Scent Of An Oak

The scent of an oak
can heal you.
It’s presence is now and forever.
The time of a tree
stops and continues.
Ways that we mostly cannot be
though the universe curls its mystery
all around and all around us.
Weep, weep, weep,
eternally child-like human.
Kiss the hard, tight bark with
soft lips and
touch the trunk with
tender hands fated to age.
Outliving the creatures of
the forest,
she breathes so much slower
but deeply gives her respirations
to all those kinds of Earthlings,
the kind and the despots,
taking their spirits
up to her tops
and lifting them to the winds
of the sun,
whether in hope, metaphysics,
or death,
sail them on to white-light and
never-ending kingdoms.

The scent of an oak
can heal you.

So breathe, breathe, breathe,
kiss her hard, tight bark.

The Tao Or Zen Of Making Your Partner’s Bed

There’s something to be said
about the Tao of making
your partner’s bed.
Maybe not exactly the Tao,
but probably more like the zen of it.
That is;
the joy and fulfillment of doing
and the beingness while doing so.
Because with deep, passionate
love for her
it brings me big, infinite,
self-pausing joy
to do something that will ease her mind
and give her a soft pause
of breath for a moment
when she comes home alone
later in the day
and finds the perfectly made bed.
Lord, the pleasure of being lost
in the focus and meticulousness
of a cause beyond oneself.
If this is not zen
then perhaps it’s love.
Or perhaps zen and love
are both one in the same and
and all of this together is what
Lao Tzu called the Tao.

Solaris Hymn 40

This mortal earth
aside
the millionaire denies it,
the egotist claims her
and in missing the light,
shadows,
and calculus
of Solaris,
the revelation of suffering
avoids them.

So they only pass,
leaving unloved children
to repeat their wrath
and continue
the cycles of mortals.

O hold up you high
Piraeus’ glass at midday
and know
the wealth of nothingness.

Socrates is there
with wild hair
on the bed made by slaves
still dreaming.

Sappho is dead, just dead.
Her corpse wrapped in
loins.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

As Molt The Superlands

In the first 100 days
we welcomed you as bone

through the corridor of the white temple,

next we enter the brown one,
for era
and its sunlight.

The beige cities pass on the way
and you walk the outskirts of the crowded districts,

like tourists, you count your days there,

but harvesters with celestial migrations bring
crops, dust, and pollinators
in from the orbitals

until at the last changing of color
you throw away your ribcage,

as you no longer need it,

pressed and known into terrestrial soil,
been done and dispersed in the rain.

Clouds come and go like spaceships
for the bodies
in the journey through the temples.

SuperNations are inconsequential,
as are Kingdoms and SuperLeaders,
encoded information.

The orb is everexistent.

The word is priyama,
the body priyamay.

The deliverance has been delivered.
The breath is threshed.
The stars are ponies.

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

A Heart Of Elasticity

I’m building a heart,
building a heart,
building a heart of elasticity.

With olive oil, heartbreak,
stress and disease,
smoking and running,
failure and fiendism,
I’m building a heart of
elasticity.

A net of the universe,
a fabric of breath,
a bender of molecules,

I build a new heart
and the old heart
inside of me,
the same singing heart
and the super-heart ringing
in the net
of the beat.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Krixba Star

Fruit in the night
by my solitary self
is freedom
the nationed ones cannot know

the nationed ones look to windows
to know
counting through filters
what one is to be told

revive the baptisms of the satellites

the nationless does know
the fruit in the night
and
what love can spell

how love knows to hold bones
or tell them
the truth of
what home is

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin