The Bended Black Steel Arbor And The Morning Glory’s Vows [The Legend Of The Black Knight, from the Pine Cone Diaries]
“Oh, bended steel arbor, planted firmly in the ground… father of the black knight. You have stood staunch through frost and snow until, in soft ground, I am able to rise upon you —and grow. With spring rain into summer sunshine you courted me becoming my first and only love; supporting me to stretch, to trust my wanderings, betting on me to win, lose, or draw.
I will crawl up your season’s steel arbor. I will rise above your bended arch. I will cover you with the cloak of my groping summer hearts.
With vines entwined, we will drink the sun— and hide to spoon beneath the moon; until I rise, unable to stand, so drunk from this climb, you will let me gently fall; bending to blossom our true desires. They will be bright sky blue, reflecting the sea; with a sprinkling darkness of the sky before the rain. And, every morning from their center’s light, they will release —the captured vanilla moon.
They will stand staunch with the colors you expect in a parade. They will be a delightful explosion of blue and vanilla moon surprises. One maybe two— maybe some— sometimes maybe none, depending on the bees and the hummingbirds and how we are groomed. I will promise the birth of our black knight, in our season’s last bloom; expelling the sun for our love to take flight, fleeing from winter’s moon”.
Bended black steel arbor planted firmly in the ground, pleasantly listening to a dream, streaming by, of an upcoming meeting and the exchange; now, of his vows. He begins to rehearse again, as he has in all three seasons. When suddenly— she peers from the earth— arrives with blinking, sun sparkled green eyes.
Well! Without hesitation, the bended black steel arbor, planted firmly in the ground, breaks out in his sincere well-rehearsed vows.
“Oh, love of love in my gloom and despair,
My patience is resilient as thou art fair.
Cast my season’s dis-pleasures in late summer air.
People, who have a lot of things use them, and have a lot of things still left over.
People, who, have a few things, use them, and have no left over’s.
People, who have no things, who seek many things, end up using only a few things, and, have nothing left over.
All, who have things, become one thing.
My things, became empty from use, They were dug from the earth, and made in a factory through creation, imagination and mistakes. Useless now, worn, exchanged, or sat on a flea market table where even gypsies refused to take are now ready to be disposed of— on this pleasant day, at the New Hampton dump, at 12:15 P M. on a bright and sunny Saturday.
Is a ghost without identity; that seeks peaceful universal assimilation?
Those who capture other’s souls of Faith, caged in hate or repression, have honed their zeal
To inflict retribution as righteous judgment, on all “un-holy” dissidents.
Unable for their hearts to control their tongue or their scourge.
Love’s prerequisite of understanding, dampens volatile gun powder
And buries the sword of hate on the path to Nirvana, Olam Ha-Ba, Heaven, and Jannah …
Or any place else that is soft enough to dig with your hands, under loves direction, to bury your hate
wrapped in your inability to leave it alone. Silent until you truly understand.
(Having found on that path, without harm, a pure gentle human heart melted in living flesh
That had no eyes, nor memory, floating freely, Holy above the intellect in senses
without shame, I found myself without anything, for my Love, to have to explain.)
“In the universal silence of nature and in the calm of the senses the immortal spirit’s hidden faculty of knowledge speaks an ineffable language and gives [us] undeveloped concepts, which are indeed felt, but do not let themselves be described.” Immanuel Kant