The Poetry Marathon

Dear Guillermo,

Hola to my kind Andalusian friend.

I write to you from the shores of Utah Lake.

The mountains hear are snow-capped yet.

How is the climate there?

I miss the beauty of the old Moorish palaces in Granada.

I miss the lively graceful beauty of the Flamenco dancers and

the prancing of your glorious horses on parade.

Do you still take lessons from the gypsies who taught you how to play the oud?

I miss the smells the music and rhythm of southern Spain.

I miss your delicious food too.

I hope you will reconsider visiting me.

Spring has sprung and Utah is all in bloom.

Best wishes to you and yours,

Your amigo,

William Jackson

Asterales Taraxacum—

Be to some, men’s weed.

Asterales Taraxacum—

Bee— thee, my life’s need.

Antho-phila-sophy hum.

Hum this hymn with me.

From the spring, ’til fall has come,

I’ll give thanks to thee.

Humbly hum this hymn with me.

To this dandy flower!

That sends out, across the breeze.

Parachutes of power.

Asterales Taraxacum—

I pray you’ll always be.

May men never overcome;

their lawn’s diversity.

I am on the way

Traveler of thought.

I am on a mind ship.

Timeling, on a dot.

Intersecting points in space;

Infinitely lie.

I am on the way to being.

By cosmic thoughts, I fly—

Existence is the god of being.

Breathing in for being.

Breathing out of time—

breathing in then;

breathing out.

Being re-realized.

spin strands of being

spider, weave with portions three:

matter, space, and light

“The land knows you, even when you are lost.”

Even if you speak with many learned words,

but know not the land.   

You are just a homeless noise maker.

Perhaps you know the secrets of the future,

Or understand the mysteries of science.

You may know the hymns of man’s religions;

but if you know not the land;

you are short of knowing anything. 

You may give all that you have,

but if you give for your own self

and you know not to give to the land.

You give for nothing. 

The land is a patient place,

The land is a kind retreat.

It does not envy anything,

it does not boast of itself,

it is not proud.  

It does not dishonor others,

is not self-seeking, 

is not even angered,

it keeps no record of wrongs.

The Land does not know there are evils.

But it knows you.   

It always protects,

always inspires trust,

always instills hope,

always perseveres for its own.

The land never fails.

But where there are people,

They will fail.

Where there is human pride,

there will be a return to earth learned humility.

We only know in part—

but the land knows us in full.

There are these— three:

the sea, the sky, and the land,

but the most giving of these is the land.

Harbinger of words.

Curator of thoughts.

shepherding sound herds;

to alphabetic lots.

What would be our world,

if word mongers were not?

Knowledge bound and furled.

Would all be lost in thought?

Ordered by the alphabet.

Gods by Ygdrasil.
reach heaven
drink Mimer

Know yet— not:
the third heaven,
sacred Urd,
doomstead,
Asa-bridge?

Thor wades every day
judge near.
Holy waters roar—
Tree forever stands.
over Urd’s fountain.

Yesterme, both friend and foe.

How I hate and love you so.

Hate you for mistakes you’ve made.

Love you when the truth you’ve paid.

Retrospectively, I see,

What a being you’ve made of me.

Yesterme, I’ll have you know,

I have seen your private show—

Every dark thought you have spawned

Every living thing, you’ve wronged.

Every good thing you’ve set free.

Times you’ve spent creating me.

Yesterme I can’t change you.

You’re not me; that much is true.

Now old Yesterme— I’m new!

Be content.  Time makes us two.

Fir tree fog hangs like a shelf.

Damn! how you can hush the night.

Moonbeam, dock to me and self—

Concrete, canteen, coffee light.