Toasting the Sun's Massif and Other Poems
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.
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 www.geocities.com/lelandjamieson. He is hawking a 60-page book manuscript by the same name.
Photo Courtesy of 123rf.
Poems Copyright © 2006 Leland Jamieson. All rights reserved.