Poems Copyright © 2006 Leland Jamieson. All rights reserved.