guide
an even sky filled with the fires of the paraphalia of art
and its glow hysteria worshiped on the altar of today
lets see what upon the backs of beatles
bright tommorrow brings us
or the high winged spear of geese portend
for below the azured skies is frenzy and delirium heard
chanting rising up the zenith of reveered mountain pinnacles
as we are set to gaze in wonderment at its origins
and what it meant
to ponder on the songs of nothing much except the incompetence of
youthful words ushered forth in praise
encased within the foliage and the flora of pleasure
and in the weird science of its trivia
where petals counted and stamen pollenated are
strange new creatures birthed by brown tongued sycophants
and assured as money
Well by Jupiter you may thank your lucky stars
that ne're upon a sunlit hill or misty mountain night
will we this wish on ourselfes or ourselfes endure
but in maybe a small aeon some time hence
well then that is another thing
for all the histories of the world will be rewrit
and by kind vague hands in which our scars and scabs and winkled wrinkles
all will be shaved from the face of fact
and so we will come to be the heralds and the villains
the princes and the popes the queens and the queers
the sun and seas of art itself
a million the laurels and petals of apotheosis
garlanded around cast upon the ground in homage
and the marks of wild deity upon our foreheads
while the fickle here and now and its superficial passing flimsy
will be born off like the spawn of dandy flowers upon the vaguest breeze
as i have been promised by none other than God
that our icon and impression will be pressed deep
into a future culture and our words
once our own theism
will percolate among the art of human kind
and be divine
omniscient as a God itself
now how peculiar is that
and how and why you may well ask has God communicated this to me
rather bizarrely it came born through the long grasses amid
the pastures of a vivid dreaming
a landscape in which you are resting sleeping deep beneath
the shade of trees maybe, the grasses rustling, the winds a balming
caress your gentle slumbers
and so it is this way in which God is talking with you and
its eternal nature whispers you directly but somewhat subliminal
have you heard it ?
one in which the cruel similie of disbelief crosses your path
as say a cloud crosses
a pure sky momentarily blotting out the sun on a warm summers day bringing
either
ire at that clouds fleeting challenging existence
as it warmth obscures and cold it ushers on
or
joy at that sudden cool
if only as relief
and can indeed be heard praised by all the flowers
could you but hear them for yourself
can you hear them now ?
now if this seems a puzzling sort of tale of schemes
and one in which you wonder at your part
and are sceptical in its raising you to outlandish glory
none of which you are in truth deserving
i can only say to you that
that is the way of God
a God who sends us such as desease and war
to test our strength
who sends us also the trials of human existence
to test our fortitude and our bondship
for God has asked
and some will sustain that bondship
and be stronger for it
and others will wilt in the hot shine of these trials
and even though those that disbelieve the unlikliest of outcomes
will not seem weaker on the outside
yet they are weaker in their kinship with all sentient life
and that includes themselfes
so do not erase this our story from your memory
but one day when you think
you are as wise as its author
read this literature again
and maybe try it on some children
see what their eager little minds will make of its magus text
and in your rote incantation of its apologue
then in that formulary way may you percieve
the songs of flowers in their ultra violet world
and the infra reds of grasses
and radiations of a subliminal universe that is obscure to almost
all the world but not at all to art
and to its chosen artisans
and you will thank or curse your inclusion
in its painted landscape
for where i painted trees you may see yourself
as hollowed trunks or withered bracts
or where the sky was in truth a blue marine
with cerule and yellow tainted glows
you may see only clouds and hail
and where i painted distant monts and charming hills
you may see the narrow gorge in which you might feel a certain
claustraphobia within its depths
and percieve thin skies a narrow boat above
but not percieve where geese are arrowed left
hid by rising towers of earth
by which you are surrounded
i did not place you there
for in truth although i claim to be the artisan
in fact i am no more than the simple text and brush
for others guide the hand and eye