temple of hope

on writing

2012-02-04T01:54:00.000-08:00

i do not write
like you

i do not write
like me

i write
like i write

and i like
what i write
when i write
like i write
well

and you like
what i write
when i write
like i write
well
too

if you wrote
like i write
when i write
like i write
well
i would like
what you wrote
too

but you write
like you write

and well

well i like
what i write
when i write
like i write
well

and i like
that you like
what i write
when i write
like i write
well

and i like
that i write
like i write

and i do not write
like you

...

i do not write

about you

i do not write

about me

i write

what i write

and i read

what i write

and i write

what i read

and i do not read

about you

no i do not read

about you

…

everyone reads

himself

into the story

or herself

into the story

or itself

everyone reads

himself

into the story

and reads

the story into

himself

or herself

or itself

everyone reads

himself

into the story

everyone reads

the story into

himself

and i read

what i write

and i write

what i read

and the story

read

is me

…

the story

writes the story

the story

reads the story

the story

is not me

i do not write

the story

writes the story

i do not read

the story

reads the story

i do not live

the story

lives me

…

i do not live

like you

i do not live

like me

i live

like i live

i like

that i live

and i like

how i live

when i live

how i like

yes i like

how i live

when i live

like i like

and i like

that i live

how i live

and do not live

like you

yes i like

that i live

like i like

and do not live

like you

…

if i write

like i like

when i write

and i like

what i read

when i read

i am happy

to write and read

i am happy

to read and write

if i like what i write

when i write

like i write

and i like what i read

when i read

what i write

i am happy

to write and read

all day

i am happy

to write

and write

all night

…

i live

like i write

i write

like i live

i live

like i like

and i write

like i like

yes i like

how I write

and i like

how i live

and i like

what i write

and i like

what i live

and i like

what i like

and i like

what i like

and i like

that i write

and i like

that i live

i write

what i live

when i write

like i write

and i live

what i write

when i live

like i live

and i read

who i am

when i read

what i write

o i am

who i am

when i read

what i write

yes i am

who i am

when i write

what i write

…

i write the story

that writes who i am

i write the story

that lives who i am

i write the story

that is who i am

…

i am a writer

who writes

i am a writer

who does not write

stories

i am a writer

who lives

i am a writer

who does not live

stories

i am a writer

who writes

lives

life

life like

i am a writer

who likes

life

if life

is writing

like i write

if life

is writing

like i like

if life

is reading

what i write

…

i write

the words

you read

the story

i write the words

i need

you read the story

you need

i write the words

i need

to live

you read the story

you need

to live

i write

myself into

the words

i need

to live

you read

yourself into

the story

you need

to live

i write

myself into

the words

to live

you read

yourself into

the story

to live

i write

myself into

life

you read

yourself into

…

i write

what i write

to live

what i live

and i write

like i write

to live

like i live

o i write

and i write

so i live

and i live

…

i like

what i write

when i write

what i write

like i like

and i like

that you like

what i write

when i write

what i write

like i like

i like

what i read

when i read

what i write

when i write

what i write

like i like

and i like

that you like

what you read

when you read

what i write

when i write

what i write

like i like

i like

what i live

when i live

what i write

when i write

what i write

like i like

and i like

you

after the poetry reading

2012-01-19T22:28:00.000-08:00

roytube.com

2011-12-24T10:16:00.000-08:00

my new website, roytube, is launched. go see my poetry films...

facebook spontaneous poem

2011-12-16T00:35:00.000-08:00

its time for bed you silly head
its time to go to sleep
the wees and woes that no one knows
will fall into the deep...

excerpt from libretti lumi

2011-10-31T00:32:00.000-07:00

the universe

is not measured in space

but in time

the size of the universe

is not its expanse

but its age

distance is measured in years of light

though years without light are also counted

the number of light years from here to there

the number of dark years from there to here

the number of twilight centuries to somewhere

the number of eclipse minutes to anywhere else

thus the size of the universe

is not the space

between you and me

but the time

between you and me

the moments of light

the moments of dark

the moments of twilight

the moments of eclipse

sometimes your light

bent around me

only by its bending

acknowledging my orbit

sometimes i reflected your light

increasing the beauty of heaven

master moon that i am

but always

you were the star

i was the satellite

no binary solar system here

the yard stick of light

which keeps the time of the universe

measure for measure

does not plumb a black hole

that which is reckoned there

is more essential than light

and measure for measure

is more accurate

dark matter is what matters

it seems

without radiance

your gravitational pull

exerted influence

on my body

for a time

until the implosion was complete

and I was a single meteor flying

half frozen

half burning

across the constant night sky

the universe

is not measured in space

but in time

and we are measured

in moments

of light

of dark

of twilight

of eclipse

of emptiness

2011-09-09T23:23:00.000-07:00

the hole in my heart holds your shape.

the hunger of my arms

recalls the feast of your body~

now, there’s not a crumb of affection.

my lips fit only the puzzle of your brow,

the keyhole of your navel,

the glove of your mouth

and without these connections

have nothing to say.

silence inhabits the space vacated by your voice:

missed is not the quick laugh,

not the mindless humming~

those echo in my soul;

missed is the voice of the everyday room,

the words with coffee or lemonade or wine...

i am so dry without you!

where is my refreshment?

in the morning, i am a flag without wind.

in the evening, a meal without spice.

since you found a new road and compass,

my life has been full

of the absence of you.

~ Roy Anthony Shabla

2011-09-09T23:21:00.000-07:00

the physics of life

is not a universal theory~

it is not relative to love.

there is a hidden mathematics

to affairs of the heart,

a metaphysical geometry

that cannot be proved

in the three-dimensional world.

when it comes to love,

there is no

“one plus one”

there is no

“one plus one plus one”

there is no

“two minus one”

there is no

“two plus one minus one”…

love is not simple math.

if it were,

we would each marry

our fourth-grade sweethearts

forever.

the hidden factors of love,

the secret geometry

for which there is no class,

remain the final mystery

of the universe

beyond the song and dance

of the stars

beyond the song and dance

of the atoms of ourselves~

these are flashes of light

in darkness

and easier to see

than a soulmate.

i have been a poor student

in this subject

or a great failure

depending on the perspective.

i can almost see

the invisible factors of love

but the blind students

still get better grades.

after body of water / excerpt from air play

2011-07-15T14:24:00.000-07:00

i have grown weary of this life form

i have grown weary of this life

i have grown weary of this form

i have grown weary of this form of life

i have grown weary of this life of form

i have grown weary of this

i long for a life without form

i long for a life i can form

i long for a form i can like

the physical body separates you from me

the universal body dreams of union

the body of wisdom

is half-full of tears

or half-empty of tears

but full and overflowing with emptiness

the physical body separates you from peace

the universal body dreams of communion

the body of knowledge

is half-full of fears

or half-empty of fears

but full and overflowing with emptiness

the physical body separates

the universal body dreams

with which body do you fall in love?

the body of the heart

is half-full of tears

or half-empty of fears

but full and overflowing with emptiness

(the universal body separates you from fantasy

the physical body dreams of confusion)

i have grown weary of the earth

and the matters of the earth

i have grown weary of matter

and what matters

i have grown weary of birth

and what scatters

i have grown weary of earthly matters

and the emptiness of the heart

(the intelligence of the heart

is that it longs to be filled)

i long for a body of grace

i long for a body’s embrace

i long for a body to taste

i would fill it with the breath

of my love

in my dream

i am the bearer of joy

and all delights you enjoy

but here

i am the body of tears

filling the earth’s empty shore

the form of this earth

my only embrace

the life of this earth

my only store

poetry jewelry

2011-07-02T17:54:00.000-07:00

i dont know if i posted this for you...

2011-04-04T00:40:00.000-07:00

every action

has an equal and opposite

reaction

but words

are not equal

to the effect of words~

what is spoken

what is written

cannot suppose

the circle it will draw.

a pebble

tossed into a pile

cannot compare

to a pebble

tossed into a pond

and where a word is tossed

is lost

until the ripple

or the avalanche

appears.

every motion

has a sequel as

emotion

and every gesture

has a reason beyond

effect…

every morning

you may roll a boulder

up a hill

and every evening

roll it down again

but what is lost

from the living of the day

is not the distance

between two points

of view

nor the speed

at which life travels

up or down

but that the product

of your actions

and your words

is greater than the sum

of what you do.

spring poem

2011-03-27T20:48:00.000-07:00

it is irresistible this longing for the sun

spring poem

2011-03-25T22:50:00.000-07:00

here i am
see me now
underground
living how

cold the earth
far the sun
wet the rain
long the run

here i am
see me now
over ground
living how

fresh the earth
warm the sun
sweet the rain
strong the run

casa la reina ii excerpt

2011-01-19T23:29:00.000-08:00

casa la reina is

home

to spiders

crickets (they

came back)

grasshoppers

lizards

ants

various other

squiggly things

i cant or

wont name

(we will not

talk about the

m o u s e)

cats (not inside

the house)

possums (with the

cats)

various birds

including

hummingbirds

sparrows

crows (occasionally)

as well as

fairies

satyrs

elves

dwarves

nymphs

(depending on the

party)

and others

and ghosts

some demons

once in awhile an

angel

and even a few

unwanted

visitors

but i am the one

who has to

write

out the check

for the water

and the power

you cannot

a star

without

power

and it

seems you cannot

a hermit

without

an entourage

i wake up

in the morning

(well what i

call the

morning)

with a headache

a new set

of wrinkles

and a bite from an

amorous insect

on my cheek

everybody has

to eat i

guess

i am

a meal

for many

the spider or

other

bug that sucks

my blood

gets eaten by a

bird

which is caught

by a cat

which poops

at the foot

of the

persimmon tree

which produces

fruit

that strengthens

my blood

in winter

when all the

bugs and

everyone else

want to be

inside

with

* * *

there is no

electricity

at two sockets

in the bedroom

i thought i

was too young

to have no

electricity

in the bedroom

but apparently

age is not

a factor

when it comes

to spark

if you have it

you have it

if you dont

you masturbate

the temporary

sleep

of wine wears off

during the quiet

time

but i cannot

turn on the

light

to write

the list of what i

cannot turn on

increases

the need for light

increases

and the actual

writing

is without

juice

a possum walks

its scratchy

walk on the roof

over my

dread

its vision

so poor

it could not

see if i

were a football

stud

or a rockstar

or the boy

who reads shelf

by shelf

in the library

also squinting

at the

light

* * *

the clothes

need to be washed

but i

cannot seem to

gather the

energy

for it

i need

to be washed

also

both of the

body

and of the

soul

but i

cannot seem to

gather the

energy

for it

i am the great

unwashed

from hole

to shining hole

elizabeth

walks in the front

door

and fills the

kitchen sink with

hot soapy water

letting the dishes

soak

then starts a load

of laundry

she talks the

entire time

but does not notice

i dont

listen

it is the

perfect

relationship

the essay on the

abstract

painting is

finished

and she says

wow

i thought

you only looked

at porn

on that thing

gesturing

toward

the computer

art is porn

i say

at least the

good art is

bad art

is anti porn

the cold

shower of the

soul

but she listens

to me less

than i

listen to her

she makes

a couple plates

of food

crackers

avocado

sardines

humus

olives

and we eat

in the back

the stick garden

budding out

the sun

clicking its teeth

the air

fresh

and clean

* * *

a word

nazi

attacked me

today

the word

nazis want

to control

speech

and by controlling

speech

control thoughts

and by

controlling thoughts

control behavior

and by

controlling behavior

control people

completely

the word nazis

do not care

if i say

fuck

fuck fuck fuck fuck

fuck

they do not care

they do not even care

if i do

fuck

they promote the

illusion

of tolerance

and when it comes to

fucking

and me

someone somewhere

will need

some tolerance

the word nazis

do not care

if i say

cunt

well in america

cunt

is worse

than fuck

and though

they might

not like me saying

cunt cunt cunt cunt

cunt

they would promote

the illusion of

tolerance

but would not

invite me

to their

dinner

parties

henry millers

great line

when i fuck

a cunt

it stays

fucked

is no longer

invited to

dinner parties

either

nigger

is another

word

if you are

black

you can say

nigger

as much as you

young black males

seem unable

to communicate

without it

sup nigger

but if you are

white

nigger nigger nigger

will get you

shot

stabbed

beaten

and raked

through the news

there is no illusion

of tolerance

there is no

tolerance

there is no

equality

even mark

twain cannot say

nigger

anymore

jim is now

a slave

which is worse

because it has

no style

and style is the

hope

of the unfortunate

only a nigger

can say

nigger

only a fag

can say

fag

only a whatever

can say

whatever

what ever

(insert your

favorite

politically

incorrect

term here)

(insert your

favorite

profanity

here)

thank you

but the word

nazis

do not care

if i

say these

words

as art

as part of my

poetry

fuck

cunt

nigger

shit shit shit

etc

but if i

say

i am sad

i am poor

i am lonely

there is no

illusion of

tolerance

there is no

tolerance

the word nazi

jumps down

my throat

as if he or she

could push the

words back

to the source

back to another

reality

the word nazis

want me

to say i

happy

i am rich

i am surrounded

by love

those lying

fuckers

the secret is

that affirmations

are a

lie

and blowing

sunshine up my

ass

wont make me

happy or wealthy

or loved

but if you

use a breath mint

you can

try

so if i

want to convey

any honest

emotion

or condition

i have to

say

i am fucking sad

i am nigger shit

poor

i am goddamn

motha

fucking son of a

cunty bitch

lonely

(you wonder

why

i swear)

and maybe

just maybe

tears

can pass

uncensored

* * *

i thought

i would write

tonight

i got into bed

like i like

and sat

up with pen

and paper and

light

but didnt

write

nothing

presented itself

to the paper

nothing

stimulated

the pen

and my pen

needs

stimulating

these days

or nights

once in a dream

i saw

nijinsky dance

he was young

and

i was younger

he was the

dance

itself

that night

i did see

baryshnikov dance

afternoon

of the faun

when he was

young

and i

was younger

and he was

himself

light

a poem may

remain

on the page

longer than

the paper itself

lived

a dance

leaps off the

stage

of life

and only

air

remains

only twinkle

when the star

is dead

some would say

my poems are

air

hot air

farting actually

but a rose

by any other

smell

would still have

thorns

maurice

would make quite

a faun

tangled in bramble

munching roses

his naked

form would

stimulate

pens for

decades

one leap

would live

longer

than any

poem

i could write

one step

would live

longer

than anything

that

arose

from my paper

tonight

* * *

i could sit

on the chair if

it werent

piled with junk

i could eat

at the table if

it werent

piled with junk

i could walk

out of this

life

like an angel

my feet bare

ly touching

the floor

if it werent

piled

like a new york

barge

with junk

but it is

i am a

junkie

and this this

this life is my

dump

what a dump

jeanne comes to

casa la reina

to bring me

a book

walking in the

front door with

a shout

a newspaper

that was lying

in the street

and a coupon

for razors

maybe this is

a hint

to make a clean

start

or a messy

finish

she looks

for a place

to sit

she is not

the buddha

who could sit

anywhere and

did

on a corpse

on a cloud

on a candy machine

i move

three mountains

miscellaneous

papers

books

boxes

a small forest

of clutter

all important

in the scheme of

things

the scheme

of things

from the end

of the couch

so she can

settle

and from across

the room across

the universe

of my life across

the stupas

of trash

she looks

at me

with a smile

* * *

it is cold

casa la reina

is cold

and i

am colder

an electric

heater is bare

ly an orange

light bulb and

a prayer

and i

have never been

a praying man

have never been

a praying mantis

have never been

a praying

abolitionist

there is nothing

worse

than a cold

praying

abolitionist

someone

who wants to

change

the world

but hasnt the

sense

to light

a fire

expects

the fire

to light

itself

expects

the world

at some point

by some means

to change

itself

the fireplace

i light

a fire

using early

drafts of my

poems

it might be

kinder

to the world

to use

final drafts

but they

dont burn

the fire

gone from the

soul

yesterday

2011-01-11T21:58:00.000-08:00

casa la reina is
a ruin

the ceiling has
fallen
in the back room

and a large
crack stretches over
the writing desk

maybe word is
coming from heaven

pennies arent

the toilet leaks
so you want
to stand
at the door to
pee

and the only
eating
done in the kitchen
is by the ants

the neighbor knocks
at the door
wanting to sell
vitamins
or god
or cable television

i dont have a
television that
works beyond static

i dont have a
god that works
beyond static

and im suspect
about vitamins

if i close
the door
turn off the light
sit up in bed
with the covers
pulled against the
cold
maybe i can
write a line or two

and i will have
done something with
my life
today

* * *

victor fixed the
back door sagging
on its hinges

i can walk into
the stick garden
now

sit on a
rusty chair
search for the
sunlight

a heavier jacket
would have been
smart

but it seems i
can never judge how
cold i will be

i can never
judge how cold the
air will be either

i am not a good
judge of cold
even though I have
gotten the cold
shoulder
from life

i
sit in the back

a winter wasteland
where the crisp
air hurts
whats left of the
nostrils

and look at the
sun
which seems to have
given
up

this is me
getting out

i wrote a
couple lines
yesterday

i wonder if i
will today

* * *

there is no
friend
like a blanket

it will not
protect
you from a bullet
or a wine bottle
thrown at you
or even a bad
phone call

but it
buffers you from
complete intimacy
with ghosts
and loneliness

i drag
from room to room
a flowery quilt
wrapped around me
like a robe

it was once
cheery and bright but
time
with me has remedied
that disease

im such a healer

ronnie wants me
to meet
for a drink
at a tranny bar
but i havent shaven
for a week

and have only a
curse to wear

if i sidestep
the mail on the
dirty floor

maybe i can get onto
the bed
and write a poem

there
i can wear
what i want

but its only worth
reading

if i wear what
i am

* * *

jeanne bought me a
salad with crusty bread
and a
glass of wine

what a good breakfast

we walk to the
thrift store
for a light bulb

maybe we can find
something to sell too

but the store is
closed
and i havent sold
anything in months

it doesnt cost
anything to write
a poem
but power and piss

but it doesnt pay
anything
to write a poem
either

an angel may speak
to you
feed you something
fresh

but those moments
pass

and you are left
without even a bare
bulb
to hold against
the dark night

* * *

downey is not a town
you go to to
write

and if you write it
would probably be
happy
to see you go

but here i am

the house attacking
me
and protecting me
from the streets

realtors knock
at the door wanting
to sell
casa la reina
they have buyers they
say
and give me tablets
of paper with
their faces
on them

finally
a gift i can use

or so i
think

the tablets stare at
me
the faces watch
what goes on inside
here

maybe better
than i do

writing sometimes
talking sometimes
moaning sometimes
drinking
staring at the walls
wrestling with
ghosts
making toast

sometimes there is
music but music
is an escape

and there is no
escape
from downey

not as a writer
not as a ruin dweller
not as an empty
page

* * *

dorothy called to
ask if i needed
money

she didnt need
to call or
ask

i am a poet i
cant even afford
mice

there hasnt been
anything friendly in
the mail for months

and what jobs i
get take more than
they give

if i peddled
door to door poems
fluttering
from a bamboo stick i
would fare no better

people have doors
for a reason

to escape the
walls
when no one is
looking

if i had a million
dollars
i would buy
a night on the town
for you

but just to be
smart i
would first get new
shoes

and ink for the
printer

* * *

i wrote today

even a few lines
can keep the
wolf from the
whore

maybe i will type up
what it is
and look at it

i do that

look
at the poem on
the page
for longer than
anyone should

i read it and read
it

trying to understand
what
i have

luckily
it is short
and not very
deep

and luckily i
am familiar with
the subject

if my poetry were
taught
in school i
would get a
c

im kinda average
in my own
life

im even worse
in others

a b
motivates you to
do better

a c
lets you be

obviously im
zen about it

if i could get an
a
in my poetry
i would sit back
on my laurels

and twirl
the long golden
curls of my hair all
day

* * *

the house makes
noises
at 2 am
it doesnt make
at 2 pm

but so do i

the windows
are black mirrors

maybe a shadow
passes but
not the moon
not the stars

a light from the
road
hits a key on the
wall

a voice from the
back fence
says something about
responsibility
lightly as a spiders
web
but i dont listen

a glass of wine helps
with that

my knees creak
laugh at me
as i tap the pen
on the paper
trying to prime
the pimp

many nights
the house is
restless
unable to describe
itself

many nights
the moon is
absent
the voice unclear
the paper
blank

* * *

i have an appointment
tomorrow
but I wont
wear a tie

if i get some
sleep
i may be pleasant
i may be charming

but it is unlikely

i will make toast
and take a
shower
and wear something
clean
the striped shirt
maybe

the sun may
be
out

and a girl on
the street
may say hello
as she passes

but im a soda
at this
appointment
i will be drained
the fizz consumed
the glass left
empty

and tonight already
I begin to
go flat

* * *

the computer is
fucked

if this were a
movie i
would throw it
against the wall
with abandon
or out
the window
with abandon

but no matter how
it is sold

in whatever media

life is not
a movie

and i am not
handsome enough to
be a tragic star

media tragedy
only happens with
beautiful people

the rest of us must
suffer
without the benefit
of hair and makeup
and wardrobe

a typewriter
has so little
to go wrong and
so much
to write

i have so much
to go
wrong
and so little to
write

but i
am here and
i am right

a typewriter is
not

and the computer is
fucked

* * *

i have four
pens next to the
computer
and none of them
writes

they are like
me

one says
milestone mortgage

it should read
millstone

one has dorothys
name
and the lakota
indian reservation

i must have stolen
them all

useless is
as useless does

even when i want
to write
even
when i can

the fickle finger
of fate
flips me off

yanks the plug

infects the computer
with a virus
a bacteria
without a trojan
on its horse

i am like the pens
not able to make
a mark

i am like the
computer
needing penicillin

i am like the dog
walking on a
leash

not the master
not in control

looking forward to
scratching
in my bed

* * *

one side of the
sofa is beaten to
hell

i leave a
poem
about a key
written out by hand
on the other side

to wait
for millie

she has to pick
it up or
risk a spring in the
ass

what i will do
to get
read

millie will come
in the evening
to talk about
writing

but i will have a nap
before then

maybe more maybe
less

and splash
some water on my
face

to appear
presentable

the day is warmer
so i can open
a door
a window
and the house will
smell less
of mildew

i have half
a bottle of wine
to offer

and the poem

and she will be
intoxicated

* * *

casa la reina
is a ruin

even the crickets
have abandoned

but the sun
is out
and the stick
garden has sprouted
some green

the traffic sounds
the arguments
the construction
sounds
the miscellaneous
noises
of life

are somehow
muffled

and i sit in the
back
with leftover bites
of a tuna sandwich

and watch the
sky

facebook poem

2010-11-24T23:02:00.000-08:00

Roy Anthony Shabla

no friend no love no god above
no hope no song no right from wrong
no time no place no happy face
no here no there no place to share

November 15 at 11:47pm ·LikeUnlike · Comment · View Feedback (5)Hide Feedback (5)

Christina Seely from this place a new beginning emerges.....meet yourself there.....I am drawn inward from your words tonight....sweet dreams.
November 15 at 11:54pm · LikeUnlike

Roy Anthony Shabla

sweetie dreams
moonie beams
patty cakes and
krispy kreams

November 16 at 12:02am · LikeUnlike

KathyandKatz Caraco There's no way I could sleep counting krispy kreams!! :D
November 16 at 6:20am · LikeUnlike

Roy Anthony Shabla

silly sheep
not a peep ...

November 16 at 9:05am · LikeUnlike

KathyandKatz Caraco ‎:)
November 16 at 9:42am via · LikeUnlike

2010-10-18T16:34:00.000-07:00

if you have not seen the earth
from the sky
you should go.

if you have not been a slow-moving cloud
you should try.

if you have not been a gentle breeze
give yourself the gift
of flight

and know
the caress of leaves.

land is where you end

but sky
is where the heart is light
and the soul is free.

* * *

with my finger
i trace on your chest
the shadow of a leaf
waving from the fig tree

then trace another shadow
of that same leaf
on the window glass

and as i am placing my hand
over your heart
the shape of the leaf is on my hand

and it is the shadow of my hand
that first touches you.

~ ~ ~

when we sleep

i dream we are sleeping in the grass
on a hill
in the sunlight

and a cloud passes before the sun
like a hand before the eyes~

the shadow of the cloud
moving across the hill
touches me
then touches you

and i shiver with the touch of coolness

then you shiver

then we are each warmed.

~ ~ ~

i ask

is this what we have
between us?

these bits of darkness,
these silhouettes of life?

with the morning
i see how easily they pass…

* * *

if you have not seen the sky
really seen the sky
with the open heart of your eye

you should lie on your back
in the meadow of time
until you cry.

if you have not watched
a slow-moving cloud on a summer day
if you have not drifted off the cluttered page
of life

you should find an open meadow and lie
in the timeless flowers
until you cry.

if you have not let a gentle breeze
arrange your hair
and whisk your face

what is there to say?

please take a leave and lie
in the open meadow of time
until you cry.

earth is where you end when all is done~
the flower closes
with the setting sun~

but sky is where the wind can fly
and where the clouds will wipe
your tearful eye.

poem at 3 am

2010-09-19T03:07:00.000-07:00

the earth is round
yet we divide it into squares.

we live in square houses,
in square rooms,
eat from round bowls
and round plates
each at a square table.

at night, we lie
each in a square bed
beneath the round moon.

will we ever fit together?

my thoughts go around
my round head~
they fly in circles
before lying down
in straight lines
on a square of paper;

then, line after line of thought
circles out from the square
of paper,
concentric circles circling out,
the pebble of a thought
tossed into the pond
of the universe…

one night, i too will lie
down in a straight line,
merely a thought
among other thoughts,
not connected except by shape,
not fitting the circle
of the earth.

i am a square,
a square peg,
a block-head
with a round hole
in the bullseye of my heart
that nothing stops

and i lift my round eyes
to the great circle of the sky
in wonder.

2010-07-27T01:16:00.000-07:00

when I read your poem
i want to write
i want to never write again

when i read your poem
i want to live
i want to never live again
as i have been living
i want to die
and begin again

when i read your poem
i want to be
a better man
i want to be a scholar
a poet
a painter
i want to make a mark
worth making
on the history of man

it is not that i
have been asleep
not the way
you sleep in a bed

but when i read your poem
i wake

a part of me
long frozen in the dark
wakes

as if a light
were suddenly put on
in a forgotten room
of my soul

keys

2010-07-24T23:45:00.000-07:00

another excerpt from keys

2010-07-22T00:54:00.000-07:00

i dream
of inserting my key
into your lock

and rotating it
until your inner parts move
with a shudder
that releases the stops

and you open
like a treasure box
like a mystery
like a door onto the night...

excerpt from keys

2010-07-07T13:29:00.000-07:00

i will leave a key for you
hidden by the door.

do not let the locks delay you~
they are paper and string
and not even sealed.

there is just one key
to open the door

and it sings

so you will find it easily
if you listen.

it sings in key
of course,

it sings in harmony
and you will be humming

as you enter.

song for judy collins

2010-04-28T00:03:00.000-07:00

sunshine comes slowly
sunshine comes slowly
sunshine comes slowly
in the promised land

nightfall comes quickly
nightfall comes quickly
nightfall comes quickly
in the promised land

stars will fall
from the mighty hall
stars will fall
in the promised land
stars will fall
in the promised land

sunrise comes slowly
warming the lowly
sunrise comes slowly
in the promised land

darkness comes quickly
cooling the sickly
darkness comes quickly
in the promised land

stars will fall
from the mighty hall
stars will fall
in the promised land
stars will fall
in the promised land

predictions for 2010

2010-01-03T16:53:00.000-08:00

some things

some houses are cozy
some houses are cold
some houses embrace you
and watch you grow old

some gardens are fertile
some gardens are bare
some gardens are quirky
the neighbors will stare

some doors open heaven
some doors open hell
some doors open dreams
sometimes you cant tell

some windows show weather
some windows show walls
some windows are broken
and some are too small

some stairs go up
and some stairs go down
some stairs go nowhere
just round and round

some mirrors are cruel
some mirrors are kind
some reflect fools
while others are blind

some chairs are hard
some chairs are soft
some chairs are strong
and will hold you aloft

some beds are cozy
some beds are cold
some beds embrace you
and stories are told

some clothes are cruel
some clothes are kind
some adorn fools
youd think they were blind

some friends are here
some friends are gone
some friends will find
the place they belong

some friends are cruel
some friends are kind
some friends will love you
to the end of time

some things are friendly
some things are foe
some things are perfect
but you just never know

some things are heavy
some things are light
some things will hold you
all through the night

2009-07-18T22:15:00.000-07:00

there is no home but your heart.

even the ocean
which draws the poison from my soul
like a poultice

cannot house the furniture of my life
nor shelter the delicate china of my work.

i am indigent without your love.

the source of my poems
is not the sea, not the sky ~

though the breadth of these
is a glimpse
of the face of god…

no, the source of poetry
is not an expanse of blue
nor an unfathomable depth

but instead the soft fresh green
of the garden
blossoming in the chamber of your heart

where i live.

2008-10-09T11:53:00.000-07:00

2008-03-04T12:52:00.000-08:00

it is not a song
but birds are chirping again.

it is not a poem
but i am writing notes and lists
and sometimes
that is how love begins.

now the road is dry enough to pass
and i will make the trip to market~
how i have missed
apples and almonds, chocolate and wine...

maybe the post office is holding a letter...

rain and wind have come and gone
but in my heart
the weather of my soul remains.

body of water

2007-06-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

i have grown weary of the vase-form,
of the vase as art form,
of the utter saddness of
a useful object
unused.

a bowl is no better~
its openness begging for substance
like a body for soul.

i want to fill it with foil-wrapped chocolates
or river stones
or late-summer lavender seeds

but a bowl is more soul
than body
and how it is filled
is to be done with gravity.

the art of the vase
and the art of the bowl
has become more art
than vase or bowl
and the preciousness of the form
foils the usefulness
of the vessel.

the hand of the craftsman
fills the vase,
fills the bowl
in its making
and the print of the maker
remains through the fire.

such is the art of the art.

i have grown weary
of the body as art form,
of the body as only skin-deep,
of the surface
being the sum of the whole.

i long to be a vessel of dreams,
the perfume of eternity
filling my form;

i long to hold the flowers of ecstasy,
the transcendental soup of the divine

and shatter the artifice,
the self-consciousness
of my art.

eating god

2004-12-03T13:26:00.000-08:00

in the presence of the poet,

all is poetry;

in the presence of the lover,

all is love.

come to the banquet hungry

and ready to dance.

there is no sound

but music and singing;

there is no life

but celebration and gratitude.

has your invitation been misplaced?

have your ears been plugged?

you cannot remain dry

in the pool of devotion;

you cannot remain rigid

in the wind of the divine.

come to the celebration-feast hungry

and with dance in your heart.

http://royanthonyshabla.com

eating god

2004-12-03T13:24:00.000-08:00

God offers you soup.

you say,

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’m not cold.”

God offers you a seat.

you say,

“I’m not weary.”

“I’m not talkative.”

are you ashamed to be honored?

are you ashamed to admit

your true hunger?

your true weariness?

the preparation of food is God’s work.

and the service of food is God’s work.

the eating of food is devotion.

the offering is God’s work.

acceptance is ours.

http://royanthonyshabla.com

eating god

2004-12-03T13:21:00.000-08:00

all here is illusion.

this disease is not me

and will not go with me when I leave.

this loneliness is not real.

I am held in the constant embrace of the divine.

there is celebration in my soul

though there is heartache in my body.

the vast emptiness of my purse

and the vast fullness of yours

are distraction:

there is no need;

there is only grace and joy.

I do not need shelter

for God is my home.

I do not need food;

I am eating God like a glutton.

I dress in fine cloth

for the great gratitude of the gift

knowing well the sun and the wind and the rain

are my truer garments;

the stars in heaven my truer jewels.

understand that all here is grace and joy

because grace and joy are the only things that are real.

illness is temporary.

Truth is eternal.

where is your devotion?

suffering is temporary.

God is eternal.

where is your devotion?

where is your church?

and what is your altar?

abandon your religion of despair

and convert to bliss.

the hunger in your heart is the grand illusion;

the banquet of the soul is laid out before you.

the weariness with your life is a bad dream.

wake up! and run in the field of reality.

the black and the white is not true.

it is not you.

and it will not go with you when you leave.

http://royanthonyshabla.com