The Stanzas of Life and Death
Peter Rehard
The Stanzas of Life and Death
Peter Rehard
Copyright Peter Rehard 2011
Smashwords edition
The Stanzas of Life and Death
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Sleep, now the moon that only can cry
Spreads her Aura and circles the world,
Dazing tired eyes in weak spell pearl,
Coating empty bodies where they lie.
From humanity uprise the snores,
Grindings of dreams held together; pieced
Among the day's happenings in sleep;
And sing themselves along founded floors.
But while all the world is soft down,
This poet outside the world surveys,
For years, but still, nothing can I say;
And little for wisdom has been found.
I touched the grasses of diamond dew,
Saw shooting stars burn and streak apart,
And wayward creatures on lonely walks
And lost people coming here and through;
At times saw the moon red as spilled blood,
And seeming stars move with greatest speed,
But friends, of this one thought take your heed,
In this world nothing is as it should.
Take that thought and let its seed grow,
Flower and tree producing tart fruit;
Harvested a kernel, its voice mute
And little more will you truly know.
Listen! The moon, she cries of that truth,
Known as death by elders in their bones:
Crack with age as they are called bellow;
But still known as life by those in youth;
Oh yes, there is death and there is life,
Things are and soon, later, they are not,
With little importance or thought brought,
Being and passing in minor sight.
And so Winter takes what Summer gave.
Spring and Fall like sex and sweat are spurned
Up into the aether screaming, “Yearn!”
Life is pushed to make and lost to take.
While priests say, “Ashes unto ashes.”
Smiling at the sun, “The soul has passed.”
I see them, the skin on their thighs grasp
Forcing out a single nervous laugh.
Down by the fountains and long spread port,
I walked one day searching for my food
And in the bazaar where men trade goods,
I found where the thinkers made consort.
On benches near the statue of the sun
In a circle, they spoke and let their minds,
Wear the wood of their seats powder fine.
I asked them if their talks had begun.
They brought me into their group and asked,
From where, for whom, in what did I search.
Standing around my shoulders they perched.
When I said, “For purpose,” they jumped back!
And as if the sun turned black they sweat;
One said, “What of the function of shapes?”
Another, “The singleness of space?”
I stood, said, “Purpose,” and quickly left.
For I have spoke with philosophers,
They talk of good like it is a stone,
Polished and placed in a crown or throne;
And no argument is considered.
But let philosophers waste the day
And down new roads direct the course.
In pastures of grass my mind I forced,
Something of the purpose begin say.
And with the fresh grown flowers aside,
I spread them and count their leaves and stems
Down to the dirt and their fecund scent,
Letting my eyes lift back to the sky.
See the clouds that make a deeper blue;
In wind sprawl, spread, clench, break, drift and sail,
Being caught they have no self to say,
“Why is my life being pushed and moved?”
Upward I yell, “Does it bother you?”
Clouds say, “Around the world we are dragged,
And only end where we once began!”
I give a laugh and wonder, “Me too.”
A million clouds and a million more
Today, tomorrow, and through the years;
People today: but I can not see
Where our foot falls in the dirt have worn.
Our prints, monuments, buildings and tracks,
In the sunlight with metal reflect,
But with enough bright days they are left,
All reduced to a thin film sand.
So I stand and look forward to sleep,
To seeing the moon, full tear, awake,
And hope in the passing of a day,
That it would give me what my soul needs.
But near the fountain and statue searched,
I for truth, thought, or the well marked path,
Or even the man if the there is chance,
Who had gone, traveled, and here returned.
So I said to them, “Most honored men,
Experts of thought and ideas of form,
And knowers from where all things are born,
Can you tell me the purpose of man?”
Starry eyes in the haze purple sheen,
Sparkle and flash and fade into black;
And so those thinkers had their eyes turn back,
To where my own, their whites could but see.
But I see men of all types and sorts,
Women alike in all shapes and sheen,
The rich and poor; the dirty and clean,
Making their traverse around the port.
Often days I break to conversate,
And leave the thinkers to go without;
With in the end less wisdom make out
To speak to people and new friends make.
There is a blacksmith who pounds a forge,
Working metals, for others that need
His skill; his bellows a black smoke breathes
And asks him, “Tell me master what for?”
I ask the same when his customers come,
Jip his down and leave without a word,
As if they did not need his skilled work;
Or crafting with their hands could do the same.
And those tools he makes to be so used,
I ask them, “How does it feel to slave,
To be pushed and pulled, taken and gave?”
They poke me, “How does it feel for you?”
When the days hard work is spent and done
He goes home, eats, sleeps, and waits the day,
With the snores from all workers, enslaved.
There must be more in this world than none.
Is it hope that makes us all go on
Or the fear of nothingness to beheld;
Or the sound of Heavenly gold bells,
Or a host of demons and phantoms.
If I could be spirited away,
Lost: blurred white and hidden out in peace;
Yes, it is running, but friends take heed,
Life is hard when all things cause you pain.
In the streets I find the sick the same:
Too sick for money or competence,
Their bodies holed and incontinent:
Poor, scared, scarred, plagued, scabbed, left waste and lame,
Like ghosts they crawl scratches on the day,
Leaving behind their film: a black slime;
Not from their own dirtiness and grime,
But from the words passer byes have laid.
And the say, “Anything can you spare?”
How quick can eyes break out of a stare
As heads turn a strong wind in the air
From those leaving ones in our world bare.
Those stepping through and on their dirtiness hide,
Scrapping their feet where sullied they stink
And when the smell is gone, dare not think.
Man never leaves any print behind.
There was a time, a miracle found,
I did, outside my house, in the grass.
There was a spot the sunlight had splashed
And ten butterflies hovered the ground.
Auburn wings on the whimsical note
They mocked the wind that the clouds torments;
While I am tossed and my will was spent,
Those silken creatures hardly moved.
I felt them inside around my chest,
And asked, “Creatures, for what do you search?”
Only light was there on grass and dirt.
“It is a warm spot,” the insects said.
And I lied among them in the grass;
Their wings into the air harped a song,
Twisting lines of light; but soon were gone;
Sun fled, they left, the moment was passed.
And so it feels nothing good lasts.
There are moments, like coughs inside time
That scream like stars, burn, fire and cry:
Beauty in force, nature; but they pass.
Those old women with wrinkles that tell
Sorrow in lines, worn deep and in pairs,
When their eyes gloss over in still stares,
They see those moments among weak hell.
Then when the first star in blackness fell,
And our ancestors saw its gilt tail,
Did they their old lost gods crying hail,
Yelling, “There is a way out of this shell!”
But there is life and there is death,
A million miseries to be sustained
With coughs of beauty found in their pain,
All within a first and last breath.
I have seen an old woman bearing on,
Sitting outside of the temple stones,
Sitting on the steps, she was alone,
When I went in for the preachers yarn.
When philosophers in thought run dry,
I take my questions to righteous men:
Priests for they say they know what is sin;
As judges, must know, be true and right.
Water rings and slowly settles clear;
I alike am as simple, let me say,
There is no worse crime than to portray:
Pretending to be good, insincere.
The temple chapel was full of shoes,
A hundred scents that left no print behind.
I dug and found the last left seat by,
A man that refused me extra room.
Among the perfume of ladies' airs
And the musk that men let out in sweat,
I looked, but fell down where my eyes went;
Stumbled on the priest walking the stairs.
All the while he moved, was smiling,
But those people looked at him like god.
Their eyes with each motion rose and dropped.
I resisted from all out laughing.
The sermon started, the priest he said,
“You all have your lives; so now rejoice
And know your future life is god's choice:
It is his power to strike you dead.
“Who are you to despise god and law.
Lesser trifles burned a soul to ash;
For your crimes, now, please forgiveness ask.
God knows, as I, all things you do wrong.
“But do not send up your idle words.
I care not to hear what I suspect;
But you your daily labors collect;
Give sacrifice. In that be secure.
“Men harvest the hairs of the earth.
Shepherds of creatures, crafters of ore,
Weavers of cloth, pounders of the forge,
All of you prosper from the dirt
“And eat what is given from god's hand.
You, you all bite his fingers and chew
The skin hoping something else comes loose.
Where is the courtesy god demands?
“Offer to me and the church temple
A choice of your finest finery
And I will convey gratuity,
To heaven where god sits in temple.”
At night a purple battles deep blue,
Beyond the clouds, in the realms of space,
So quiet do the colors spread way,
A light in the haze, wakes, breaks up; through.
Before I see, as the grasses wet
My body cool; do not hear; feel blessed,
Warmth like a water on my chest,
Though I remain dry from toe to head.
Whether your god or mine sits in space,
Be he a spirit or limitless form,
As I believe, the universe, the source;
Or as most a lesser man with face,
I see at night a bright hope and grace;
Then when the ancients saw it grow,
And at the moon and stars yelled; bellow,
“It that the god towards which we pray?”
Many times have I called to the warmth,
“God, am I left here for a reason?”
Life and death through passing seasons,
And all I hear from heaven is “hope”.
All the people in the chapel broke,
Ran home, left me alone behind
With the preacher, silence and my mind.
They put a mass on the streets and roads.
Returned, each one with their baskets filled,
Their hands burdened. Stuffed satchels and sacks,
Tools hand forged and refined like made crafts.
Before the preacher were these works spilled.
I swear man will never reach his fill.
But it is good to hope in ends.
Who could blame those buying their heaven;
I blame those who steal faith and week will.
But what of the rich; they walk the port
Split in finery and jewels, I see,
The towers they stand on and there clean,
Breathe the air with pride as an escort.
Between the myst of philosophers,
The writhing gait of those who work,
I stand alone seeing death to birth,
And laugh running from the preacher's words.
So I ask the darkness, “Can you say?”
The purpose and the being; soft clay lines,
I draw in the dirt as days in time,
While my beard to my feet has been laid,
Remembering my smooth soft born face
And eyes that grew in the light of hope,
Rose, lifted, shined; popped when god said, “No!”
But all I heard was, “Life is a day.”
For a half the moon and I have waxed,
Grown healthy; and she turned round,
But she mourns at my sight on the ground.
She can smell me sick with diesel gas.
So I wait to watch days come and pass.
I speak to philosophers, the priests,
The laborers, the poor in the street.
I watch my own life in shadows pass
When birds cry love for distant fowls
The winds chipper and the trees echo;
While the earth into a spawn sex blows
All the air: carries the heart sick sound.
My own chest caves and I am drowned
For all the woman I loved, let loose;
And the smell of their loins is misused
With the voices in memory found.
When I wake, I roll towards their names,
In the emptiness, I try to grasp,
The body replaced, my mind is lapsed.
I grab at girls that went their way,
To find the flowers of summer days,
Tossing seeds and petals with a glance,
To continue on in life the chance,
To be newer rather than degrade
And it is life that grows in death's shade
With sun cast shadows, a living light,
Turning an embrace, a small respite
Against the claws that our bodies rape.
Know life's side of joy is bound to turn,
That which ignorant people call bliss
But men think innocence is ignorance.
I see no innocence in the world.
But in an orphanage I have fought
To turn away from kids with no chance;
Left behind, sick, given up; menace
Emotions have destroyed our weak hearts.
Where is the love my being has sought;
The peace, freedom, justice, happiness;
The wisdom and answer to purpose.
I am filled with such ignorant thought.
In the morning, the sunlight in streams,
Killing rays which would cook flesh in space.
On earth grants life, warmth; what I call grace.
I kiss the earth, nothing is at it seems.
But in the sunlight I scream, “Awake!”
And ask the sun god, where is the hand,
Spirit or flesh, to console sad men.
The sun repeats back to me, “Awake!”
Now I ask myself if any way,
Between the firmaments can be found,
For loveless men to be loved; a sound
Crackles a dry laugh from my own grave.
I once gave love to what knew no name:
A stray dog abandoned to its flesh,
To feel hunger and know wildness;
But not kindness and a soft embrace.
Though I laid my hands upon its coat,
Many weeks passed before it would stay
And savor the love which I had raised;
But still, to this day it always goes.
How can love unknown be continued,
If one has not by some grace been kissed,
Protected and saved in innocence;
Showed that love is given and made new.
Love, alike a stray dog, do I fear,
Quicker run from a kiss than a slap,
But wish for a soft hand my skin scratch,
Though I can not let myself that feel.
If god relays pity on my soul,
Perhaps the sunlight will lay its warmth
And the moon the dull glow of her form
So that a seed in me buds and grows
To show friendship where friendship is due,
Give love having it inside my heart
Being fulfilled despite what is lost,
From bones, to soft flesh; the end and new.
But here my heart exists in the dark.
I wait for the joy in life's side change
And upwards towards the sun I pray,
Cry
to the moon, howling, bark!
Wait, here the winds come and I am brought,
Lifted on a current carried far,
To see the spots where my feet failed mark;
But worse, know I had always been lost.
Down by the market from the air, I see,
A little boy, bare foot go crying,
Stopping passer byes, he goes asking,
“Do you not find the air hard to breathe?”
I believe yet choke everyday
On the world's bile, gas, piss and smoke;
Up in the air dragged, flit, lilt and float.
There with the clouds nothing can I say.
But I wait to land in a clear plain
Far from the city and the full world,
From the men and women; boys and girls;
From money, misery, loss and gain
Where flowers grow healthy from the rain
And grass lifts its head from the dirt;
The sun glides to me in long warming bursts
And even in the winter remains.
For love I go in kinship to breed,
The bond shared with soft hair and warm eyes,
Skin from rounds that perk to rolling thighs:
Pleasure in love with sex and a seed.
“But tell me,” I ask grass pastures,
“Where is my seed covered encasement.”
I am held by all kinds in contempt.
I cry and let my loves go, set loose.
Sleeping, wishing a phantom cloaked kiss,
Wake with a name on my tongue that draws,
My arms around air, the woman gone.
The purpose in love hits the ground: slips.
Then where is my purpose to go on
If I am lame in philosophy,
Love, work; complain in my poetry,
And only condemn mankind's lost gods.
At night by the port's canals I walk
As nothing, with nothing, beside ghosts.
They cry, “For what do you go alone?”
I say, “Since I was a boy was lost.”