Still Life
Its beauty is in its austerity
A room cool and vacant
One part indistinguishable
From the next
Flat ground marks a path
Around a circle meditation
Calm sought for
a room of light and beauty
Out a window that ocean
Of tranquil waves like thoughts
As I too watch
From that window, looking in
I can see myself
Through a frame of the mind
In this room as
my thoughts become clear
Monday, November 27, 2006
poetry from Eric Bonholtzer
A Dark Path Against a Barren Plain
The mountain stands like a man against the horizon of dark stars.
Dead space fills the barrens before it, the path wending
across the fruitless expanse, twisted switchbacks leading
upon senseless folding, an ever forward ageless progression.
There are no pilgrimages here, only pilgrims set against the storm torn sky
as they wend their way toward inexorable destination. Twisted thorn trees
clutter and clutch, tearing spirit, soul, body and garment alike.
Timeless lashes upon the backs of burdened beasts with their worldly possessions
Tightly gripped like crosses held to their chests, as the only choice
drives them forward. The watching moon has long since gone and come.
“When will we be there father?” It was an innocent question from impressionable eyes
watching a man who could only bend, a tear trickled through stubble.
A shake of the head and the boy fell silent. No one really knew.
But these were masses, the huddled tired streams of rags and tatters
torn, unmended threads tying them, not in unity but parts of a whole
Eyelets and minarets with their voyeuristic hypnotic gaze
Mesmerizing, entrancing and inviting even as they repelled.
“Will it be home again when we get there?”
The words fell upon unlistened air
No answer because he himself didn’t know
Dejected eyes shaded, saying only, “Onward we go.”
The mountain stands like a man against the horizon of dark stars.
Dead space fills the barrens before it, the path wending
across the fruitless expanse, twisted switchbacks leading
upon senseless folding, an ever forward ageless progression.
There are no pilgrimages here, only pilgrims set against the storm torn sky
as they wend their way toward inexorable destination. Twisted thorn trees
clutter and clutch, tearing spirit, soul, body and garment alike.
Timeless lashes upon the backs of burdened beasts with their worldly possessions
Tightly gripped like crosses held to their chests, as the only choice
drives them forward. The watching moon has long since gone and come.
“When will we be there father?” It was an innocent question from impressionable eyes
watching a man who could only bend, a tear trickled through stubble.
A shake of the head and the boy fell silent. No one really knew.
But these were masses, the huddled tired streams of rags and tatters
torn, unmended threads tying them, not in unity but parts of a whole
Eyelets and minarets with their voyeuristic hypnotic gaze
Mesmerizing, entrancing and inviting even as they repelled.
“Will it be home again when we get there?”
The words fell upon unlistened air
No answer because he himself didn’t know
Dejected eyes shaded, saying only, “Onward we go.”
poetry from Eric Bonholtzer
Solace
The green grew around us
Like archways or caressing finger tips,
As hoof beats twined our own hearts as we trudged,
A road of many paths, directions an unnecessary nuisance
The beauty of being truly lost
Is that when you are found
All is as it should be, in these moments
Leaves, branching outward, onward.
This is the reward for taking the time to listen
To yourself and to others, in this hideaway
Of solace found in mind
The greatest sprits always within.
The green grew around us
Like archways or caressing finger tips,
As hoof beats twined our own hearts as we trudged,
A road of many paths, directions an unnecessary nuisance
The beauty of being truly lost
Is that when you are found
All is as it should be, in these moments
Leaves, branching outward, onward.
This is the reward for taking the time to listen
To yourself and to others, in this hideaway
Of solace found in mind
The greatest sprits always within.
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