Mind of Moog

Song of a pan flute whispering in the forest Reaches me at a bend in the stream; Now, the sun's gently sinking beams are purest, While melody floats over me like a dream.

Once fire was naught but burning. Abstraction found it capable of holding. Through reduction, man sought new control, unmindful of the weight upon his soul; And it was then that the gods absconded, to roost in Olympian obscurity. Abstraction bound Prometheus to his rock, endlessly devoured by a world made recurrent.

Nature is one great forgetting and remembering scythe harvesting and sowing simultaneously.   Force rising through absence, overfilling and disappearing at once.   Yet the business of reality remains recollection of life from memory.   Longing for presence and seeking the past, the human present never seems to last.  

 A human being is content searching for form.  My spirit flows away from me, reaching back to this Earth, returns to me anew, a force of Becoming. I am a river that ebbs and flows. ME crashing into NOT-ME, just as this world is eternally unrestful, always at war with itself. Constant movement presses us toward the present; we are carried onward, but we may clutch about in fright, lurching forward or retreating into memory. These are the integrations of a tumultuous mind: thinking that it is,  needing to be, yet becoming something unfamiliar.

Poetry is defined less by opacity than by negative capacity.   Things remotely intonated have the reader’s eyes awaited;   like Perseus with his mirrored shield, a reader may see what cannot be revealed.   Some say it has all been said before, yet poetry wishes to impart more;   one poem: the same, but each time new, because of all that we’ve been through.

What is Liberty, if not a sacrifice made willingly against its enemies, domestic and overseas; as an individual, in spite of war and disease, to stand bold like Pericles, saying where there is a people, a conjoined will, there is a country? A human sacrifice made generationally, against tyranny, fought heretically,  against the majority. The unity within a democracy must be individuality.

 What action wrongs if it is right? An arrow travels straight through night, until it passes out of sight. As distance grows, so does my fright.

It is easier to account for lost time than action; what was not done exists nowhere. Only in the present, doubts linger, gesturing toward what was not, but might have been otherwise.

Ambiguous light falls upon an unsuspecting hour. Memory, that silver star, refuses her curtain calls. I am enchanted by a spiral stairway— shadow play before and beneath it— and a single candle.

Always wrong. Get used to it. And use brings new ideas. Creation is always a relative matter of advancement. Lower costs mostly. But that's something. More time for thinking and being wrong.

I wind around you as a mountain path admiring your mind. "Speak now for both of us", I mumble alone, climbing into the silence.

It is snowing. Looking out the window- I sit in my room waiting (no car, unmotivated [city on COVID lockdown], oh well).  The snow looks like Dippin Dots. It rests on our balcony. My wife went out, came back in; now cotton candy-like fluff all over.  Only water. I wish I had my car but I really don't have anywhere I want to go. My eyes drift to the yellowing leaves, intermixed with fading greens. The ivy, by contrast, is going red. I want my car. I have nowhere to go. Without it,  I feel stranded in the middle of a desert.

Prince of Gangnam, those other dogs are your friends.  You must be kind to them. But instead, your young strength longs to be first always.  Do not forget your comrades. Fast-runner, majesty, slow down. Do not humiliate them because they are your loyal friends.

Wandering along my way, I watch   time’s course from the break of day   and wonder about its passage.   Funny, it is not dissimilar from more physical sensations, e.g. blowing of the wind.  

  Wind & water, sway together, but longing and logic seem closer.

  1. Permitted one day:   collect things be beyond border or else.   2. A broken circle closes behind me.   I spin-off indefinitely, absent gravity.   3.   My memories disserve me—I must leave that life behind   again and again; again and again.   4.   I see familiar forms. I think I am home— I slip into an abysmal zone— I gaze into a labyrinth  of memory,  sink into a haze of yesterday’s today.   5.   I did not abandon your memory. It might return.

  GAZING AT THE CREEK from above the trees spiral— the surface,  daguerreotypic reflection. Stratospheric strands   falling on the water; a breeze blows   past the sphinxlike supports of a low-water bridge.

 I wrote these for my wife's aunts in South Korea. There is some competition between their doggies and so they each got their own poem.                          1. MU’S RAINY-DAY BLUES   Mu looks  outside…   baths of water,  too wet for walks, no ice cream,    and smells muddled together.    O Mu, just rest .  The sun  will be back;  you will be walking past the bushes and the guard who says hello, then over the bumpy walkways to the park!                             2. SOL’S SEOUL STRIDE    Everyone smiles  when they see those long legs  striding around Seoul.  Ajuma, look at those  long-stemmed  yellow rose legs,    says the baker  to the street vendor.  Yes, they all a...

sound of the wind: aeolian.  

To live well for me would be to wander in a garden. An earthly one. I wonder at the bitter roots of my mind’s fruits—why am I so faithless? I have learned by turning on myself, yet all the while my soul abides. I shed myself and find new skin, moving from vesicle to vesicle. Long is the day and short the night, but darkness shrouds my inner light.   When the sun rises, my cat rushes to the light. It warms her, she bathes in it. I admire her ability to enjoy these daily pleasures. We are not so far apart. I can see her intentions but I cannot reach that inner peace in her eyes.   Beauty lies all around us, I suppose it’s in the eyes. Too often, I sat waiting for another to kindle this light. How deep seem my shallows, how shallow my deep; for that which the eye cannot touch lingers beyond reach taunting the proud. I approach my shadow. Who approaches? I AM, speaks my soul.   Let us not linger too long in the depths. Brevity is the ...