Five Poems by Michael E. Theroux, pen name ‘Teru’

 

Divine Remains

 

Strands tangled; the whole set free

So tightly woven in camaraderie

 

What remains, souls run to ground?

Golden threads, stretched to breaking

Whipping shreds snap from moorings

Pull away, leaving small odd wounds

 

Now, low red embers glow

Stars mark time’s slow fall

Chin to knees, hat pulled low

Left to wonder, is this all?

 

This remains, clear soul memories

Crystal sharp colour, taste, sound

The smell, the texture of our lives

Watch these ledge leapers bound!

 

Decades of evenings now descend

So deep, deep into this long decline

Breath catches - we see, my friend

Sparkling mind gems left behind

 

I raise my cup above this small glow

To you that wove your story with mine

And trust in your reverie, you know

Something so common is divine.

 

 

ReBirth

 

What is this blindness?

One eye seeing Earth,

One spying on Man –

            Every lizard known and named

            Each gear, all engines optimized

Then why don’t we understand?

 

Two spinning spheres

In counter rotation

            The birth-death-birth cycle

Must govern all exchange:

Renewal, depletion,

Re-growth through devastation…

 

Once from a stillness,

Through form, into fire

The explosion of creation

Includes its demise

Returning to origins

Of quiet calm presence

The smallest Iota retains its agenda.

 

What is our place,

If not to dance, and move on

            This silliness of anxiety

            Belies the obvious:

There is no line, defining being.

 

Allow the dawn

with each probing ray,

intimate access to your sanctuary

 

for pain of awakening

is the essence of birth,

and rebirth as well,

and ReBirth, as well.

 

 

Fall to Winter in the Valley

 

Morning comes, light filling the bowl of the valley.

The sea of night’s air rises with the day’s warmth.

Sunrise washes the cliffs, wrapping all in promise.

Today I bought tea. Jasmine pearls, and Darjeeling:

seasons change, to Fall.

A brisk wind swirls leaves. Mare's tail clouds shift, far aloft:

mid-morning tea time.

The bowl fills to timberline, by noon, then recedes.

Tiny star holes appear above as the day’s light wanes.

Evening chases the day west, over the valley’s rim.

 

Midnight comes, starlight sparkles above the valley.

The day’s blanket of warmer air thins and settles to brittle cold.

The full moon rises, hushing promises.

Tonight, dark rum spikes hot apple cider:

gone now the Fall; welcome in Winter.

From a clear sky, minute snowflakes swirl

from an approaching eastern cloudbank.

Dense clouds obscure the timberline, slowing advancing.

Soon, stars will blink out as the night’s weight pushes westward.

Behind the storm, a new day follows.

 

 

Redemption Bones

 

To my detriment, I suppose

I continue to hold this odd belief

that there are Redemption Bones

in the framework of us Humans

 

Bones there since Birth scattered among others

holding up the heavy Good while other bones just balance

 

For Good is weighty, and tips one over

when so much of Life just floats along

And Good demands support, O & M

while the rest just asks for Eternity.

 

I’ve argued this point with myself before, with some success

but generally I tend to lose my Case regarding Redemption

 

For most of Me thinks otherwise

we toss those Bones along the way

too much trouble with the up-keep

too darn hard to find Parts

 

And it’s no use asking Others. Oh, they had the same Bones

but if they’re still in place they sure won’t own up to it

 

So there’s the rub:

It ain’t Cool to let others know

about Redemption Bones.

They’ll just want something

 

As long as you don’t appear to have a single Redeeming Bone

other People just pass you by, sniffing elsewhere for tid-bits

 

Every dog just gotta find

its own damn Bones.

Redemption,

or otherwise.

 

 

To My Muse

 

Muse, what seek you here?

In coaxing out my tuneless rhyme

You drop in, and then disappear

You meddle mightily with my time

 

Ghost and Angel, fate or chance

You require so much of me

Nimble nuance of my best Word Dance

Also the worst stumbles, aired publicly

 

A toast then, Muse, to our tête-à-tête

I do know that I like you here

Close, where you can ricochet

My ecstasy off my deepest fear

Michael E. Theroux, pen name ‘Teru’ - Writes incessantly from his home office in Northern California. His careers span includes classically trained botanist, environmental health specialist, green energy developer and resource recovery web site editor. A life-long word smith, his publications have primarily been professional papers supporting these careers; a full CV is available upon request, and see samples on our industrial web site Teru Talk. Now at 72, Michael has done a hard pivot from hard science, and is seeking publication of his cache of art writings, including around 400 poems, stories, memoirs, vignettes and two novels (one complete, the other in progress). Some of his works may now be seen in Down in the Dirt, Ariel Chart, 50WS, Academy of the Heart and Mind and the marvellous Lothlorien Poetry Journal.