Monthly Archives: July 2011

Cri de coeur

Should I call out to you
in anger or in longing,
in despair or in joy –
let my voice be heard above the whirlwind!
Hear me!  Like the psalmist I cry
from the depths of my emptiness.
Like Samuel, at times I sense
the calling, the echo in the night.
Here I am, I answer.  Here I am!

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll   2011

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raven to rescuer (for Diana J.)

it’s not that i’m ungrateful.
for without you, bright unfeathered being,
i would have perished too soon,
my flesh plundered bit by bit
by armies of marauding ants and flies,
my dark plumage scattered by indifferent winds.
it’s not that i’m ungrateful,
oh bright unfeathered being!
i nip and peck and stare.
to you: stubborn in my silence.
you with your nevermore,
your hello, your dark-wild-one.
i with my clever nipping and sly pecking,
my stare from the shameless past
of the first of my kind.
it’s not that i’m ungrateful.
my farewell, my thanksgiving
shall be a soaring over trees,
a wide circling in your sky,
the sun dancing on my wings.
oh bright unfeathered being –
too soon! too soon!

*    *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2011

Imperfection

‘Walk with me?’ you said and we left,
behind us another night
in that place of aching dreams.
Then, once more sheltered from the night,
we launched our conversation
on what seemed a sea of coffee.
I remarked upon your jacket
cut in the Asian style, and you pointed
to a stain that wasn’t there.
Only later did I see it, on the other shoulder.
As stains go it was diffuse,
a memory forever in the fabric.
Perhaps it had assumed a life of its own,
and moved when you weren’t aware.
But, of stains that’s to be expected –
so, in the end, no cause for worry.
It’s only now as I write this,
that the truth has come to me:
All the while we sailed our wordy course
in our craft of laughter and affection,
we were speaking stealthily of stains,
of blemishes, of imperfections;
of how they seem to others, and to ourselves;
of whether and how we can blot them out,
or work them into some grand design.
Through what labyrinths of pain and tears,
we force ourselves to trek
for the sake of good appearances,
the desire to be someone else,
the quest for acceptance without question.
‘Those with stains need not apply,’
say the signs posted at every turn.
What a hellish world if each were perfect!
For then we’d be, every one, the same:
complete, not growing, without change.
Dead souls, in other words.
The night greeted us in the mist.
In silence we thanked our stars.

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2011

breaker

blue pressing wave am i
in this desire rushing
toward shores white
like flesh
and dream
and silence
waiting
like old memories
in darkness

the sun is false
in its shining and time
is a hand outstretched
in hope and ignorance

i
rushing blue wave of desire
land
upon blank shores
waiting
like old memories
in darkness

*    *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2011

like scudding clouds

love  passion   ardor and deep affection
this web of dust   this word burdened
like scudding clouds with formless form
ever-changing dream-like sameness
weighted with too many meanings

come   dearest   let us forge a new language
to escape this troubled web of dust!
our words shall have the strength of sunlight
the substance of great mountains looming

the songs we make with them shall be
the kiss of butterfly and rose
the long embrace of sea and shore
the waters’ coupling with the wind
lightning’s leap to earth from heaven

our silence too shall speak
the quiet music of your hand in mine

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2011

Lanza la mar sobre mi

The sea casts upon me
its visions, its memories
again and again.  I lie
bubbling sand night and day
breeding little creatures unseen, unheard,
stark little worlds held in calcareous fists,
tiny, almost amorphous tissues of hope
that strain the fluid moments for substance,
life.  Here, bubbling sand, stained I lie.
Oh, see in the starlight
my myriad mica hearts
beating time with the waves!
I await the solitary dreamer
who moves intently across my ancient bareness
ever the same and never so.

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2011

The pain of love

A bird’s wings roil the heavens.
A butterfly covers the sun.
A flower is not a dream,
but a mountain kissing clouds,
wispy eyebrows of storm.
The rain is a voice calling from afar
like the cricket in tall grass.
My eyes are the firefly’s constant song,
flashing notes written on the night.
And my heart is a well of sweet water
bubbling through rocks and sand.
But now my love’s a stone upon my breast.
This love’s become a stone upon my breast…

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2011