Yes Rainer,

i hear you breathing down the ages,

your hand on the pen

and your heart in the stars.

why should we go crying into

the solitude of time when we have seen from you,

True Beauty?

why should we move silently

when our voices have been given

strange alphabets , now undecipherable?

Only later,

when we are handed the Keys

will we find

these Howling storms

and quiet waters,

Only then shall we annoint

our heads

and move past our Dreams.

2/29/2008 christopher a faulkner

now the future is,

breathing and flaming

a torrent of mystery undeciphered.

the dead wings of a sleeping crowd

are swept away

again and again.

we have no home

just the bleeding of colours

into the spine of beauty.

we have no home,

just the moments

stacked like stone pillars

upon the abyss.


christopher a faulkner translated by chris a faulkner

Sun

as centre

of flower as

petals

are skin

as surface

of Sphere

that beats

like leaf veins

that breath as points

of heat

that birth

as solar wings

that drift like tides

through stone streams

that crack

same as soft

same as sand

piled on high drifting shores,

that breath

like soft heat

like silent petals

like soft silent petals.

10/14/2007 CAF

the Probable

brown softening,

rains clear toward sienna soil.

Underground,

the opening Autumn reveals

Mystery's Blind Eye,

Magician's flying root,

the Physic's of Dark.

this burning lattice of shifting life

flaming toward the Master's Eye,

a birth of unerring desire,

a hovering flame of

scarlet flowering towers

in an infinity of deepest blue.

Now,

these invisible bones fly,

ironblood holding fast

to red metalearth,

remembering

each flickering photon

as it becomes one with

a most improbable World.

9/10/2007  CAF

?how to sleep
when the morning sky calls?
?when the clouds move across
the surface of worlds silently and free?
?when the sky becomes a
pallette of mirrors reflecting
the Original Face?
Yes, how to sleep
when the wings of some
forgotten Bird
fills all dreams
and it's clattering bones
fill the darkness
with flecks of stars?

cf

riding sound and veiling the forms,

the rising wind has left

the clouds for the darkened trees.

lacewinged butterfly

floats on the Light

of a distant Star;

? do you feel the Night

in the folds of your own pocket?

caf 6/2007

 One of the things I have noticed over the years is the similar yet different aspects of poetics versus painting. When I am inspired to write, the access to the creative visual realm seems distant. Conversly, when I paint, the creative word stream is more distant. My guess is that it is a single creative  stream  that my cognitive processes split due to the different symbolic nature of word and visual image.
  With the word, a poetic flow requires symbolic interplay, as well as vibrational rhythm and harmony, image shape, past word meanings and a whole host of other things that I won't go into or haven't thought of.All of which isn't consciously thought of at the time of writing.It just happens. Inspiration. Mysterious.
 With an image, at least for me it is more diffuse than what I described above. An image will come to me in meditation or ? and then the process of translation occurs. I always find that as I work, there is constant feedback within the image and it is perpetually transforming and reacting to itself. It is far more abstract.Ultimately, it is as strange and mysterious act that is an amazing thing to behold. I would guess a songwriting experience would be in this realm as well.
  I am always amazed and grateful for the experience(in the best of times) and consider myself fortunate to be a part of this process of Creation, hovever small it may be.

the Warmth of Waiting

to soon see another place

undifferent from where we are.

Waiting for a flower to Bloom,

waiting for the sea to Part,

waiting for the bell to Sound,

as if we could not know

from our small Window.

caf 2007

i am thinking that the surreal is the real, the normal real is the unreal, and finally, the massive undecipherability of the physical realm is just fine. Understanding is highly overrated, especially as we normally define it. There has to be more than words flowing into tympanic membranes. How can we hear the cosmic octaves? How can we listen to world in ways that allow us to decipher a mass of vibrations into something that is really useful? For this head, surreal is to the side of real, off the atomic lattice of literalism, and on the shadow quality that all these images ride on.Close your eyes and the world dissapears, but what are you left with? What remains? What do you still have? Vapour, smoke and impressions that linger ,more or less, less or more. But off centre, now there's a place to start looking. Anything that allows expectations to be shaken will allow the cracks to form and the Big Light to seep through. And thus it begins.

in the dark folds of Time

one jewel rolled with dust

clattering to the  earth

as some forgotten room.

and in this room a mansion,

a point of departure

where my mind rides

the horizon from

a window on this place.

all trapped within the colour

of  gleaming sapphire 

upon this floor,

within this room,

inside a mind.