Faithful Silence

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To be faithful to my inner truth

No country can claim my soul

To honour the inner wisdom

No religion can attach to my smile

To satiate authentic travels

No borders will ever prevail

To sing my eternal song to the universe

Requires infinite silence of my mind

One to one with all of life

To Shine, to Be

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Silence all these hidden years

While my pen waited in a broken hand

Biting my proverbial tongue

Before whispering the first word

For fear of disturbing the silent truth

Rejoicing, this voice begs to seek

Permission to share, to colour your dreams

With insights of mountain jungle desert stream

Into your heart I request admittance

To shine, to be

Being the Poem

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Rendered lame by science and facts

Handicapped by history and thought

How might I prevail over the prisons,

So my soul may once again rise?

To dream the fire of the butterfly

Sing the chorus woven by cicadas

Dance the jungle’s rhythm

Hear the ocean’s enigmatic charm

Reaching the full potential of union

Oneness with the world, with the word,

Being the poem

Return of the Unshaven Poet

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Is this any way to return?

Words marching through the rusty pen

Like notes through a musical cadaver

Abracadabra: Smile, a word becomes a phrase

Gentle rhythm simulates an evening rain

The poem searches for a razor

To shave off the dust of un-groomed years,

A vest to complete the literary wardrobe

Where will it find shoes to match?

This new-found fever for poetic flavour

Follows a thousand-day linguistic fast

Where no words were known to flourish

Emerging from behind the ink well

Greyer, yet more agile,

To what melody will he sing?

The Noise that we are Not

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Time for silence, the lull between notes, the pause

Between the movements of the symphony

When the audience coughs and wayward curls are neatly tucked

Behind ears; tangible anticipation

Of the fiery passage on which the violins will soon embark

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Sit on the edge of the strings, knowing that we, too

Will be sawed to pieces, the dust of violins, floating

Gently, rhythmically to the floor of the orchestra pit

To reflect on what we are, the silence

And the noise, that we are not.

Manifesto

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Poetry abounds from drawers and shelves

Unfiled, spewing forth their wisdom and misery

Destined for a market that defies gravity

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Crawling from the wreckage of a thousand broken odes

The grey-stubbled man steps gently on piles of rubble

So meticulously destroyed during the revolution

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Creating a new spirit within the confines

Of a gradually aging corporeal stance

He stands taller now in every measure

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Looking across the fields long left fallow

During the searching and destroying of years

Now so fertile, willing to yield whichever fruits are sown

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The seeds take root, sentence by sentence

Each heart aligns itself with a fresh universe

From which to perceive the evolution

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Of thought that has come thus far, proceeding

To lead us gently by the warmth of his hand

Pursing the vision that shines within

Fire Burns, not Knowing

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Fire burns not knowing the destiny of its flames, knowing only the hot apparitions of arboreal souls being whisked from the trunks of history. Fire dreams of Jazz, Ellington and Davis, Coltrane and Fitzgerald, each on the frontiers of ethereal genius, bowing only to the sun in the magnitude of their fire, dreaming they are fire, burning without hearing the destiny of their songs, only the presence of a cryptic melody, embroidered into the lace of their souls, suavely selected from among the urban noise, allowed to evolve,

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Exhaled through the brass and the strings, the woods and the winds of a present moment, never knowing whose ears will tune in, whose go deaf, who be indifferent to the inner fire, the vital force of the forest, of the mine, of the universal mind, just out of reach of the saxophone’s highest pitch, into vast channels yet unplucked, untuned by delicate fingers, dreaming of the sun, the original fire, the song, the fire, the sun, the poem that transforms back into itself.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda

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Song of Green

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The song of green and a bamboo flute, an ancient twist whose limbs embrace itself, in time, whose children are birds whose children are songs whose tunes are the colors of the rainbow mountains, all in accord with the Argentine sun waning into winter whose colors are dreamt by ice creams while parakeets and arrow birds interweave their melodies, seashell chimes percuss in the Pumamarca breeze waiting, within Om.

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With the coming breath, approaching colors, omniscience of the green, the yogi in the sun, the flight of dreams, a yellow balloon bouncing and bubbling its brief existence down the chalky cobblestone corridor, wiry poplars shade the voices of vendors whose shawls dance ever color of the rainbow, cousins to the parakeets,

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While a poet-mechanic repairs the language of the soul, the tapestry where every sound is a blessing, upon which every step is grace.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda

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Listening to the River

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Listening to the river and reading between the splashes and the stream just what the paternal hand has offered us, in flowing disguise, the secret of existence.

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Reading the sun’s final request upon nearing the horizon, exhausted it would seem to these chilly stones, outstretched shadows, these fallen leaves, but the glitter on the river is ever as golden as the locks of the angel whose fire assures our existence.

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Is this some secret esoteric language that so few understand the sanctity of water, unable to appreciate a sacred space wide enough to spread our souls upon the lawn, without being trampled by the industry of distraction?

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A yellow-breasted native takes flight, before being branded with a collar and a name.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.

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Runaway Train Thoughts stampede along abandoned rails, penetrating, nowhere, forever, into the endless abyss of the present, rhythmically flowing, without motion, ever deeper into the here, the empty everywhere, the mind a runaway train, connecting towns of ghosts and fields of grass, one blade upon the other, a smile and a wink, a whiskeyed frown, the trains that come from history are invisible in the now, and the here is ever still, be so these thoughts that consume the vital breath of life. ! Copyright 2007,Tom Radzienda. !

When to the River Cerro Uritorco, Argentina Can I walk unfettered through the autumn leaves, breathing the chilly mountain breeze and be, just – simply walking being – not on a path, nor a crusade, not coveting higher consciousness nor greater subtlety – Just, walkbe, Unattached to the illusion of my own grandeur, confidently unsure of the boundaries and depths of my being, never sure if I am on the path, off the path, or the incarnate path – being peace, as silently as silence does, with neither reasons nor goals, just Smilebe, Not striving towards the mystical realm in material terms, just, accepting, being, here, neither scientific nor spiritual, proving nor denying, never decreeing nor decrying, ascending nor descending, neither active nor apathetic, neither above nor below, just Gentlebe, In silence- knowing by not; teaching by not; learning by not; equilibrium without measure, every sense firmly contoured within and around me in the presence of absence of a self in a world not bent on defining differences. Silentbe, The autumn breeze whispers the secrets of death to the morning flowers still poising on the drooping stems, to the golden leaves still on the branch, to the thinning hairs still on my head, to the birds too feeble to seek a warmer sun, Nowbe, Eternally in the now of life and here of death, where nary a compass could point to the truth; where only rivers know the secrets of the mountains, the secrets of the rose, When to the river, autumn leaves its place of perch and every lane regales, a walk-in Renoir, the season's final warbles before seeking another sun, blossom the joys of simply being, As a solitary leaf waits for its colours to fade and its name be called, A feather is lost, yet flight. A dog is heard, yet silence. ! Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda. !

What are these Luxuries of Grace? What are these luxuries? Are they superfluous, unnecessary, bourgeois deceits, or are they great gifts beyond deservance, beyond measure; extravagantly simple blessings upon life? What is this grace? Is it the elegant hand of love that transcends reason and measure, bringing the whole of the universe to the very edge where now we sit, presenting the world in all its glory through every grasp of life, the trembling leaves of a whisper tree, the enigmatic shadows that fall upon the dale beneath the bridge, the invisible songs of autumn that sing from upper limbs, cold rippling waters drumming the stones that carve the river bed, This warmth where the sun falls, this breath of crystal air, humongous untouched trees looming over their shadows, minuscule hummingbirds on the cusp of nectar's tongue, dogs at play with the shadows of creation, berries along the path of friendship, a kite's own wind and the very sound of your name – all – magic – all – luxuries – all blessed. Grace. ! Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda !

Morning Epiphany Capilla del Monte, Argentina To be this sacred day, nurture the silence, Within; savour the simplicity of a banana ripe from the jungles of Ecuador, slice with surgical precision, divine attention, release the primal energy, within, from the eternal spring of the Argentine sierras, tap the water to brew the tea of the morning epiphany, within, invite the universe to your soundless altar, serve forth the virgin meal; share the inner light. Come to witness that every word, every sip and every taste, is the essence of our universal selves. The dandelion stares up at the sun and perceives its own inner mind, reflecting upon Its eternal presence. ! Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda. !

Tears of the Sun Capilla del Monte, Argentina This is the Stream, where sunlight engages a million bubbles and calls each one home, for a moment, until each bubble sings its infinitesimally brief elegy before bursting into a tear, returning, its sequence complete, to flow further into the southern arms of Autumn in the sierras, of consciousness. This is the Stream, of stones bathing naked at the afternoon's foreclosure, rinsing free from a day of colours ever on the wing, beneath three bridges that pursue the mountain chapel, where grace is evidence of a fallen tree, bursting with the green of life, despite its roots upended by the wear and tear of seasons upon the soil, upon the shores, of consciousness, Where golden leaves express their final opinions of the grazing sun. ! Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda. !

The Measure of a Song Capilla del Monte, Argentina In the garden come forth flowers; reach forth visions. Upon the autumnal rise of an increasingly reluctant sun, pour the poignant rays of life to which every creature on this land wills its dance; its first and last; and every step in between. Which song is this? This long breath of a season's magical touch, composing infinite colours from the chatter of parakeets, proposing grace for the feet and wings of all who accept the dance. Even for the stones which lie dormant and inert, these songs are duly remembered and treasured all the same, even without a smile or a step, basking in the measure of the sun. Where falls the sun, there sits the man beside the river, himself a shadow of a greater wisdom, knowing that nothing can be truly measured; only experienced. ! Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda. !

The Harp of Autumn Capilla del Monte, Argentina When autumn opens its heart to reveal The bounty of colour held within its awe We are lured into the silence of crystal blue skies Whose breast embraces the depth of our souls Water of the sacred mountain trickles divine Tickling forth sounds incumbent in every stone Music streams through the fingers of the fall Its rocky rhythm beats to the accord of our hearts What hand have I in this glory? In this luxury of creation? What mind have I in this music? In this festive Grace? What song sing I in natural magic? In humble silence? My final words strung upon the gently falling leaves Of the autumnal harp ! Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda. !

Into the Absence of Time Capilla del Monte, Argentina This mild river was then just a dream of the rain, fallen to its wrinkled knees, petitioning the mountain for a chance to flow forth into the absence of time with the simplest directions by which to base every decision – Always and unfailingly towards the sea. ! Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda. !

Gliding through Silence La Cumbre, Argentina Silence. The chill of a late autumn morning, beneath grey cloudy blankets; a hot green tea bubbles, waiting for grace to be shared amongst the spirits of dawn, before the sun can gather its rays to pierce the heavy mist, before the city begins its chaotic roar. Wild green parakeets alone are intimate to the wisdom of sounds, and sing each their inherent delight; friends to silence, for they respect it most profoundly, Gliding precisely through silence On delicate wings, thus preserving its sanctity, while accenting it with the colours of evolution, lifting the smiles and souls of those of us still. ! Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda. !

Autumn Grace Capilla del Monte, Argentina The Luxury of a garden lunch, beneath a simple blue décor: The final ears of spinach are crisp to the cold Hearty peppers suggest the need for a warmer coat And boiling soup of potatoes and carrots to arouse The final warm embers that will soon embrace another night Creatures still abound; those in for the long Haul of colder and windier nights Whose afternoon chirps belie the quickly dipping sun; Not exhausted, exactly, but none of the fiery truth That once burned in summer veins Read this page, fresh from autumn, grace Songs of a voice hidden among barely clad limbs Greet hungry viewers; no; participants all In the Global touch of Autumn Grace, just now arriving At the Chapel on the Mountain; a show well rehearsed, But nevertheless spectacular in its subtlety. We, none of us, may merely witness and observe We, all of us, sing too our songs, brew too our soups Change too our colours, fall to our knees In humble awe of Autumn Being Within ! Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda. !

A Better Man Not by words he tells a story long, Winding and cold from mountains beyond the pines, But by sounds of pebbles and bubbles Thrushing branches fallen in his wake Through high season and dry, when he often disappears Between gusts of wind and furious rains, when he roars Always a tale, for those inclined to listen, Without exaggeration nor once a lie, The river is by far a better man than I. ! Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda. !