Mystik's World

Once upon a starless time,
beyond all reason, lost to rhyme,
she listened, sitting on a hill
within a night so dark and still
that she could scry into the air
and know the warning waiting there...
she listened, and in soft reply,
she heard the echo of her sigh.

Soon the Myst will rise above the Marsh
and all that lay hidden
underneath its blue-gray shawl
will be revealed
to the curious sunbeams
who, each day, explore anew
the World beneath their fingertips.

Can it be Truth,
that which you see?
when, as I look,
I seem to be
a person of no great import,
but rather just a curious sort
who's filled with words
and thoughts so strange
from neurons stripped
and rearranged
to thusly weave
the Sacred Breath
into the Strands of God's own Web...
Can it be Truth,
that which you see?
or just an echo identity?

I feel the ripples
upon the Web
beneath my feet,
within my soul
Change is coming
from the depths
from the dark,
from the cold.

Trees seem green
but not
according to the way
you're taught;
who am I at all
to disagree
with those who
color a tree.

Actually, the tree
alone knows its shade,
its way of appearing
in desert or glade;
the tree alone
knows the color of its sigh -
how it blends with sunset
on a summer sky.

"Nothing exists",
I cry to the moon;
"nothing will come,
and none too soon;
life is a chess game,
and I am a pawn -
take me off the chessboard
so I may be gone.

There is no light
but if I choose -
nothing to gain,
and nothing to lose;
hold tight to the morning
that night never comes -
I'm stuck in the rhythm
of destiny's drums.

Trust is a fabric
that fashions a bridge
across the gaps on my trail;
yet I still deny it
while taking the risk -
the paradox of hawk and quail.

God means nothing
and yet means all -
contains my flying
and my fall,
contains my shining
and my dark,
contains my emptiness
and my spark.

Why call
when I choose to deny you?
Why call
when I run and hide?
Why call
when the anger I'm feeling
won't answer,
won't even cry?

Sometimes I hurt so deeply,
feel anger so strong and intense
that instead of screaming, I keep it
in some sort of backward defense.

God, I don't want you to listen,
to touch me or care,
I don't want you to follow,
or hold me, or dare...
because when you do that
my heart just screams "Why?"
"Where were you when they hurt me?
When they caused me to cry?"

The anger consumes me
and brings me to this -
an absolute wishing
that I'd not exist.

I don't want to trust you
and so be alive
--not trusting was all
I had to survive;
don't reach out a hand,
nor touch me in words
--it's all laced with acid,
the lies that I heard.

Why bring me back?
What reason here
could ever overcome
the fear?
Who do you think
you really are
to touch the heart
beyond the scar?

I will not toss
the words of pain
at someone who
is not to blame;
I keep them close
and hidden deep
within the silence
of my Keep.

As soon as I would touch the dream
and draw it to myself,
a hand would smash it all to bits
and I'd be someone else.

Let me stay in this dream
of trees and grass
of birds by a stream --
all trapped in glass;
let me stay in the place
they say is real --
keeping quite separate
the anger I feel.

I can pretend;
I have all along -
I touch all the heights;
I sing all the songs;
I wander the depths
and know every move -
but I really don't know
my own inner truth.

Why should it matter --
I'm only one spark;
if I should extinguish,
would the night be more dark?

Lost in a stream,
in the River's own breath,
I'm trapped by my fear
in the chilling dark depths
where someone would hold me
and then draw me back
to the pain and the draining
to fill what they lacked.

Leave me -
I'm used to
the cold and the dark;
I don't trust the sun
nor the light nor the heart;
I'm used to
not breathing,
not being myself;
so leave me -
in the closet
in the back
on the shelf.

Tap, tap, tapping
-- like a dare --
leave me napping:
I do not care;
I do not want to -
can't you see?
If I respond,
then I must BE.

Lost and lonely
safe and sound
within a closet
I'm not bound
by fear and anger
in each breath
by pain and burning
in each step;
I am alone
within my Keep:
protected strong --
protected deep.

Go now; there's others
who respond,
who call your healing,
who sing your song -
I am alive
and that's enough;
I do not need
to risk your love.

I've come so far
and yet remain
from the pain -
and so my journey
comes to nil,
when running fast,
I'm standing still.

Spider said:
"Go write your pain.
Go say the words,
and sign your name.
Release the knowledge
you deny
to give it wings
and help it fly."

You are the only one to see
the depths I roam inside of me;
You are the only one to call
the only one I hear at all.

No way I leave this closet-space
No way I leave this darkened place
Tis better to not live at all
than answer in anger to your call.

I've written enough upon my walls;
I know you can read beyond the call;
but whether I answer or ever return
is lost in the painful lessons I learned.

My life is an astral projection
--a strange and mystik connection--
so I don't have to be here,
nor be consumed by the fear.

Autumn-leaf mosaics
gliding to the stream
laughing with the sunshine
cheering all the others
to come and do the same;
autumn-leaf reflections
- colors of the fire -
splashing past the boulders,
"tell me 'fore I follow,
what freedom have you gained?"

Survivor Poems
The Healing Room
Childhood Stories
Thoughts at the Ragged Edge of the Universe