Poetry: Vol. 3.) Arkiahh Dreaming . . .

                                      THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND: Volume Three

Arkiahh Dreaming

ARKIAHH dreaming in rapid folds of words

Under-light pourings from a book of hours

Quick-cradled wraps of cut-skin brokenness

A swathing of sad hearts in milk and honey

Arkiahh dreaming in rock-clasping heights

Holds in basalt ledges over valleys of beauty

Vantage sight gatherings of nine points of view

Countings in veiled places of moonlit seeings

Arkiahh dreaming in nine amber-cloud skies

Her one less than ten dreams in jasper and topaz

All findings of paradise in makings of nothing

Inner loosings in pure light that perfection won

Arkiahh dreaming in thirty days of writing

A month’s yield of starlight illumining hours

Crisp-lights in water from a pure river of life

Apples of lit-silver in bright pictures of gold

  

                                       *

(More... new poems, below...) 

 POETRY DIARY:  PART SIX:  INTRODUCTION:             

Everland

   

   Space within for life and I wrote in air the ragged writings--- Everland in my heart--- the internal country in which we ever journey onward. 

   Everland is that true inner kingdom within us---the intangible realm of heaven---made tangible where we touch base, see ourselves as we really are, and meet love - Love who is everlasting: ever there!

   

Everland, Everland!

The Land that Ever was

The land of every heart’s own joy

Wherein we ever are!

   I was given the interesting word amaranthine to describe this strange kind of poetry that flows from the realm of Everland; amaranthine means ‘never fading;’ and comes from the word amaranth which refers to a purple flowering plant called, ‘Love-Lies-Bleeding.’ All the ragged writings that come out of me are caught up in the mystical beauty of dying to self and eternal life; hence a love that lies bleeding for there is a cost in loving truly and in laying down our lives for others. But therein is born, joy, and the language of Everland, which never grows old, nor fades with time. 

  The lucent shores of Everland are ever far-reaching; and as mystical as unbounded waters; and as dark as the unknown---in the elusive quest for the beyond. Her interior is timeless---and as real---as heaven on earth. In the dreaming back to lost worlds of beauty, the longing eye turns inward to find her perpetual fountains; outward to find them flowing into the whole broad spectrum of life! 

   Found in the compelling pursuit of love rose these artesian waters; spilling in inner-given words; emerging in elusive perplexing songs. These were ‘the ragged rosebuds of Everland:’ the tight-curled flowers of eternal youth; and the mingling of puzzling lines to un-puzzle the mysteries within spirit-led life and light. 

   And their amaranthine message---the inner banner she flew from her highest towers: that beauty and truth were not made one---and so, never-fading---without their stinging thorn; and that, flesh cannot abide! It will endlessly reject it; and that to its own demise! Not understanding that its very piercing and seeming dying was the life of the inner path: the sword being pulled from the stone within us and the reigning as a ‘king’ in this life! 

   It was the missing piece of the puzzle---the piece we didn’t want, so it was always missing---for we clung to the shadow, instead of to the Light which had cast it. We trusted in the outer forms of things, instead of the inner Substance which had made them. We saw barriers that could sting us, instead of doors which would let us in. We saw mud, where we could have seen stars. 

   But unless we become as fearless as a little child we won’t understand. Only the small would comprehend. It was the blind who saw. It was the poor who were rich. The weak that were, strong. And the process which made them so? The key to that strength that was the thing to comprehend. Only then the possibility of the drawing of a sword from a stone and the evidence and power of a heavenly life. 

   It was hard. Very hard. But it was worth it. Who would not want to pull from the stone the very sword of ‘kingship’ which made one rich in Life! It was still there! Ever enthusing and empowering the brave of every generation, and through all time. ---It was irresistible.

   

                                 *

          The Inner Explorers

A RIVER WINDS through a far-forgotten Land

A wind blows in cryptic wending lines within it

Former holds of knowledge there, now run freed for new

As tadpole tiddlers changing form in summer waters:

Leaping little bits of twigs---going further out

Little joyful understandings---

Grown---of a heated former confusion 

As the inner wine, entering, takes them in its endless flow

Leaving less and less of them as they go

Love flows in scripted lisping-lines---in fluid forms

Life filters through Everland’s honeyed heart---within

Holds of old thought, being overturned for new, and            

Butterfly beginnings changing form in lit-thinking:

Leaping little pieces of perception---moving out 

Sown---of a fire in a furnace of knowledge

As the inner beauty, piercing, sees them speaking

Giving more and more of them as they flew

Explorers---ply the sea’s most fearful depths

Researchers---go to any lengths to solve their riddles

The brave---they just glide by now---in extreme pursuits   

Mountaineers---still climb every misted height they find---

But, Everland’s inner realms---who will conquer there?

Her inner sees, her hills and mountains---who will climb?

Who’d ever give up all to win what they couldn’t see?

                                      *

Stones of Fire

A SWIFTLY FLOWING stream was tumbling

A great many stones and pebbles

And within the stream the stones

Were tossed and turned upon each other

And there, they made one another

Smooth and very beautiful

But those outside the stream

Lay undisturbed.

Stones of fire were in the strong stream

Brightly shining there

But those too afraid to enter

Lay as they always were:

Un-touched: un-shining

                        *

Vol. 2. / 160.) Backwards And Forwards

It was backwards and forwards

And what was before . . .

With what would come afterwards

And the revealing of mysteries

In retelling my stories . . .

On a calm day the sea stretches on forever

Fields of ripe wheat float in the heat

Then dream onwards even through the night:

There is no end to the waking path I tread

Facing forwards or backwards the vista is new

                                    *

V. 2. / 140.) The Promise . . .

The angry storm raises its voice

Hurls its fiery arrows

Blasts these summer leaves

And strips my tree --- and is gone

The angry silence lowers its voice

Drops its hidden hurt

Throws these pages round to catch it

And tears my fears away --- and is gone

The promise:  While the earth remaineth

Seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat,

And summer and winter, and day and night

Shall not cease  

                                *

V. 2. / 133.) The Broken Floor . . .

Even from the beginning

The floor of the world was damaged ---

From then on they didn’t see it ---

For in the starlight

The broken floor looked smooth.

No one in the ageless night

Saw the treacherous cracks

That could trip one up until

It was too late.

But for those who walked in daylight

The broken floor looked as it was

And it was clear where to walk

But it was also very lonely.

Then they that walked in darkness

Saw a great light and in the clefts

And crevices where they were

Found gold and great comfort there

And they were not alone. 

    *

V. 2. / 132.) What Does It Mean . . .

What does it mean that the seasons change

The tides turn and that seeds must die

Before any tree can live... 
But the inevitability

That the way of things will change utterly...

And, yet still...

We'll be surprised beyond measure

And wonder what has hit us

We who have not learned from nature

The life-fullness of death

        * 

V. 2. / 131.) Time Runs Out . . .

Time runs out...

The waves of love that follow me

Have had their way...

And my patterns of shells once there

Caging and shaping my life...

Are no more...

Black marble pieces... face white...

White alabaster... against black...

The game long set now checkmate

And out stretches the angry...

Loving hand...

And sweeps the whole away.

  *

V. 2. / 130.) Sand Smooths Out . . .

Sand smooths out...

The scalloped sea behind me

Takes my part...

Washes my footprints away...

Wipes from my sorry feet the press of haste...

And receding... with its strong forgiveness,

Makes my next step fresh and clean...

Then straight away begins again...

The healing process is eternal

As long as the sea shall last

And my broken purple seashells...

Spilling from my hand... tumble in the

Sweet caress... of this pale and sanguine sea...

The love and flow and force of which...

Is sent... to take away all hurt...

                                *

V. 2. / 129.) You Could Not Escape, Words Were Everywhere

You could not escape . . .

Words were everywhere . . .   . . .

Yet out of any of them you would make 

A thing of joy – to express that thing

You didn’t know was in you.

You come across a random string of words

And a quick in-drawn gasp of breath --

A dipped silverwing of sight -- and you see!

You recognize the string it was ‘yours:’

‘It was all – before!’ . . . and you marvel.

The thing you were to write

You had already written –

Here was a tiny phrase of it!

You had written it before you wrote it,

And read it before you had written it –

And without knowing that you knew

You knew exactly how it went!

                               *

V. 2. / 128.) There Was A Time To Choose Words . . .

There was . . .

A time to choose words . . .

A time when you knew

What you were to say;

It was easy, it cost you nothing,

Like the time of day.

Then the jolt of the dividing,

And you were split asunder,

And were no more.

Now was . . .

A time not to choose words . . .

A time when you knew

You knew nothing;

And it cost you everything.

                      *

V. 2. / 127.) "Is-Ing". . . Or . . . "About-Ing"

“Is-ing”  –  or  –  “about-ing:”

This was all my concern –

To discern the difference

Between the two

To see which was which in me

At the time of writing;

For a longing to explain

Was too much in the way

And too often – and

To balance the two

Or even to eliminate the one

Was not easy

And sometimes I got it wrong

When I was right.

                        *

V. 2. / 126.) Rigid The Lines Of Sight In An Age-Old Idea

Rigid the lines of sight in an age-old idea:

Deviate for one moment and they will

Swoop down upon you in their wrath.

Breathing silent accusations of heresy

They run to counter, and annul you with their inside look;

Bristling in indignation they discard your work

They turn, move away, and feel themselves superior

Which they are; they are perfect; they have no glaring faults –

As you do; they are noble; you are utterly alone.

If they seek to understand what you write

With their own capabilities, they will struggle;

And since this is humiliating it is not to be borne:

To save face, to save their own skins, they reject yours.

If they cannot understand what you write

Then they say it is you who are at fault, not they.

If they should ever find in your lines, that which excels –

That which exceeds their own wisdom –

Then watch how quickly they will block it in their minds:

Moving feverishly to impose their rules –

Above your idiocies – and drown you out – anything to stop

You – from being better than them in their own eyes.

They have not known nor understood: they have shut their eyes

So that they cannot see and know what they don’t want to know.

                                                    *

V. 2. / 125.) I Don't Write . . .

I don’t write of my relationship

With God in Jesus, but in it.

I don’t write as others who believe

But as one, who believing,

Is on the other side.

I don’t write out of what I know

But out of what I don’t know

Then I know.

I write blind, to see – deaf, to hear

And out of my star my heart is broken.

                             *

V. 2. / 124.) I Saw And From The Summit Of Persandra . . .

I saw and from the summit of Persandra – a star

And out of the star, an angel, gentle and true

And the angel dipped his wings and flew to Earth:

A morning light alighting on the mount above me;

And when he spread wide his rose-gold wings and sang

The silent song he sang pierced through the air and

Broke me – and all my myriad little pieces floating up

Were as tiny silver stars in a sparkling silky cloud

That formed, high above the summit, a shining cross;

And the cross became a star, and the star ascended

High above the circled sphere of Earth, and was

The orb – very orb from which the angel came

And when I dropped my eyes, and looked, to the

Summit of Persandra, the man smiled, and loved me.

                                           *