(NO TITLE) May 31, 2001
~ John W. Patterson
Billions upon billions of souls milled about in a great vastness,
As a sea of diamonds, a field of amber jewels � they stood quiet,
Waiting, knowing, muted by awe . . .
This was not as any had imagined nor as many had written of,
Writs, tomes, and diatribe could never have revealed this,
The humanity, the ageless eons, now come together . . .
Waves of sorrow, tides of joy, streams of bliss, echoes of fear passing by,
Each of them transparent, open books, unsung songs of many journeys,
No tears, no laughter, the young with the old and the in-between,
Waiting, knowing, paralyzed by the weight of Time ceased.
And one man walked forward, slowly, carefully, silently gliding,
Caressing some, smiling at others, passing through the midst,
Standing upon a small knoll, in view of all, he whispered a shout,
�Friends, your eternities are new!�
And ancient stars moved aside to let them each pass.
"Insomnia's Dreams"
June 13, 1996
The sun a pale pearl nestled in the belly of the sky
cloudy images fleeting past unseen, lofty speech unspoken
a silence between us-promises yet unbroken.
Fingertips of imagination trace lustrously moonlit lips
gently opening now in a blue shadowed dreamscape
warm breaths mingling-whispering forbidden tinglings.
Veiled windows of the soul, sheets of mist arise
to cover my fitful sleep, humid rains hissing
of feverish desires, butterfly's coiled kisses unbidden.
Tremors, quakings jostle the leadened fortress of fears
sparks dance in fireholds of cold ash warmed anew
chambers dank with stilled aspiration-ennui of the inevitable.
Avalanche of emotion uncovers edges of forgotten visions
Laughter echoing, the shrouded ones of reason smirking
wander on, rounding the endlessly long halls of solitude.
I reach vainly for the scorched wings of Icarus
and the blood-flushed bosom of Aphrodite
Eros' millstone of Adamite grinds us fine and sure.
The moon reigns, wreathed in wraiths of unfulfilled passions
softens the harsh edges of responsibility and duty
We dream again under skies full of empty purposes.
We awake staring once more at strangers in the mirror.
"Musing Outloud"
John W. Patterson
June 18-19, 1996
Who holds this wind in their hand?
Do we choose or are we the chosen?
I gaze through curved glass, sinking fast.
As you pass by in and out of my little realm
my time, my mind, is rippled and welled around you.
Your absence does not erase this deepness of soul.
Soft focused images carousel behind my eyes
I'm a million light years away wandering
a panacean world-- its charm but placebo.
In dreams and midday stares I lose myself in you
Even so, this alone, in its fragile tragic way
is enough...
For more--pushes the balance, the delicate mystery
swaying in the land of almost and maybe
the weight of our souls on the knife-edge of destiny.
Sideways to the sun, slides close the Whispering One,
saying, "This one you shall love for a time, this one...for forever,
and these others will merely pass by you."
Who holds this glittering dust of time?
Life passes and there remains
only the wind in my hollowed grasp...
and the sweet echoes of the Whispering One.
John W. Patterson Isolation August 13-15, 1996
Something reckoned dead stirred back to life a few yesterdays ago.
It longs to drink deep of Lethean waters,
perchance to taste of the peaceful oblivion of forgetting.
Upon regaining my tottering sense of sanity,
I am faced with its delightfully painful manner.
That is to say, I am smitten, well slain,
encompassed by charnel legions of an ominous maelstrom.
Desire and denial swiftly locked themselves in combat
setting to flame my sleeping watchmen,
writhing pyres sinking into my breached mind's moat.
Forbidden knowledge looms ever present, the unattainable but a breath away.
Tomes of secret wonder piled in the corner of my soul are near toppling.
They would bury me alive as I tease forth another writ.
Abominable hourglass marks me more shadow than man!
I loathe the weakness, the vacillation, and flagrant hypocrisy!
A house of cards, reason is bound and cast into this tempest.
Why do you refrain from my presence, my touch, my depthless gaze?
I close my eyes nightly, avenues of Isis' effigies stretch out before me.
Dreaming finds my voracious obsession awaiting the feasting on itself.
It calls the moonlight, dappling rocks in the fen of my private wanderings.
It whispers a name gripping my voice in my waking moments
before I barely know the new day's dawning, It touches me again.
I have no explanation for all these things coming into being,
forgotten corpses resurrected in a bondage of living.
The dead hold no understanding at their birthing.
They find themselves not to be players in the game but merely pawns.
We are moved across the gameboard of life arms flailing for caution,
for some grip on events, a respite from loneliness and longing.
There is no hesitant moment, no conferring, and we stand naked in the light.
We arrive unprepared, unsuited to the task.
Mercy, a dried flower in a shadowbox, hope lies fallow by shunned houses.
We cower, resisting the urge, the inner tug to attempt another move
as if one could decide their life, their heart's course.
We hold out, digging in, wishing for time to erase this intensity wrenching the soul.
Hours into days, into weeks, into months, and quickly into years
and our foolish hearts may turn to other things--other things less futile.
Will I be more wary of the dark pig-god Set and his desire to mutilate me?
I walk on past the acrid emptiness of burning wastelands of confusion,
one more distraction waits just ahead for the endless games of sublimation.
Still I know a part of me will always love purely those ones who stand silently
waiting in the cthonian places of subjugated passion.
Quietly beckoning me from behind gelid waterfalls
of ancient snowmelt upon the mountains of madness,
they are lost in the mists of my past.
June 7, 1994
For Micah Thom
Relentless in its chase,
Death overtook him and cast him down.
Beneath the remains of his shattered dreams,
Empty aspirations, his thoughts died with him.
Color left his visage, muscles relaxed, jaw down, body limp,
He layed betwixt heaven and hell,
The stars watching like the eyes of a million devils laughing,
a billion angels weeping,
All creation groaned as another son of glory passed into Sheol.
He rose through the clouds,
earth far below,
accelerating as he neared the edge of the world,
the end of the sky,
the hem of infinity,
no past, no future, only now,
only now,
the eternal now,
Time is a faded memory,
ancient portals, old negatives, interconnected.
Arrival, the others are here now,
waiting in silence,
"Oh my God.......oh my God!"
Historical note: Micah Thom was born and died at DUMC in March of 1986.
Untitled 8-13-75 (revised 10-19-98)
- John W. Patterson
The trees sway in the wind
dried leaves wrap around my feet
and naked branches reach across the street
above me, cold stillness they send.
Rain falls staining the trees
as aged mourners weeping
wrinkled and wearied of the sun shining
winter's bitterness chills autumns breze.
Winter came early to my neighborhood
freezing rains visited bare streets long ago
teardrops hide frozen 'neath the snow
I never see springtime as I should.
Life begins in the dark earth
these trees began in darkness alone
so I must push aside these walls of stone
rising anew to claim my birth.
Another Time
-John W. Patterson
3/8/75 revised (10-19-98)
Falling thru soundhole round
sliced by strings without sound
fingers fly speed to get
action good dressed down fret
Alone I hold her shining body
she warms my knee silently
till I strum sounds of another time
when we shared eyes across cherry wine
Moons tinted orange rise from a green horizon
as my fingers stroke her neck
and my eyes close, opened to the inside
bursts of sound leave her whispering mouth
Tears born of love join memory's ocean
as my hand glides over steel
and my ears open, closed to the outside
flashes of dream fill my boxed-in room
Risen from soundhole dark
slipped by strings without mark
soul finds its joy inside
Prophet's song a silent guide
Alone the moons of gold comfort me
while the children splash in a crystal sea
till I strum sounds of another time
when we shared eyes above cherry wine
NOCTURNE
A silver sleep is on the vale;
The breathless pines are pale,
Where quiet shadows dream
By some departing stream.
With hands fantastical and still,
Upon the windless hill,
One cypress fain would hold
The moon of faded gold.
-Clark Ashton Smith
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