Night-blooming
jasmine
Faint traces
of sun
hang
on the horizon
as heavens dim
to indigo rhythms
Alone
no more
as stars begin
to populate
my spirit
& nothing moves
inside my head
Where else
can I die
each night
turning
with the blue absolute
releasing
the most ancient fear
Night-blooming jasmine
flourishes
in the moon's largess of light
Petals
Pale stars
offer
a humbled honey scent
to anyone
awake
in this sweating
greenhouse
I lose my hands
to
long branches
Nectar Is the Best Medicine
Dearest Ghost,
whose name
I've never known,
tell me what you wish
to teach at this time…
David, the world
leans its loud mind
against our
windows,
puts us in a
trance of trepidation,
a palpable
presence in our heads
fed on statistics
of illness
& images of
violent unrest ~
sword to wield
against ourselves,
threaten our
weakest moments
with wounds of
uselessness,
& cowardice,
as we exile our
own power
because we can’t
see we have any.
We are not the
slain victims
of the nightly
news report,
catalog of
atrocities that keep us
held by beds where
we don’t
want to wake up
yet,
threatened by the
thought
of what the day
ahead harbors,
duties done with
distaste
& frightful surprises
that might hide in
blind spots.
What are you
afraid of, David?...
You meet that
question with mute musings.
The deepest answer
is “Nothing.”
Thread the eye of
your heart’s needle
with the string of
continuous awareness,
& stitch a
richer fabric of reality
than what you now
wear
as worldly work
uniform,
customary costume.
We are all cut
from the same cloth…
Bring your
attention to the baseline of
your humanness ~
skin, bone & blood.
Heart which still
beats its bass drum.
Mind which makes
you see what you believe.
Our souls are
steeped in light that turns the universe.
Underneath the
showy poet costume
of the character
you play
on the stage of
the spoken world,
jacket, top hat, & twilight dress-shirt
unbuttoned down to
your heart ~
far behind your
indigo eyes
shines fluid,
formless Consciousness…
Seven billion
minds
of people planted
on this planet,
but only one
Awareness.
Inner lantern
we all carry...
Behind its fiery presence,
& the
driftwood of history in our heads,
plus the endless
train of
anxious
anticipations…
Pause to turn
within
& taste the
fresh nectar
of God’s
intoxicating, hypnotic silence.
Sacred Sound
“How far did you want to open the door?
We have a lot of ghosts in store,”
said a faceless voice
in my lightning dream.
How far can the door
to the unseen safely open,
without being swung ajar
hard in wild winds,
to break its glass on brick?
How far can I go forward
thinking I walk alone?
How long can I, hermit poet, be blind
to my dependence on other human beings?
Forgotten farmers harvested the plants I eat,
factory workers fabricated my shoes,
& women saw the saint in me
when I was a sluggish drunk…
all of whom helped bring me here,
intact, alive, a survivor
supported by lovers
& nameless laborers.
How many of my fleshless ancestors
look for a living voice? How many words
were left unsaid, & how vital,
that they must clamber over the
world’s obscure doorstep,
re-enter the warm human Earth
to find a home inside our hearing,
a nest on which to rest
the wild birds of wise words?
As they say in Germany,
“Who opened the door?”
Which is to say, how did all
these ghosts enter to haunt the sunlight?
The stage door that opens onto
a private green room of ghosts,
bodiless souls filled with ripe words
like the countless seeds of a pomegranate…
let’s let it open one poem at a time,
so it does not consume the flesh
of my youth & health,
the fate of Edward Cayce ~
let it never shorten my life.
The mortal will is never satisfied
with life inside itself alone,
but must open its stone column
at both ends, & let divine breath
freely fill its flute with music,
empty of self & full of love.
I allow the Ghost to come in
from off in the stage’s wings.
David, soften your
brow,
let go of
tension’s grip
that holds your
shoulders high.
What would 3:33am
be
without a spirit’s
visit
to stir your
summer room’s
still-warm air?
I won’t stay long.
Know that the only
valid thing
on which to spend
the valued coins
of time’s ticking
seconds
are practices that
clean
the windows of
your Consciousness.
See ~ when you spent
30 of your night
minutes
to chant in
Sanskrit,
only then could
you hear me.
The silence that
absorbed you
after the last
prayer’s praise & petition
offered a space
for my voice.
When you drank the
daylight hours
into a dull,
drowsy daze,
how could you have
heard
my crying out?
Now let the doors
of your perception
stay open wide a
while longer.
You became strong
enough to surrender
after being
engaged in God’s names
& power for
half an hour.
In order to let go
of driftwood you
let float
upon your mind’s
original silence,
you instead held
onto divine sound
for a space in
time.
Since your unquiet
thoughts have dissolved,
I can share with
you a few final words:
to release the
crows of thoughts that chain you,
all your private
words of prey,
hold on tight to
one good thought ~
your
life-sustaining, grace-bestowing mantra,
Om Namah Shivaya ~
“I bow to Shiva,
the auspicious one, the supreme Self” ~
words of infinite
resonance,
strength & palpable
grace,
the sound-body of
God.
Rotting Rue Dejean
Crowded as a rich man’s funeral,
our short cobblestone street's an ashtray,
lined with crushed plastic espresso cups.
Here fish & flesh are sold,
as well as things
that grow somehow out of soil.
Limp damp cardboard boxes,
cracked peanut shells,
& corn cob corpses
mask this half-pedestrian street
after each day's manic market.
Packed madly among men
who bark back & forth
or into handheld screens,
as the bells of La Basilique du Sacre Coeur
spread a soft sonic blanket
over all this plastic madness.
Dusk drowns rue Dejean
in colourless leftover water
sprayed to clean the street.
On this rotting road
my voice was lost long ago.
Haven’t heard myself speak today.
Don't remember when I last sang.
I can't stand my loud mind.
I spend profound nights
destroying what remains of me.
Rue Dejean makes its final facial expression
after the last fish or fruit is sold.
In every citizen of Earth,
our human constitution is the same.
Hunger always has a hard name.
Show me your apples of the earth,
& I will take what I can get –
then run as far away
as these broken shoes
will take my wet feet.
From Words Heard or Seen in Dreams
II.
“Who are you?”
“I don't know.”
“Then what the hell are you supposed to be?”
“Better & better.”
& keep you
from committing suicide.”
*
“One day she just stopped coming down from her room.
I realized ~ now I have to be the one
to make music in this house.”
was a splintery wooden day.”
*
“People wonder where she’s gone. She isn’t gone at all.”
*
“Her head bowed down
hung ripe as prayer
from broken branches.”
& I need your needs in threes,
like dreams.”
“33 is the resting place
of the Now & seen.”
*
“Remember creativity.
It's better than thinking
about the next infomercial.”
*
“David Leo Sirois is a child-version of a writer.”
*
“I can’t write fast enough!”
*
*
“Work is a family matter.”
*
“How can you sleep so long,
when all this is going on?”
*
“It’s all a mystery of verse,
a cipher of syllables.”
“Nature’s not going to interrupt
your story. Don’t let it
stop your song.”
“The babies lived not alone,
nor to be alone,
or else they would have died.”
*
“Hold onto your brain when you go upstairs.”
*
“Don't suffer from
lack of patience
for the encouragement of dreams.”
*
“This is all about birds…
but we’ll try not to leave
a frog in the kitchen.”
*
“Leo is not doing well.
He was meditating this morning,
& he asked himself,
‘Am I going to die?’”
*
“It just appeared here. I can’t even give it a name.”
“Manifestation.”
*
“What are you going to sing? If you can.”
“I’m going to sing.”
*
“Hanuman, please lead
me where I need
to be.”
“Bleu”
*
“Raise lyricism to the point of pure transcendence.”
*
“Are you watching me make mistakes?”
“From here on in, I will always watch over you.”
*
*
“People who rise up will gather.”
David Leo Sirois is a Canadian-American poet published 134 times, in 21 countries. His work has been translated into 12 languages (Hindi, Bengali, Nepali, French, German, Czech, Spanish, Greek, Romanian, Chinese, Turkish, & Doric). He hosts Spoken World Online, the Zoom continuation of SpokenWord Paris. His first collection is called Humbledoves (poems to pigeons & plants). He won Third Prize in Winning Writers' Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry Contest, & his poetry has appeared in journals such as The Bombay Review, The Poetry Village, One Hand Clapping, Indian Periodical, The Sunday Tribune Online, THE BASTILLE, & Terre à Cièl (which also published his translations from the French). David is often featured at global events, such as the Panorama International Literature Festival, & 100 Thousand Poets for Change, as well as in many international podcasts & interviews. He is also a singer/songwriter, radio DJ, & a film/TV/theater actor. He is currently submitting 5 finished manuscripts for publication, & writing several more.
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