I give you my heart
I will write and write until my blood comes onto the words,
veins and sinews strung amidst the letters,
tugging on my heart,
until my heart is drawn from my chest out in horrific purity,
and wound up into the words,
beating and beating,
so raw and disgusting that you cannot look away,
something true is happening here and now,
there is nowhere else to look,
you must watch this here, now,
watch in horrific fascination, waiting for it to end,
so you can rest and try to get back to things.
But dear god, I am bleeding for you,
stay here with me,
everything I do is for you,
and my eyes wander up to you,
looking for that light at the end of the tunnel.
You are my light,
You are my light,
You are my light.
On the Brink
In my mind, a heavy drama unfolds.
The sad and constant drums of war-beat people seeking unity in common opposition,
The sirens of sadness building their high momentum for the wounded and dying,
I see a crowd of government and suited petty thieves, with drug-tumblers and grimy dirty,
Blips and short blinks of light in the night – Fearful sex-men and other gimmicks of not-knowing.
A dog chasing its tale in the living room, to the loving laughter of the bright angels,
All the scrappy fear-driven crimes of man feel like crumbs at the table of suffering.
It is crimes that weigh on the hearts of lovely giants, these crimes feel criminal,
Einstein feels the a guilty burden of atomic warfare clouding his awe-struck love,
And this loss, this burden on his light, is felt deeply across the world. Anger & outbursts.
To be a lover of harmony and science, and in one’s love, to have done wrong.
To have committed a crime against humanity. You see, it is wrong to love so freely.
As we have always suspected, love is up to no good. It would be better to sit in silence,
and choke one’s soul quietly. It would be better to sit on the sidelines.
It would be better to check thoroughly before one loves, double-check just to make sure.
With every love-thrown instinct, who knows what crimes might be unleashed upon the world?
I sit here, in my love, quaking. Wondering if I am to break this fragile game.
My heart trembles with possibility, at the next breath, at the next thought, at the next move.
Will he really go forward with it – this radical fiend of the universe, bearing the mark of the unknown?
He is a demon – or a child. He is not to be trusted. He is a heretic and a rabble-rouser.
He is a lover and a free spirit. I cannot quite figure him out but I am certain of one thing.
Judge and jury, this is a man who can no longer be reasoned with. He is beyond reason.
We must, if we are to make any progress – We must take him out.
I hate to say it but enough is enough.
Would you like your life shaken to its core? Do you really want your home to crumble?
Is it not enough to face your daily bills and duties – do you now need another rogue on the streets?
Tell him to be silent ~ Tell him to shut up. Send him somewhere small and cramped, where his voice will not be heard… Please, do not waste a moment. Not a moment.
This life demands your immediate action. Save yourselves, brothers. Save yourselves!
Then nothing!
Actively nothing!
The sound of breathing, in a love and stillness-drenched moment.
Just breathing.
The Waterbearer
Today was in the landscape of sound – I have put together my first professional song and am now calling it “The Waterbearer.”
Hours since making it, I listen to it again and it sounds new and different from while I was making it. I am declaring it a pleasant success, and am moving on to my second song.
How was it made?
In a similar way that Bjork makes her music – all electronically, alone, herself. I am using Garageband – every note is played by me – in this song, there are 15 tracks – I play them individually on a keyboard and layer them on top of eachother, selecting very natural-sounding electronic instruments. For example! In this song, I’ve used the Chinese Erhu Violin, yes – and if you listen to the song, the violin is unmistakable. I’ve also used an African drumkit, a tripped-out Sitar, Tibetan Singing bowls, a Celtic Harp, an Indian Bansuri Flute, and my very own African Choir. They’re friends of mine. They like to eat mega-bytes and they’re staying in a guest house inside of the Macintosh.
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Yes, please comment to let me know that you’ve heard it. And subscribe.
The Dance is not Mine
The sun is a grace on our shoulders,
and I know not the difference between my selves.
No poetry can speak of a soul, but oh can it try!
I approach the pain (“my” pain) as flavors,
like a person slowly tasting a type of ice-cream, and tasting,
and tasting – not stopping to ignore the flavor.
And I taste the thoughts that follow,
each one deliciously subjective – Oh yes, me!
And so here it is,
this pain,
swimming in my body,
peaking on the horizon of discomfort,
Only here and now,
I watch it, and I become its lover.
And then a sweet thing happened,
The pain delivered me to their feet, in reverence,
and I see myself worshipping the precious life within them,
though I have often despised them in my sadness.
I see myself yearning to love them,
to unfold my love for them,
and to be true – to no longer play games on them.
They are too easy to trick, I say – and I’ve felt for so long that the games carry a sad cruel tinge to them.
I yearn to love them – to end our games together.
Then we will be lovers, they and I – and endlessly so.
How could this love end when “they” and “I” – when “we”, when “it” is forgiven all wrongs?
I look at myself and the world and anything,
all inside of me – the whole mess,
It’s on the table, tumbling around.
It doesn’t stop and,
from judging eyes,
it all looks cockeyed, imbalanced, wrong, imperfect,
fucked, unfair, crude, bastardly, incomplete, needing a bit more of this and that – and so it is.
But let it go,
Let it all go,
Let it go,
Let it all go – and who cares – who has ever cared.
No one has ever cared, but CARE. Truly care.
The actor who cannot leave the stage, has only the choice but to act.
Let the actor be. He plays it well. Let him be.
Let him ride the effortless wave of his personal truth.
It’s the only thing anyone can do, is it not?
Who cares where he’s going?
Love is his internal compass – and so he’s blameless.
Yes, he’s prideful, and incomplete – he knows that of himself.
And so let him be – let him find new pathways to love, that is his only goal.
He yearns to love them – to end his games with them.
He is lovely – and what a collection of attributes.
Find him in the Great One.
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please subscribe to my posts in the upper right – and I enjoy comments. Thanks. R
Below Me, Over Me, Through Me
“Oh! – Bright light!
It’s Bright, so Bright!
No effort at all,
Through day or night.”
How sweet they are,
his glowing eyes,
the metropolis son,
now knows both lives.
“Dark underground is Love as well,
for Love is This,
say ‘heaven’ – say ‘hell’.
No time for thinking,
Now it is.
In Love, inside,
The savior lives.”
It is! it is!
The world ain’t fair,
But he don’t care,
“Only eyes that think it,
see it’s there.”
He one holy roller.
He got true sense, and lies all day.
“Don’t ask for more. That’s all,”
He say.
“Afraid? Let it be,
For I am you, and you are me.
The one thing I can tell you is,
YOU GOT TO BE FREE!”
The Secret of the Rye Sisters
Watch it fullscreen, and load.
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CREDITS: Starring Roger Ingraham, Tarynn Wiehahn, Shannon McCarthy, and Roger C. Ingraham (my father). Collaborative writing with cast and director.
NOTES: Co-written and shot in one very spontaneous evening. Part 2 may or may not be available – waiting for an available editor. Interested editors please email me.
Roger Ingraham – Directed, Edited by
Towards home.
It’s a slippery slope you’re climbing,
Oh, and you’re climbing alone.
It almost feels as if there’s wind,
but it’s not wind.
Life has taken you,
and you’re wet with the moment,
your eyes see snippets of worlds,
that come rushing in as waves -
At the pond,
The sky bleeds in vibrant pink and blue,
impressing onto the mind great splendor and capacity.
the water below whispers peace, and reflects the sunset.
You take off your clothes and jump in the pond,
You’re swimming in the sky, so close.
Down the road,
the cement and earth around the railroad tracks,
speaks simply of barren-ness.
And through the walls of the mill building,
you hear a band practice.
An electric guitar howls, screaming above the rest,
Rage, it says. Rage. And you smell something of their lives, and budding ambition.
The town brings in more,
and more -
the cars and the people,
you can feel a many-ness, something splintered.
They look you over nervously as you pass.
Then look elsewhere for something else.
They talk as they eat their ice-cream,
A tiredness carries in their tone of voice,
You feel it as if it’s real.
Tiredness of living, of agreeing,
tiredness of forcing smiles without thinking,
tiredness of tiredness.
The moment their icecream is done, they’re gone,
Everything goes into a car and hurries home.
Night has descended,
And cast a dark blue across all things,
The decorative lamps along the riverside glow,
and you pause to take it in.
Your body is warm with its own intimacy,
As you walk,
you find a caress in each breath.
alone, you dance in yourself,
up the hill towards home.
The Little Human Omah.
| The sun is father. Life is his gift. Little human Omah depends on sun more than anything else in the physical realm. Mother earth feeds Omah from her roundness.Her fruits give him life. She turns herself in a bed of stars in order to expose herself to the father – and in this bountiful process, life is shared with Omah and the rest of the little humans.
Meanwhile, Omah is very busy, moving around like a fly, trying to wrap his head around things too big for such a little head. He has concluded that the sun is merely another star in a large universe, whose death is inevitable. He inspects the sunspots, photographs the surface. He dissects the sun into facts, and knows himself as great to have encompassed something of the giver of life. While talking with others, Omah laughs at the myths of the Greek Gods and makes them foolish. He says the sun god and the moon goddess are objects of fools. But little human Omah is unhappy. Deeply unhappy. And this he cannot explain. Years pass by, and no matter how large the object he wraps his little head around….he is still unhappy. Omah wakes one day, surrounded by life – and he chooses to no longer bear an ounce of unhappiness. He ceases to try to place value on anything that can be seen. How should he know the value of a fly, much less, the sun? And in this choice, everything becomes simple. He looks up at the sun like a child again, and feels the ever-giving warmth. And he knows in his heart that, of this warmth, he needs to know nothing. Life before was an endless search for value. Now, he feels like a child again – free to simply be. And what is the most enjoyable way to be? He asks this to himself. And he feels the answer arise in his heart. To Love. To love! He chooses to love constantly. He decides, most simply, to love and be pleased with himself. This works wonderfully and his days pass by with ease. No matter what happens, he feels love. And new realizations come from this. He finds that in loving himself, others love him. And a new joy arises. He finds that, in loving himself, he loves others too. And they love him as well! The little human Omah who loves turns a bird into a god with wings. He turns his lover into God herself. And for him, all things small and great bear the mark of the gods. His whole world is a foolish endeavor of impossibility. He has discarded his skeptical and judicious search of value. He acts as if there were an endless supply of love – as if love would never ever end. And with this approach, all things reveal themselves. |
May Unfolding.
These are some of my works done in the month of May.
A HEARTSTRING.
(photo by Miss Jamie Dee – Post-process by myself)
DAY OF REST.
April Rain.
A series of works done in April 2009.
SILENCE.
HOW MANY TIMES?
A STEP BEHIND.
I AM DEATH.
May’s Round of Poetry
THE QUIET BOASTING OF LOVE.
Cooo, she woos.
Cawww, he replies, with light in his eyes.
The crow and the sparrow,
Struck in the chest by cupid’s arrow.
Beyond the clouds they make their flight,
A sun nest by day, a moon nest by night.
Beaks together, flapping feather to feather,
He whispers: Love, Let’s not be afraid,
Only in this moment is our love made.
In this moment’s bright glow,
Where there’s no “yes” or no “no.”
And oh! What a dream we share
To fly so high,
Where the stars sing us nightly a lullaby.
And when it’s our turn,
and our sweet song is sung…
Oh, see, it heightens the night!
How the blanket of stars twinkles ever so slightly…more brightly!
So the story goes.
He says: Good night sweet sparrow.
And she says: Good night dear crow.
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A STRANGER IN MY NAME.
There was a stranger in my name.
He wore my clothes and stalked the town.
He drank cheap and swore,
He stole from the poor and worm-tongued the rich,
I think, once, he was seen chasing a woman into an alley.
He was a peculiar and angry fellow.
While he was around, I couldn’t show my face.
Now that he’s gone,
I come out and I tell you: He wasn’t me.
He wasn’t me.
I swear, forgive me – he wasn’t me.
Early 2009 Short Pieces
DONKEY, HORSE, MAN & GOD
.
There once was a donkey that bore many burdens until he knew himself to be a horse.
There once was a horse that bore many riders until he knew himself to be a man.
There once was a man who prayed to the gods for strength…
.
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.
ALL HAPPENING WITHOUT YOU
(song)
I am free,
we can kill time all day,
and it won’t injure eternity;
Don’t give ear to my song if I sing out of tune.
But if you listen to the choir,
be there please something new.
Let’s not talk or dream of freedom,
When nothing holds us down.
Every thing passes by the…
silence behind the sound.
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THE ONE DEFINING FACTOR
Today’s lines are different than they were yesterday. I go by one name but I’m not one thing – I’m constantly changing, different every moment. Is all I am a mishmash of who I see and what I do – what foods I eat, whose eyes I stare into?
If so, I should never deny myself the greatest food and the greatest eyes on this plentiful earth – for only then can greatness be multiplied.
If not, where can I find a version of myself that isn’t so transitory – that doesn’t sway with the opinions of my friends, that can love without wavering.
.
