Five Poems
margareta waterman
after the One
then there are many
each a piece of the harmony
intrinsic to the One
of which the One is made
miraculously separable
for the living ear
each jewel and flower
alone and in combination
(numbers never end:
from any point
complexity builds into the whole
uncountable and never-ending
summated into One
into many
and in between
into all possible songs
as mixes multiply and combinations
become song after song after Song
one of many and all of One
nov 2015
from chaos
the gradually defining order
coherence
assimilates
particles swirling
no tabula rasa
raw reality is teeming
swirls into intrinsic geodesic shape
every swirl a new shuffle
hysteresis inevitable
accretion
follows
pattern — the trails of history —
echoes throughout
the roots of time lie beneath
ruthless movement before anything
the arrows of the owls
song of dancing
in a direction
with or without a purpose
waving dancing on
smooth and fancy
changing high and low
up and down
as it flies past into morning
dancing line in its own direction
up and down
and maybe side to side
any vector makes a path
as long as you want it to
and then not
owls know how to fly
arrows tend to be
a trifle rigid
best be dancing
on a flight like this
best be flying
best be flying
best be dancing
with or not a purpose
arrow coupling into feathers
muscle-powered wings
inertia-fired arrow
piercing the wind
dark river red and black
river of sorrow and blood
running beneath all beauty
without blood or water
awake without blood or water
eyes behold everything
full youthful blood
feels good, blind pleasure
no uncetainty
boring, that is, and trite
shallow innocence
long before beauty, this cheap confidence
dark river runs through
washing last drops from vein and artery
breathless and empty
if you don’t know
your way around
the world of sorrow
what good can you be?
bloodless and breathless
defeated by pain
or life is wasted
no song bur advertising jingles
unself-questioning smiles, ignorance,
cover for all the petty drivel
pebbles, sprays, fountains
unconsidered fluids
voided unedited from empty mouths
knowing this —
what lack of taste
would choose
to avoid
the occasion
of sorrow and pain?
endless page of space
splashes of light taking their own time
light seen more than by which to see
nothing to see, only splashes of light
and whatever might be in them
inhabiting the huge emptiness
passing scattered splashes
expanding with the darkness, the everywhere
passing scattered somewheres
undisturbed infinity
scattered settlements unimportant
constant endless expanding uninhabited pool
available to any mind
all minds meet in this non-existent empty endlessness
margareta waterman is poet and performer, publisher and producer, and founder of nine muses books. margareta waterman at Wikipedia.
