Poetry. Dissociation. Exile.

The swirls of paint
the patterns of cloth
the random clouds
the fallen leaves
fragments floating
just out of sight

they ride the dust of sunbeams
and hide behind mirrors
to wait for me
in my exile.

They watch and wait
beyond my reach
hovering at the edges of my vision.


Song fragments well in my head
shards of poetry and insight echo
I try to grasp as they drift away
songs hold answers.

Fragments might re-form
might become whole again.

Amidst the static
ancient choirs float on ether
only a few finely-tuned
poets and musicians receive them
the clues to meaning are in the fragments.

Don’t let the melodies disappear
don’t forget the whispers
save the fragments.

Musicians jam with electric guitars
wailing poets write rock songs
their fragments must mean something
or nothing at all.

Whispers from and about nothing
accidental meanings clearing up mysteries
and making mysteries afresh.

Artists draw glyphs to stand for fragments
correspondences, metaphors,
patterns, avatars.

They don’t know their symbols’ origin
but the exiles, the poets, they know
musicians know
exiles know them and quiver
suddenly they cry
they cannot explain it
they cannot remember
cannot tell all they know
no-one knows every level of meaning.

Joni Mitchell sings we are stardust
we have to get back to the garden
an exile hears her song and softly starts to cry.

Is the way to understanding
found in the secret places
painted on a talisman
poured from a chalice
embodied in crystals
invoked by chants
or by charms
or a totem
or a rune
a stone

Is it found in sacred places?

Look into the jewel
containing other worlds
other realities
is the answer alive?

does it seek me as I seek it
or does it simply wait?

would I recognize it
do rituals unveil it
do books describe it?

Everyone is whispering
all the time
except the Prophets.

No Prophet ever whispered.

Only Prophets know all secrets
speaking truth in symbols
placed behind numinous veils
embellished with ineffable beauty.

Night's Golden Spiral