Question of Manifesting

If I write you as a poem
The outline of a book
A story
A novel, dare I hope–
Would that be enough to manifest you?
Would I better know your character, your language
Having brought you into reality in my own way.
My words do not work in prose
I have not yet learned to translate the rhythm
The heart
Of the only bloodline to words from my soul
And I wish you to be from my soul
Oh, book
I wish you to speak for me in a story
As so many have spoken to me
I wish to give the gift that has been given
So many times over
To help in ways that I can
If I can
If I will.
And so, I try again
In another way
In this language that is becoming
To become a language I must learn
Of story, of prose, of plot
Of an arc worthy to be read
And to be written
Through perseverance and true diligence
Maybe I create these paths in myself, pushing further than before
Than ever
May I learn, and may I write.
To make you exist.

 

 

 

-A.Ault

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Birth to Fire

I give birth to fire
Not of dragons but of the sun
Of the energy that shutters gravity
Whipping through all shades of matter
It comes from me
My being is the impetus of burning
Breathing gives flame it’s power to propel
Power that sinks in density
Until it becomes
As we all become
Birthed in this universe of universes
Fiery and dangerous
Affecting each atom of which we accumulate
We are the rub of quantum creation
Infinity becomes us.

 

-A. Ault-

Door Hearts

Little listens
At the heart of the door
Misspeaking at the cusp of dawn
The voice drags across lonely floor boards
Dripped with paint of old beginnings
Little does it know of past feet
Passersby by which the old house fell
Only listens
Broken embers bringing hope
While the hall behind lies empty
A front step that should not have been repaired.

 

-A. Ault-

Virginia

If I could reach back into the ages
and touch you
and place into you some amount
of the peace I have mustered
that I was armed to fight for
in a way unavailable to you then
If I could match your pulse
to mine
and through the cracks of that building wall,
bring you out of the sickness
we both know too well
–But time does not move in reverse
and I can only ask you
to stand guard with me
against this river of my own
and watch from your past vantage
that I, too, do not sink
in my swimming.

3-28-17
A.Ault

Antoine de Aviator

That soul of wandering, and regretting
That could not sustain space
With what he loved
So flew over deserts to learn the how
And wrote a boy whose mind was his own
Teaching his adult heart to live
No sadder soul have I ever felt more akin
Lost within the short time that he breathed
Passionate for what he knew was necessary
Even if he perished
(He would end this way)
Accepting
Back to the capsule in which his mind dwelled so long
Coaxed through the heavens
To a little planet in the sky.

 

-A. Ault-

Bottega

We spent years in the bottega
Only to paint sidewalks with chalk
The sides of trains, in the lifetimes that followed

I took you to the street
And we danced in colors
Threw back our heads at broken rules
Left marks only memories might remember

What did our masters know
But how to forget a craft
Teaching more from the secrets not hidden

We became flickers of attention
At once known, and completely forgotten
Unable to escape the creation
Etched deep in our souls.

We are each twist of this unending wheel
Our strokes becoming the magnus opus
Of Saṃsāra.

Movement in the Deep

Is it an underwater explosion?
A tsunami, slow to build after days, or weeks, of small movements
cracks behind the exterior of normalcy
the facade of “keeping it together”
of knowing it will be “okay”
and feeling the the mantle itself crumble
shifting so deep within
the echos take hours to be heard
under caverns locked up so tightly
buried so quickly with a god-hand
brushed over with whatever Time had available
Cities, maybe. Trees, brush, hopes and promises
Tremors give warning
bubbling quietly to the surface
A gulping or fainting
But not strong enough to concern the onlookers
When it starts, is it already too late?
Would erupting do any more harm?
But the tsunami builds higher and stronger
pushing past the deep layers
rising higher to the surface
demolishing gates barred between and along the way
until it is here
it is too late
and all is washed away
There is no hour, no time, no reference point among so much water
Perspective is gone
and whatever isn’t quite swept away
after the wave that now was
holds together loosely
floating on the surface of a mind
I no longer know.

Yoga

I am not in love with the muscle of yoga
though I find it beautiful
the vitality pushed forth through daily dedication
bodies growing stronger, enduring longer
circling tightly, moving steadily
it is their form of beginning

I am not in love with the ritual of yoga
though I find it comforting
my ego and my truth desire no more repetition
than raising my arms to the sun
however many times it rises
my exhalation of silence the only chant
I need to focus

I am only in love with the invisibility of yoga
the magic building through vein,
tissue and breath
the awareness that lifts up, out, and deeply
inside of both body and neither mind
that becomes the union and dissolution
of what has never been but always will be
accessible, eternal, aware

I am in love with the meditation that is yoga
the letting go that holds on
even when the practice has passed.

Read Them Goodnight

Would I warn them?
in the stories I could write
Paint pictures of the pain
they will feel
Explain with sunsets the loss that awaits
Create characters of the confusion
that lies before them
Or would that book
that tome of future preparation
created in warning
only introduce them to an experience
they already know?

 

A.Ault