For Brightfield, Fair Host

On newer ties that bind old friends,

affections grow, or change, or end.

Aged affectations to apprehend

the weighty flow'r sweet romance sends.

Tensions grow and branches bend

But interchanged, they lift again.

That bud which, budding, obscures the roots.

The petal asking, "thorn or shoot"

As truth betrayed by its own voice

decides its verity and makes its choice.

Oh, Spring, oh Spring,

Thou, Lady, spring.

Thine eyes art fair.

This is no slight

'gainst thine flaxen hair.

But though you set your glade grown there

Time now has come to move, to pare.

Oh, Brightfield, Brightfield

find your song.

Have no questions

after thinking long,

and smile, oh, smile, find unkempt joy

and let it loose, sing life, not noise.

Thou art made a saint today

by precious hands which, precious, lay

thine absolution upon thy brow.

Oh, rugged one,

most honest, sir,

I say thee this

Do take it sure,

This is thy time

And this is her.

Do let thy rhyme

and meter flow

for fem'nine song

to sing, to go

above, above

and then below.

Thou art the rhythm, let thy drums beat

and let thine step fall with tired feet.

Oh, to both, as this is said,
remember, remember, if pairing heads.
Do melt dark rock and feel no shame
in glory of thine asphalt flame,
In cul-de-sac of snowy lane.

Oh, Spirit, Ghost, flow ever free,

let souls find rest, let eyes now see,

Let joy be full in most pow'rful name.

And set, in hearts, your perfect reign,

Now cleansed of every smallest stain.

Achromatism

Two people, they say,
live in worlds, one in each,
and when, as they say,
they collide, they can reach
a point of a breaking
a fracturing.

When two people meet
When they stop trying to pretend,
that they have everything in common
except their humanity, and everything that comes along with it,

When they acknowledge
authentic reality;
the sheer majesty of two wills
in one place, at once.

Then those worlds,
fantastic planets,
collide in rhythm and melody.

Two worlds were never two.
But two perceptions of one, as different as the color of each pair of eyes.
There were never two.
We are all the same.
But that we are different, divergent, distracted.
It is but that we are different, that we are all young in our own ways,
and old in others.

It is our differences
which are the glory
of similarity

It is our separation
which is the beauty
of collaboration.

It is Love, it is Heaven, it is that in which all hope lies.
It is God.
Pure, unbroken unity in all chromatic being.

Given one melody, all harmonies are implied.
But let us glory in our irrational superfluity.

**

The music is more
It is more
The only thing that is more.
It is the only thing that is more.
Because--because music made from
broken trumpets
and unstrung strings
and woodwinds all left in the rain--
Music made from instruments which cannot play in tune any more than they can play themselves--
Music made with raw throats and with bleeding, callused, ragged hands--
Music made in agony--
Music made in forsaking all else--
Is such a kind of music more than music itself.
And it is more beautiful than the best of perfect intonations.
Because God did not become perfection--
He became human.
He became sin who knew no sin.
And that being is far more existent than existence itself.
All things real bow down to a paradox.
For God himself is not real.

We are real.
But we strive not to be.
That we may, in ourselves, be that which we cannot be.
That which we cannot understand.
That which is not created, cannot be perceived or explained, but purely...is.

Eyes have not seen, ears have not heard, for perception cannot but attempt that grand, unfathomable experience which is to behold.  For to behold implies, in its very inception, to be beheld.

The only truth is that Truth is not rational.  The best thought we can have is that no thoughts make sense.  All rationality ends in the truth that nothing can be both rational and True, that nothing can be both existent and real, that no mystery is fact.