Archives for category: villanelle

Time is a line drawn across an empty page

Memory is an ink that only you can see

A line, no sooner drawn, begins to fade

 

What is claimed as a life is upon a stage

All that is seen, like a dream seems to be

Time is a line drawn across an empty page

 

A mere drop of dew begins a river’s rage

All that we are is only what we agree

A line, no sooner drawn, begins to fade

 

This moment now is the one to engage

Memory is root, branch and leaf of tree

Time is a line drawn across an empty page

 

Present is past and future says the sage

Brewed to lull to sleep and dream like a tea

A line, no sooner drawn, begins to fade

 

Attention drawn makes the bars of a cage

Beneath surface is the depth of the sea

Time is a line drawn across an empty page

 

What’s seen is facade, only what we agree

What’s seen is forms of possibility

Time is a line drawn across an empty page

A line, no sooner drawn, begins to fade

 

The world is but the surface of the mind

Thoughts dancing upon it, ripple and wave

Measureless depth, motionless, without time

 

 

Not one thought after another in a line

True source, the light at the entrance of the cave

The world is but the surface of the mind

 

 

Bounded by the nutshell,”everything is mine”

Viewed through a lens convex or concave

Measureless depth, motionless, without time

 

 

From the job of being someone, resign

The impending doom of extinction to stave

The world is but the surface of the mind

 

 

The stars in the sky, swirl, regroup, realign

What once was drama, a rant and a rave

Measureless depth, motionless, without time

 

 

Everything that you see is now revealed, a sign

Burning desires you no longer crave

The world is but the surface of the mind

 

 

No grand design, no pattern to pave

No maker, no architect, no heavenly lathe

The world is but the surface of the mind

Measureless depth, motionless, without time

 

 

All that seems is seen shimmering in the Sun.

Twirl dizzy child falling to the ground,

Wondering the World; how was it begun?

 

Spinning in a mystery, what great fun

Never but to now was I ever bound

All that seems is seen shimmering in the Sun.

 

What was this? Where am I? Who am I?  

With life’s diadem of questions crowned

Wondering the World; how was it begun?

 

Knowing dawns that, though answers are none,

From the whirling one day one would be found

All that seems is seen shimmering in the Sun

 

Added up, all through the years, to a sum

The suffering, like Job’s had run aground,

Wondering the World; how was it begun?

 

Unanswerable mystery still surround?

Not around, but deep in the Master’s mound

All that seems is seen shimmering in the Sun

Wondering the World; how was it begun?

 

Remembering

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Real remembering is not of the past

The Sun is not rising, the earth is turning

Gold’s always gold, not the shape it is cast

 

What is real does not come and go, but lasts

Even the Sun turns round an inner burning

Real remembering is not of the past

 

The unseen waits its turn, to be seen, the task

First is last, last, first.  End or beginning?

Gold’s always gold, not the shape it is cast

 

All of the things collected and amassed

Are not really ours, only a borrowing

Real remembering is not of the past

 

The sky disguised in blue is really the Vast

Wind and storm stir the clouds of unknowing

Gold’s always gold, not the shape it is cast

 

Memories seen as a trick mind tries to grasp

Are like pearls on a broken string gone spinning

Real remembering is not of the past

 

The final mystery has no resolving

Like a salt doll in the sea dissolving

Real remembering is not of the past

Gold’s always gold, not the shape it is cast

Shadows

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Mere shadows are we; seen of the un-seen

Colors swirling on the surface of the vast

Wind in the sails of what has never been

 

All that is or was, once was between

Every bauble is only gold recast

Mere shadows are we; seen of the un-seen

 

Mover of all that appears on the screen

The last is to be first and the first last

Wind in the sails of what has never been

 

Swerve hither and yon, a seeming careen

The moment now is both present and past

Mere shadows are we; seen of the un-seen

 

The clasp of the cloak is a wisp of dream

Neither real nor not, as dreams never last

Wind in the sails of what has never been

 

The sailmaker is master of the dream

On the vast Ocean, no rudder, only mast

Mere shadows are we; seen of the un-seen

Wind in the sails of what has never been

Breath

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The most precious coin is the coin of a breath

Its loss is profit and profit its loss

The fire of the breath burns the body to death

 

Breathing in and breathing out, warp and weft

Weaving straw into gold and gold into cloth

The most precious coin is the coin of a breath

 

When all is spent then nothing is left

That nothing is precious, not what is lost

The fire of the breath burns the body to death

 

The murder of Abel is redeemed in Seth

Providence recycles all of the cost

The most precious coin is the coin of a breath

 

“Life’s but a walking shadow”, said Macbeth

With deep true meaning, no simple riposte

The fire of the breath burns the body to death

 

Merely an appearing, not to possess

The ground, a seed, a tree covered in moss

The most precious coin is the coin of a breath

The fire of the breath burns the body to death