Tag Archives: requieted

Poem: How Shall We Fill This Vessel? (excerpt for Sheila + Kemp, 10 year)

“How Shall We Fill This Vessel?”

(excerpt of poem – written by me – read at Kemp and Sheila’s wedding vow ceremony)

really unrelated snap, as it goes a tea shack in Sri Lanka

Now, all is deliciously possible
A present to savour
A history to grow
A future to whittle
To any possible shape

So,
How shall we fill this vessel?

Devoid of cynicism and ego,
Jealousy or restraint
With rambunctious affection
In all possible forms
To manifest and articulate
Unabashed tactile Love.

Shall we fill with endless notes
Of spontaneous jazz and
Distant gazes from close range?
Slow dances to quick songs
Languid mornings following
Smouldering nights?

Celebration of the commonplace?
Anticipation of usual happenstance?
Easy banter about nuanced topics?
On verandahs and gazebos a like
Replete with warm drinks
And cool touch?

With fond hellos and
Infrequent goodbyes
As we seek nowhere to go
Desire no escape
In darkness and rain
All yearnings were sent away

Marrow and soul
Now have a purpose, a place
A place to dwell
With you, always
As together we fill
This vessel
Full.

– daveo, Pokhara, Nepal 2017
(photo: Sri Lanka, 2018)

Essence of You

My requirements on a rider
Are not very complex
A molasses shisha
Mint tea and a meditation carpet
And three sachets
Holding the very essence of you

Close to Me

Come be close to me
Others will glance
Envy their vice
They know im entranced
Sit next to me and see
All eyes upon us
Wondering how we are famous
Somewhere else
“Such beauty” they’ll say under their breath
Your bare shoulders
Ciao bella, que bonita
Graceful, uncommon
And precisely as expected
As i braid your hair sitting behind
In a clawfoot cast iron bath
Porcelain as white as your feet
Perched at the end
Languid arms, pouty red lips
We are dancers, visions, lovers
Its so obvious, even the Italians agree
Whisper in your ear
As you lean in towards
My mouth, my dear
I kiss your arching neck
Write sonnets for you
Discover constellations
To name for you
Craft a jazz ballad
A wine well-vinted
A Pinot Noir as we are lovers
At night
And in the light
But in the dark stateroom
Ship swaying
An illegal candle bright
Reflects your eyes
So deep, so blue
Translucent as you show entire soul
Except for the secrets you hide
I’ll discover in time
Whenever you are ready
Decadence well-requited
Candle behind the wine glass
Exotic bottles behind the sad barman
He wants to trade lives with
The singer from Napoli
He’s a cliche but brings
Down the house
Kissing hands of ladies
Long since affectioned
A ruse indeed to garner
Fast-tracked seduction from
The supple and impressionable
Who seek swarthy despite the height
We’re a black and white movie
You in pearls
Me in a grey plaid suit

Contain’d

Sequester me in constraints
The bounds broken, hang loose
Rules abused quickly
Comfort provided freely

Don’t trip over the rails
Be swallowed by the waves
Salty so close below
Yet offer scant respite

Rather curl and be close
Abandoned to all – without restraint
Held softly, still, firmly, longingly
This moment is yours to forget
As you drift from moment to instant

Leave past to aft
And future to stern
Relativity suggests
Your manifests are in order
And audited by officers
Executed by earnest, far below
By helmsmen safely submerged

I remain with you
Contained yet twisting
Almost unsafe, at least unwise
Holy in our downdrift
Content to be alone
No evidence of any dalliance
No windows to distract
The potential pirates of Aden
Putting we to rest

I remain with you
Holy in our downdraft
Content to be alone
No evidence of dalliance
No photographs on a grand foyer staircase
No windows to distract
Just the sway of waves
Putting we to rest

Nowhere to Call

Where am i supposed to find you?
have we waited past our penance?
satisfied society’s requirements of transitions
to avoid hushed voices?

I’ve no more canals to transit –
seas of each colour crossed
20 words in 30 languages
origami wallet with flotsam of currencies
bordering between souvenir and re-entry ease

Dusty rucksack with light wool suit, Arab robe, sleeping costume, swim pants
and another notebook…
full with soliloquies about you
and questions, for you

The ship to shore radio
(apparently)
but i’ve nowhere to call
rather, no one to call

Only wonder
“How will you find me here?”
as my location is unknown
though charted, i assume

How Shall We Fill This Vessel?

At Last!
The briny
(yet oddly palatable in its own way)
Tension of distance and absence
Of magnetic melancholy
Has remanded to a forgotten horizon
Now an archived newly ancient memory

Now, all is deliciously possible
A present to savor
A history to grow
A future to whittle
To any possible shape

So,
How shall we fill this vessel?

Devoid of cynicism
And unnecessary ego
Jealousy or restraint
With rambunctious affection
In all possible forms
To manifest and articulate
Unabashed tactile Love?

Shall we fill with endless notes
Of spontaneous jazz and
DIstant gazes from close range?
Slow dances to quick songs
Languid mornings following
Smoldering nights?
Celebration of the commonplace
Anticipation of usual happenstance?
Easy banter about nuanced topics
On jungle verandahs and beachside gazebos
Replete with warm drinks
And cool touch?

With fond hellos and
Infrequent goodbyes
As I seek nowhere to go
Desire no escape
In darkness and rain
All my yearning were sent away

My marrow and soul
Now have a purpose, a place
A place to dwell
With you, always
As together we fill
This vessel
Full.

Perch’d

Perched on your purple velvet chair
I come as your supplicant
Not in meekness
But to negotiate for what I want

Simply put my terms are me
With you, in all your forms
On every day
From kingdom mountain tops
Deep down to sinking island

I’ll kiss your ring to begin with
Then work towards a thorough investigation
Till I find your beauty
Your beating heart deep within

Reaching ocean swells
Breaching established protocols
I’ll request permission to untangle your paradoxes
Paint portraits of we together
To adorn your secret chamber walls

My only condition is your honesty
If you choose another
Not ready to surrender to an affection we both understand
You will explain by courier
With your optional sympathy

Feigned or real
You may skip the courtly rhetoric
No matter your vaunted statue
You remain a woman
Of flesh and passion
With only a single life allowed

Ready at Last

I am ready at last for the unrelenting savagery or call to your actions, seductions, or even rampant affection, genuine for the time at present.

I require not a guarantee, only unequivocal intensity by and for soft strong fingers and supple form

Slay me, command me, instruct me, mark me as yours when your commands drift to my ears, will pretend i allow you to dominate me but in reality, i possess no choice.

I am supple in flesh and mind – long surrendered to your charms.

Your letters sent in secret, your annotations, my replies, bundled in brown manila, i assume secreted to a trusted friend in a Balkan enclave with suspect postal service.

The cancellations – round and particular, glue melts to tempt prying eyes. I do not mind if someone knows our deepest fondest codes. While they can set the letters to words to prose, they cannot comprehend the sweet honey you mix with Turkish coffee cooled only by the same ice cube i run along your sustaining bosom, – providing a life i could never know before.

Night Lake Diving, 2004 (typed)

Night Lake Diving, 2004
Night Lake Diving, 2004, typed 2017

The original poem was written in 2004… I was in my last program for my long-fought bachelors degree attending Evergreen State College out of Olympia Washington (keep in mind, it took 17 years and four or five colleges)… my final course was a multi-day retreat called “poets and philosophers discuss love and war“ held at Lake Crescent on the Olympic Peninsula. Sounds idyllic, and for the most part it was… Was a group of mostly diligent students but a few goofballs as well including a fella who brought his speed boat, and several firearms to the workshop, inexplicably. Turns out this was the third time he’s taking this program, Sort of like the Matthew McConaughey character in Dazed and Confused I suppose.

Anyway, one night i boarded his boat with a few other drunken carousers, and in the middle of the glacier lake, stripped down and dove into the cool water, over and over again. I suppose while I was pleased to be graduating, I also realized it didn’t really mean *anything*, just that I had to do something else now. So, I tried to shake the blues by diving as deep into the endless lake as I could.

Back on the boat, the little gang headed for the far rocky shore, cold from the lake water in a bout of stupidity, decided to try to light a fire with some assembled sticks of driftwood. Alas, without proper technique/supplies, this is nigh impossible so the chief knucklehead was determined to take apart a bullet to remove the gunpowder to act as “tinder“ to start the fire. I realized this was a ridiculous proposition but it’s hard to work forward momentum of fools.

I did my best to explain this while I was shivering and my mind was elsewhere, but I realized it was a useless task.

They eventually realized this as well avoiding potential calamity. So piled back on the boat, back to “camp“ with significant reprimand the next day from the operators of the usually quiet and serene retreat.

As an aside, during this program, I wrote a work of epistolary literature called “Letters from Russia“… Each “letter“ was written by hand, most accompanied by some sort of sketch or drawing, all in the character of a cobbler with Napoleon’s army on the ill-fated march into Russia and 1812. (I’ll share this work with you forthwith to assuage your possible curiosity).

As it goes, this original poem “fermented” in a notebook until around 2008 but it was quickly transcribed and stuck up on a blog, which was eventually migrated to a new fancier blog, and then typed out in Sri Lanka last year (2017) on a battered machine picked up and abandoned.

Solarium

Solarium inducing
Hibernation
Rest without remorse

Do I change when the moon comes?

 

Sapphire Beside Me

Sapphire beside me
Horizon flat ahead
Punctually delayed
Allowing movements
And moments in time to gaze

The fulcrum point
between existence and mysterious
Too foggy for memory

We can reframe an unfilling past
To charge a refreshing future
Devoid of expectations or itineraries

These hours are only for us
Curled between Egyptian cotton
Woven in Sudan
Purchased at an Muscat souk

These hours are only for us
To stimulate senses
Of tactility and grace

A Cartographer, I Considered

A cartographer, I considered:

Spectacled, heavy on a rosy face, hidden among stacks, drawing inventions of maps – delineating frontier is between playful apparatchik and fields where the healthy and husky scrambled games I couldn’t be bothered to learn the constructed rules of play.

Name in regions of gravel and grass in derivations of Iowa towns and possibly Balkan enclaves. Tracing roads across trucking routes and Roman ruins built to the width of chariot wheels-cemented as standards for mine entrance bringing a horse to Shores, away from CPS relations to new lives, absent from home still never know I can-beyond memories, Serio-graphed into filtered ideals.

Yet an unsteady hand and overall disconnect, or even indifference, which led to a place to “settle”-build a house dead June from cures logs, and seasoned by time, after hewn, nailed and assembled by saw blade and heavy sludge, forge by a possible cousin could always remain a stranger.

The blade remains anonymous as an un-muttered pithy quote en route to cliché.

Neither did exploding suns, brilliant and fleeting, assembled in patterns, ~ shared by the patient and measured in Newtonian units – still could not muster a journey – hence gazed, but ignored as impractical, nigh impossible.

Translucent ayers, super-imposed and stacked, detailing azimuths, trajectories and elevations – separating fertile valleys (thought subject to floods) from talus slopes too steep but for mountain rams on the shady flank of Timpanogos.

Dotted dashed and surveyed, specific dots explained in legend denoting assigned capitals, provincial outposts and occasionally hamlets determined by polled populations, overseen with constructed superintendents, supported by varying address of retainers.

Intrigued by absence of obvious order though not my task to chart.

Instead, as per instinct, selected committed to memory, devoid of context, thin slices of knowledge swirling in a petri vacuum – accurate as such but irrelevant

So i journeyed to wonder about likely motivations which took Normans, Pharaohs and troubadours beyond the point of unknown return. Capes left in wakes with dates and hard-track to fortify a quest alleged to diagram flora. Among them, I reference guide notes from decades past – a vague as possible to acquire allowing white-space and risk. Packed in burlap next to a survivor’s stove and pouch of seeds and spices and an important black pencil. Only planned to go one way, impartial to return rather to chronicle the unfamiliar.

The familiar left far behind as physics might allow – exchanged possible comfort in normalcy for uncertainty contentment in ambiguity. Meandering concentric routes, devoid of patterns or ready purpose.

Answers are easier in cliché, ergo:

“I’ll know when i get there” –
Town to creek to roadside conundrum – I swirled each in mouth , pretending my palette featured a vocabulary to explain to unseeing why I hadn’t settled for seemingly ideal locales, situations and specific circumstance to flourish.

Eventually, after farm toil, beach frolic, rough nights in dangerous morass, leaping turrets of ruins and painful heaving, missed junctions and forgotten aims, at a campfire in a lake-forest with a khaki-scout familiarity, I stumbled through an unfavorable gale, onto the intended coast

I mocked myself for mis-named non-discoveries, i assumed as fragrant promised lands of plenty allowed to the intrepid erstwhile accidental navigators.

Teased over misread hieroglyphics and misappropriated meaning to stone wheels quarried a far, hauled by double-hulled craft powered by taro and current and fickle breeze.

I could no longer mock with unearned disdain, the vaunted and faulted explorers, stolen secrets leading to some anomaly errantly pro-claimed as new or proper or divine.

Earnestly deterred, i occurred to was to map a universe of flesh and thought. Breath and sounds assembled into meaning.

The crease on cheek, the measure of brow, the angle of toes, magnitude of halo surrounding chameleon eyes and the mysterious enthusiasm of all which exists between.

Thwarted, not ny scenery but by shaking confessions, fumbled after a stealth crossing at an indifferent frontier town. I’d escaped to my holy land I presumed for an instant before minor catastrophe.

Stalled at an unwelcoming inn where i laid myself bruised and bare to a lover temporarily transformed to a stranger after i let the truth languish, vanquished by the uncertainty of resolved and fear or wounding the occasionally innocent.

She walked out vested, blithely, pithy saying “I know” unwittingly perhaps offering just enough loft to push a tattered sail across a colour-coded sea mis-named as somewhere calm.

The explorer hides. Alone, entirely lost and surrendered to fates incomprehensible to the battered. Uncontrollable b y the hostage. Yet clinging to an adrenaline determination to manufacture strength to another foray.

Monk-like, minus faith, discipline, dogma or skill at ringing bells, relying on rice gruel and fragrant hope, the cartographer gathered charcoal, fired for unsteady hands, and a redrew boundaries to conceive an entirely new Pangea with concessions to speculate, plunder and chart assigned exclusively to only two.