Harp

Sound of the wind:

aeolian—

 

I think of you.

Navel Gazing

To live well for me would be to wander in a garden. An earthly one.

I wonder at the bitter roots of my mind’s fruits—why am I so faithless?

I have learned by turning on myself, yet all the while my soul abides.

I shed myself and find new skin, moving from vesicle to vesicle.

Long is the day and short the night,

but darkness shrouds my inner light.

 

When the sun rises, my cat rushes to the light.

It warms her, she bathes in it. I admire her

ability to enjoy these daily pleasures.

We are not so far apart. I can see

her intentions but I cannot reach

that inner peace in her eyes.

 

Beauty lies all around us, I suppose it’s in the eyes.

Too often, I sat waiting for another to kindle this light.

How deep seem my shallows, how shallow my deep;

for that which the eye cannot touch lingers beyond reach

taunting the proud. I approach my shadow.

Who approaches? I AM, speaks my soul.

 

Let us not linger too long in the depths. Brevity is the soul

of wit. Sometimes, I am troubled by long nights. My eyes

burn as I squint in the dark. I should be sleeping

but a question is stuck in my throat, longing

to be announced. Am I that, which I am?

As soon as I posit myself entire, I enter a labyrinth.

 

This wandering life can grow weary. Where is the center of the labyrinth?

One tires of the spirit’s walls. I long for an audience with my soul.

Invocation is less than worthless. I seek and it recedes.

My mind knows not what it asks.

I seek Ithaca, but I am at sea.

Must I make these waves, my home?

 

I see some distant mass and long to find my home.

I think I am found. I move through a labyrinth

of familiar shapes, yet they seem empty.

Perhaps, I am wrong. Maybe home is in the apse of the eye?

My wondering is self-reflexive, I am at odds with myself.

Once again, I ask: where is the heart of the labyrinth?

 

Night is forever. Silence waits at the end of delight. Doubt is a labyrinth.

Innocence loses its way. The spirit rooms in the soul, passing another day.

My heart is like meaning. It works thanklessly for me day and night.

Labyrinth

One wanders around

in labyrinthine

search of oneself.

 

Born at the center,

we drift outwards

until the end.

 

This mortal coil,

is my labyrinth.

 

I wander in doubt,

but with faith

in this wandering

life, which is mine.

 

Its walls are only as narrow

as my eyes; my perspective

is as deep as my gaze.

 

The more I wander,

the more I wonder

at the intricacy of

 

my labyrinth,

my world.

 

As far as I can see,

it keeps going—

it is growing,

it seems.

 

Once, it was maddening

not to be able to see

a means to the end.

 

All our ends,

                      are means—

we are not lost—

                            now I see that

I am circulating.

 

We move like blood

from the heart

to the brain

and back.

 

-James B. Moog

This Drifting Life

I want to will,

I will to want,

I remain still.

 

Is this wanting

willed, or is it

my will that is

wanting?

-James B. Moog

Diva in Fur

O, stay not thy visits diva in fur!

You move like jazz and weave

to me. Wordlessly, I infer

your desires. Do not leave.

I hear you slinking, undeterred,

in spite of our spat, I cannot cleave

myself from you. Though you injure

me with your claws, I believe

it is only your temperament—

there, your greening eyes repent!

My fury dissipating like a dream;

I forgive you and recline serene.

You pounce upon me in no time—

how could I blame you, my feline?

 

-James B. Moog