The City of my Brothers By: William Burkholder A
Publication
Copyright 2016 William B Burkholder 5 Acre Press
The City of my Brothers The hushed rustling of Crisp cattails waving, And Red-Winged Blackbird’s Singing. Their harmonies, Catalyzed on dusty roads, Along yellow fields Of grains and grasses parading, Rhythmic undulations, Conducted by the elements, and Windblown dreams, Intentional perpetrations, A gift to the eyes. And in the dusk of ended day, When golden coins Take their final draw. The serenity of innocent witnessing, Allows for the soul’s heart, To beat once again. O, then! To ride upon such glories, Till my time comes nigh, And commune in the city of peaceful slumbers Among my brothers of wind-blown rye.
In this City To become one with and related to the elements of the natural world. To wander and basque in glorified fields of day lit dreams, and let the countenance of their beauty glorify one’s eyes... Observations of simplified things, of beautiful things, those things that bring light upon the heart, and where that lights casts a shadow of deep introspection... In this City of a great green expanse where life and serenity dwell.
Moving Forward. I seek succor in the realm of meditative contemplations. To become one with drawn breaths, To inhabit serene plains With each inhale and exhale. To vanquish all lamentations, To find and create, Great lights That each can follow, Carrying them from the proverbial darkness of regret and pain, To move forward into this light, This guiding light, That opens gates to freedom. We who seek such things, Find many blind trails, Such is the way of journeys far and near. To seek salvation and wisdom in the undertaking of this, Is at times gift enough, Blessing enough, To continue forth. We who journey, we who sing these songs‌ Room enough for all To come along. Seek to be endowed by these simple gifts, They are there for the taking,
And, for the bestowing of gifts, to your sister and brother.
The Feather’s Dance The flit, the fall, the flutter, of a feather free at last, Caught in wind born wandering and floating right on past. A vision of some silken air This thing of light and grace, It ventures out in wisps of breeze And travels throughout space. Gentle silken message, of sweet freedom’s Blissful journey. Carefree and un-foreboding, A simple beauty just to witness. Simple silken feather, free at last and dancing.
The Wild Lands The obsessive plover, scurry’s about, in search of the days palate. And the breeze upon the meadow seeks a dance with high grasses. . In the wild lands where the joys are simple, where the song of this day is perfection. When the simple textures of branch and bark, calm the heart and soul. To place my hands upon these things, O such a blessing, that this brings. To be in tune and exemplification, of, o this sweet song, Yes, in the wild lands, Where these joys can be heard, and held in simple exultation.
Caught in a Wave Caught in the wave of a dream, drowning. Universal, all encompassed. Whirlpools and tidal currents, teaching, forgiving, understanding, Patient particulate of sea bed song, ringing on the drum of an open ear. Yes, I want to hear, I want to know. The macro mind of the higher being. Caught in whirlpools, caught in currents, caught in waves drowning. And my humanity‌ The ocean. My spirit, the tempest that conveys my body To brighter callings. In spite of my mere floundering’s.
December in the Meadow Snow dusted and serene, The rusting implements of the farmer’s trade, Resting in fields alongside rolling hill And frosted swale, Wood smoke rising above shuttered shires, A cold wind blows on this December eve. Bawling cattle, Crying like lonesome widows. Windows frosted, And for now. The hay rake put to rest
Green Eyed Valley To savor the sanctity of moments spent under the gaze of a green eyed valley, Is by far the most glorious of moments spent. This respite from bent sidewalk and bereaved pavement. Laying upon the underlayment of green wigged old men, Resting in the shade that they provide. The refreshment of balmy breeze as it caresses me, and the tender touch of the suns first ray. Dew laden meadows sing of a new day. The symphony of quiet repose, And the slight percussive white noise, Of the long grains rustle. Free from busy bustle, And city street’s hustle. Laying in fields, under day-lit dapple. In and under the gaze of Green eyed valley.
Journey of the Winds Oh blessed journey of the winds, Let your kiss fall upon my cheek. May it caress and renew my spirit, And view of visions bright And clear. Let my ink fall upon the page With words as yet unheard and seen, Telling the renewed tales of warrior poets; Those sentinels and pulse keepers of men. Reach for me, and set me aloft To soar with blustery breeze, Over sea’s serene and blue. Over land’s, Wet with the dew, Of new days. New dreams, And requited loves, Of all that I adore! Oh, Blessed Journey of the winds, Take me up in your arms, Harbor me there, And set me a light, To drift in breezes balmy. Among the birds and cotton shoes Of wispy clouds laughing.
Oh blessed journey of the winds Take me there, unto you, And let me drift in dreams of Peaceful, restful, solitude.
Last Glance And in the waning hours of day lit caress, dusk settles in, and again, so blessed. Silken night sky, illuminated evening. Moon beams calling for tomorrow’s healing. Distant horizon as the day’s envelope closes. Tomorrow sits just on the other side. ‘Tis not the end, and never shall it be, just a series of moments, with sleep in between. Each morning a gift, each sunset the prize. A caress to the soul, A blessing to the eye. Quietude of a soft summer breeze, Lullaby for serenity and sweetened dream. No need to lament this day’s last dance,. For tomorrow brings with it, More treasures and chance. This daily bread of sunrise and sunset. Pinned to us like a golden amulet. Such a treasure, beyond compare, The waning kiss of a days last glance.
Meadowlark Dreaming A reflection of pearlescent wonder, captivating to the eye. Blue sky beaming in mirrored memory. Reflected light streaming upon a quiet heart. Enlightened story told, of wayward, wandered dreaming. Cotton wool of windblown clouds, their never ending march, Conveying things of flight, O brother Meadowlark! Soar among the tendrils of gifted, blustery winds, Rise and fly, and seek your dreams, above blue gifted, waters serene, Reflective thoughts, and reflective scenes, O Meadowlark, fly, and tell me those things.
Gratitude Defined To be thankful for the blessings that life offers us should be a forgone conclusion. However, there are times when one takes for granted, the simplest of blessings. I believe that gratitude is a series of elements. Awareness, Recognition Acceptance And humility. To be aware of all that surrounds us, all things, all people, all situations are indeed blessings. Yes, even those negative things that occur, for without them, how would our insights and wisdoms evolve to make us who we are. And to realize this, comes recognition of all things, all blessings, and each and every lesson albeit good or bad. If we accept this premise, if we open ourselves to each and every human element, our understanding of gratitude grows. And therein we find our strengths. Lastly, we must humble ourselves in the face of all these things. For without humility, gratitude cannot be truly achieved or outwardly practiced.
Gratitude may be just a simple thank you. It may be a meditative sojourn into the deeper realms of our psyche, It is the Awareness, and the Recognition of these blessings that life offers us. It is our ability to HUMBLE ourselves and simply accept all things, whether they be blessings or trials, for in the end we must understand that all things are meant to teach and allow for growth of the soul and spirit. Without humility, there can be no gratitude.
The Coyote
I wonder now, where the Coyote roams, I have not seen him for some time, In tired fields Where only on occasion, The deer come to forage in ferine meditations. Maybe he remembers, That once this field was filled with prey, His sustenance and that of his mother. Who taught it to hunt and aggress its quarry. With young Ferrill joy. Bounding in hops, in pursuit of vole and mouse, rabbit and wren. I have not seen him for some time now, I wonder now where he roams. In new found fertile fields? Within the quiet keeps of surrounding wood? Or along teeming streams of cutthroat trout, and shining shad, bedazzled in rays of a sun cast coin. I wish him peace where ever he is. Wherever the Coyote roams.
Spindrift Spindrift, The offspring’s of tempest wave. The telltale conveyance of a wandered wisp. Windblown in chaotic crescendo, innuendo absent. Its course is sure and complete understatements of its furry, elusive. There is no doubt of the waves intent, an incessant journey, Falling upon windblown shores. And the spindrift, tendril arms, seeking the course of its makers direction.
The Promise of a Distant Summer November wanes, and fertile fields fall to Winter slumber. Woolen cloak of early evening fades among the umber. And night things cry a cold lament for warmth and rise of Sun. ‘Tis then that golden coin of day reminds a promise of distant summer.
Humanity Our humanity comes with our capacities to care and exercise grace towards our fellow man.. To exercise, compassion, empathy, and gratitude. by imparting these things our humanity will break through the complacent bawling's of society. Each of us come to life's table with a world of experiences, with a set of concepts and ideas. We have forgotten that we as a species are Collaborative in nature, and yet we bandy about to be up and over one another. to say that we are better than the next and so on and so forth. what makes me human? MY ability to discern these things, and my power to listen to and entertain divergent views and yet not have to readily agree to them. Reassessment ( not Doubt) is a good daily exercise. it keeps us open minded and humbled, for none of us know all, see all or hear all. ON this day I will do what i know how to do, and tomorrow I will do the same but with a new set of experiences and outlooks to exercise... we are the only species that practice these othering's. these othering’s that man alone bestows/ perpetrates upon one another. in thought, in act. in inaction... the animal kills and eats to live. man kills and berates, and admonishes for power. hate and indifference are not practiced in the animal kingdom. but in our self-perceived kingdoms of power and control, we make those negatives a daily practice. in blood and bone, with cordite or stone. where plough shares are melted into swords instead of bastions of peace....
October A yellow cast upon an autumn day, when the leaves begin their wither. The birds are restless, and the frogs lethargic, digging their winter graves. Hayfields across the road, Final threshing done. Growing a winter blanket now, And waiting for the sun. The garden pond, put to rest, Lest snow inundate its walls, And I shall take a heeded pause. To springtime’s distant call.
On the Wings of Injured Doves Grace, the partition between Love and hate, forgiveness and anger, color this slate. White or black; dependent on choice, too softly speak, or use bellowing voice. Testament, tirade, bullet, or branch, the choice in the voice, between Love and hate. So easy to follow the well-lit path of deprecation’s call. So easy to follow bullets flight with that of another, again and again. Full automatic it seems to me, that we fire first before thinking, that words and intent are always hell bent to discourage, maim, and scour. Often I wonder, what pleasure this bring, to the purveyor of alienation’s design, Unkind, indifferent, lost in hate, feelings that love hath eluded? Partitioned from the sensibilities of Man, of men who seek the “Macro”. The sense of loss for those who do not understand who sadly, will never understand the tally of microcosmic thought. The partition between Love and hate, where in some places the line is thin,
in places with battlements breached, where hate flourishes, and Love seems lost. But have faith dear friends, have faith. For Love is not lost, nor has it waned, it simply waits‌ It waits upon the fertile plains of enlightenment, it waits upon the shelves of lost causes, it waits in the memories of the peacemakers, and it lies in the hands of superior powers. It waits in the hearts of crying Mothers; it is remembered in the memory of dead Fathers. It waits upon the downy wings of injured doves. It waits, it waits, and it shall never die.
Rain’s Caress Leaves dance under gathering clouds. Under the shroud of an old man’s wig. Branches sway in a building breeze. Heat escaping from sodden relief. Green eyed mother casts her spell of petaled flowers budding well. And song bird sings its glorification, emancipation from dusted swale. Below and under a fickle sky, O, I welcome the rain this day. That in the tears of mother sky, the gift and the blessing of its Lacrimae.
Rest I long for the day, when I can once again, rest my head on the breast of summer, To feel its warmth upon my cheek, to close my eyes, in peaceful sleep. When the meadowlark sings its sweet lullaby, as I drift and dream‌ Resting my head on the breast of summer, and feel its warmth upon my cheek.
The Way Rippling waters of a white river running. The cormorant upon its perch, wing’s outstretched, and sunning. The cicada sing in choruses, cacophonic. In air and water, sun and sky, Life, symbiotic. In one with the way, the way of breath and life, Caressed and encapsulated, By the kiss of summer’s sun cast coin.
Slumber Singles rows of tufted hay, Freshly cut by the thresher’s hand. A sense of nature’s aligned syncopations, In repose in rows, Upon old, uneven ground. Whereupon, the horses play, And the deer masticate quietly; Robbing the field of new growth, And golden possibility of future. Shoots greened under a maturing sun. When the shadows grow longer, And the umbers begin to reveal themselves, As the tree stretches its arms, And once again, Falls into an autumn slumber.
Being Present The bitter sweet tastes of life, condition the soul’s palate, Providing strength and solace in times of need and heartache. It is these experiences that allow us to weather the withering blows. The self at times, laments and rails against the perceived injustices levied. However, it should be considered that the proverbial blows are lessons, rather than attacks. Each of us needs our humility renewed now and again. To keep us grounded, to keep us set. Yes Set, not chained. To be grounded is to be resolute in our undertaking of life, To experience all the glories and blessings that we can glean from it, and in return, offer to others. Not in grandiose fashions, but by our mere, humble presence in whatever capacity that circumstances dictate.
It is not a means of braggadocio, but a realization that by being present in the moment, Without fanfare, without pomp, That we just may make a difference in one’s life, in ones circumstance. Do not take for granted, your day to day interactions, For at least one, may very well save a lamenting soul, Just by being present.
Broken Roads Explorative elaborations, Explanation, In sight of spiritual awakenings. At times a sojourn, At times a rocky road; With victory and joy, With tribulation and broken compass. But north is north, And east is east. Blood is life, And life is fleeting, Exploration of mind and soul, The deeper meanings Exist and survive, In spite of Blind eye and broken cane. Each day, The joyous trumpet sounds, Melodic crescendo’s of life, The sounds of sweet serenities, Fall silent to a deaf man’s Soul. O, that he hears, But does not listen
Due to hardened heart so cold “Tis the cause, and regret Of black and broken roads.
Thoughts on ignorance‌ The lack of enlightened hearts and the tapping of a blind man’s cane. Brought to light in fits and starts, crushing souls and hearts along the way. The piper paid in recompense, and finally, all good senses brought to light. Yes there is hope even for the least of us. There is poignancy to ignorance, The fact that it challenges those who know better, To think, and reassess, and not act in those manners. life after all is a lesson. And the ignorant? Just another page in the book... We all contribute to these pages in one way or the other. For none of us see all, hear all, or feel all. Our empathies, and compassions, Differ as much as infinitive grains of sand, Each with its roots, All without foundation. But the grains, mixed with the glue of wisdom and enlightened joys, Can build ramparts to guard and protect us from the ignorant onslaughts of These engrained dido’s. That we shed them finally, is only for time and yes, mortality to tell.
Torn Banners in Compassion’s Field Synaptic prolapse of human element, Un-developed mindsets stewing in Hypocritical hotbeds. Deaf to the far off cries Uttered by their own souls Seeking sedentary solutions To moral and physical challenge. Polluted mindsets, il-regret of burnt bridges, Fetid myco’s, The carriers of tribulated dream, And nightmarish chaos. Collective numbness, Collective blindness, Selective extinction of Societies… Passions of the heart On life support, Compassion, fashioned on a torn banner, Ragged and bloody, Yet on some fields, it still waves gloriously. Let this Breeze renew itself,
And spread once again Throughout the vestiges of all men. Let there be a glorious breeze to tatter and sway The hearts and minds of a violent race.
Weekend Rain They’re calling for rain this weekend. Just in time to be free from the trappings of a weekly schedule. Sodden incarceration, While peering through rain soaked windows. Dreaming of a summer Sun that is too busy to warm my bones. Conveyed on seasonal solar orbit. Writing the obit for this year’s warmth. The forest across the road, Waving farewell with umbered hands, Writing next year’s green dialogues for their descendants. Rooted bands, Curling up, Slowly finding its state of slumbered serenity. Natures indemnity, Reparations to come. When the birds have sung spring’s greeting. Cyclical as it should be, Yet I wait for the rain, And possibly, For the forecast to be wrong.
Whispers (#1) I woke to the whispers’ of a new day. A gentle voice that spoke to me, of all possibility. Where I am the captain of the vessel that carries me to realms and dreams beyond… Voices come in clarity, bell tones, Crisp and clean, That today, as any other day… The culmination of my dreams, Be realized and adored, In humble thankfulness. Blessed morning beaming In whispers bright and clear.
Whispers (#2) In the quiet, early hours of morning’s first kiss; the sweet solitude of sleeping grasses… the whispering of the runnel’s song.. They tell me their secrets. This nocturne of quietude, beatitude’s of green and wild things. This blessing of new day’s embrace, in and among the reeds and rushes. I wake to whispers of white noise rustlings, I lift my head to the gaze of ancient eyes, Their serene knowing, and I feel this love abiding, Among the sleeping grass, and the runnel’s whisper.
Willow’s Breast A fallen branch from the Willow’s breast, An Autumn descent, and earthly rest. Its Mother dances in blustered breeze. Shaking off its Summer leaves. Skeletal dame, left in the wake, Sleeping now till Sun’s first kiss. Blessed in views and visions clear, of Willow’s dance and sounds to ear, A siren’s call of Autumn’s voice. Shaking off its Summer leaves.
Wind Teachings Better to bend with the breeze rather than stand against it. Rigidity lends itself to fragility. For to stand against that which you have no power over, shall surely do you harm. Brothers and Sisters, tend your leaves with love and caring. Let those things, those divergent winds of humanity‌ Let them blow on by. Tis no harm in being ruffled, and somewhat windblown by them. Our roots run deeper, our branches, much thicker. Tend to them kindly. Let no breeze of darkened ilk beset itself upon you, upon your foundations. Why does the ancient, mighty oak still stand, and the maple break and fall? Better to bend with the breeze, rather than stand against it. To simply let these winds pass and finally,
exhaust themselves, falling upon fertile fields of new shoots rising. A new forest, a greater wood, where lignite winds have no power.
To All in Good Fortune Pale violets of a dusky sky, As the sun closes its eye to traveled sleep. Cool winds abiding, Rustling curtains.in open windows, And cool silk sheets , inviting. Feathered throw and sleeping cat, Upon the bed and dozing, Cacophony of purring pleasure Laying across my feet. Wind swept billows, Cover moon, In fits of rhythmic wandering, Silver coin and silver clouds Playing cat and mouse. Then, The Zen of restful sleep, And dreams and peaceful tidings, Rested well and dreamed of spells Cast to all in good fortune.
Beyond Her Wheels She woke to the passionate trill of a meadowlark. The morning sun, beaming through dew laden windows,... dancing upon the wall in shadow and light. She rose and strained to look through this morning portal, Wiping the condensed droplets from the pane. The glorious scene of morning’s first kiss, as the night fell away to dawn. Such a quietude in the early hours. Such a scene to behold. The waking of the birds, and the dew, dripping from leaves and blades of grass. The slight, waking rustle of the tall grass, just now beginning to perform its daily dance. A choreographed, syncopated wave; like a large expanse of green ocean. She thought how wonderful it would be to sail on such an ocean. To visit wondrous lands, and witness and experience the ferine joys that this ocean and the woodlands beyond had to offer. She often dreamed of such things. She often prayed for her release. She longed for the fresh air of a new day, any day‌ However, schedules needed to be kept, when the nurse came in, and placed her in her chair, There
would be no time for dreaming, no time for wishing, no time for sailing upon imagined waves. Yet she would never let those morning moments go. She at least had them. Those things were her freedom. In spite of her wheeled incarceration, she could, and always would dream of a walk in that field.
As I Travel Elsewhere I often question the relevance of things, as it, or they may relate to my life. I am sure that this is nothing unique. Most people have the innate sense within themselves to determine what, who, or why, something will become deserving of their attention. The unique quality about the human race is that you can present a question to a group of them, and each response will be uniquely different from the one before. Which is right, and which is wrong? Experience and opinion tell me that it matters little. For each, in and of their own experience have come to their answers based on experiential histories. It seems, all too often, that judgments are made using a single point of view. Dictates of one set of experiences do not, nor will they ever be considered the whole answer to the world’s problems. But yet, there are those who are convinced that a single system of control can cure the worlds ills. Time and again this concept has been proven false. Yet, mankind’s complacent view as a whole, allows for the subjugation of people and races around the world;
Where their voices and their relevance as human beings have been disregarded, and left to whither under contrivances of leadership. Instead leading to pain and suffering of thousands. Different viewpoints, different approaches, yet, collectively can we not come to find the common ground of peace? The questions, these mutterings of my pen this day, seek un-answered questions. Deep down, I know the answers, yet my humanity takes me elsewhere.
Moon’s Gift And under a pallored blue sky, under the caress of a peeking moonbeam. The slivered light of a lunar deity came upon thine eye. Un-noticed at first within the sounds, of earthbound night things coming to life. Above the song of the nightingale, above the creak of the crickets rail. Beyond the sound of the Coyotes’ wail. Cloud kissed Moon… Ancient story to tell. From its birth upon the horizon, to its bed when sun arrives, A gift to dreamer’s dreaming, And Lover’s, serenading.
In water’s with cattails swaying, upon a midnight breeze. This thing of light, of lunar grace, bestows her beauty upon me.
Born of Dust We are born of dust, and become water. We are the rivers of currents in time. Collectively our courses are set. We return to that from which we came. Dust‌ Yet in that dust and from that dust, Thing are made to grow, and become water once again. Cyclic, monolithic meaning. We are born of dust and become water. A drop of water, in its fall is never alone for long, It returns to its beginnings, Along rivers of currents in time. Born from dust, becoming water, We are both, The dust and water, The water and dust. Life and death, What current shall I be carried upon?
What wave shall see me home? A watery by way honed from dust, returned to water and back again. We are born of dust and become water. Each a current in time.
Fissures of Men These fissures of Men, Deep, dark, Devoid of light and grace. The only spark of passion revealed, The flash of death from belching muzzles. Angered hate in eye for eye, Competing to see, Who the first is to die. Yes, Chasms black, Deep and cold “Tis no place For the heart to abide. Siege laid unto ourselves When fissures as these Are left to spread, When all that are left Are the dying and the dead. And in glories engrained We sing the refrains of Cause and bannered flags. And bury them in Heroes graves And widen the chasms again.