Hemingway
puts on
his gun metal grey
gloves .
No perplexing
purple today .
Female companions
are gone .
While
pouring
over his Parisian
notes ,
silhouettes in moonlight ,
barrels, and hunting,
begin to preoccupy him .
“Once you’ve hunted
men, nothing quite
compares” he says
as he proceeds
to hunt himself .
Posada
It’s night .
We’re far away
without a home
in flight
on angel’s wings,
and in need of
tender shielding
love .
Open up your heart ,
and let us in
for the nurturing ,
and the healing to begin .
We are here .
No other shelter near .
The nights are filled
with weariness
and fear .
Make it a night of sweet survival ,
of rest ,
of everything that’s dear ,
to human hearts
and to those who
are gathered in ,
who have loved so well .
Open up your doors
to guests and strangers
and let us in .
The moments flow
passing
like running water .
There’s no time left
to waste .
The time will come
when the world
will need a refuge
to reside in ,
when the earth will
open to the light
and yield to
another heart
that has turned the key
and let us in.
Open and let us in .
Let us come inside
to shelter you
and all those that you love .
Lets begin a silent night
with love
that enters into day .
From “No Subject here Just Light” by PWChaltas
Merry Christmas
By the River Shore At Night
The full moon was pillowed
In the glow of cloud
Iluminating the river shore,
as Orpheus plucked
his heavenly resounding string.
The boatman
tired
had given up his rowing
And taken up the sale of books,
and other things.
So Sidhartha
approached
from darkness
from the shelter of the many trees,
to take up the boatman’s mantel
first asking for a balaclava
to sheild him from remembrance,
from the cold
and the familiar,
To take up the oar, the boat,
their travels,
back and forth.
“My country is not so cold”
he said
“and I’m not used to chill.”
“In the countries where I’ve lived
the owners of the lands
are wealthy
and the people suffer still.”
So I’ve come here to the shore
to ferry,
to forget
troubles and desire,
to listen to the music of the waters
and to heal,
receive,
repeat and mirror
the placid rivers aid,
To put my faith in the One,
once again
To strum the water
with new found ancient oar,
To ferry the disenchanted,
the broken hearted,
the heroes,
the lost and the forlorn,
Some wrapped in white
linen sheet,
Some on bed of flowers,
Some on wooden barge
lit by single flames,
Some reduced to bare
And pristine bone,
to the golden islands,
or to the other shores.
PWChaltas 