A sharp knife

by Chris Ernest Nelson

All feelings have become ferocious in me
and draw a sharp knife across my heart.
I have been tamed by the authority of my
enthusiasm that submits only to rapture.

At the sight of beauty, the apprehension
of compassion or the witness of tenderness,
I am carried to a paradise of introspection,
to the celestial altitude of human potential.

I feel the crisp chill air of the mountaintop,
the stunning force of the ocean’s wave, the
strain of worn muscles nearing exhaustion.
My heart is an instrument of deep discovery.

You cannot know how tears cloud my eyes,
as a look, a color, a melody lift me skyward.
If only you could see the way I turn my head to
hide my emotions as they break the surface.

I have a fortune greater than money or land
to bequeath and no heirs in flesh to receive it.
I am full to overflowing with fondness and
the perfection of love’s promise and reward.

From my earliest days, I learned little of love
from those who were obliged to teach it.
I learned it from others who came to me
of their own accord in trust and affection.

Though unsure, I accepted the gifts they gave.
And in the magical milieu of meaning, we forged
abiding bands that grew in strength in spite of
heartache and loss, and shone like hot metal.

All feelings have become ferocious in me
and draw a sharp knife across my heart.
My dear friends, you have made me familiar
with pain and rich in the measure of being.

Coming and going

by Chris Ernest Nelson

My mind entertains small thoughts,
flashes lasting only seconds.
Then they disappear.

Again new images pose to trip my
senses and restore memories
counting every step.

The night wakes to become day.
Youth is a poor disguise for age.
Lovers rise then sleep too soon.
Passions burn fast,
regrets smolder long.
The sun rises and sets.
Eyes follow it east to west.
Light is swallowed by darkness
again.

I smell coffee in the shop,
I pass by.
I hear a child calling,
I look away.
I feel a chill in the air,
I button-up.
I see an obstacle in my way,
I turn so as
not to stumble.

They come and go,
a smile,
a stance,
a shadow,
a flash,
a failing,
a farewell,
a memory,
and forgetting.

My own ghost

by Chris Ernest Nelson

I am one who goes down to the coast,

to the cliffs at the water’s edge,

to wait for my ghost to come back to me–

coming my way, calmly conveyed

on cautious clouds.

I am one with light in his eyes,

the mercurial light of a setting sun.

I take the breeze like the sturdy ship

that flies from dusk on rolling seas,

full tight in its surging sails.

I am one who expectantly waits for

my ghost to return from the deep,

away from the sunset in the watery west

and secrets from the dark void, where

leviathans conjure vain dreams.

I am one who answers the call

to journey across the wide willing sea.

Circling with oracle birds and blue skies,

I raise my arms to welcome the night and

embrace the ghost who comes for me.

Reflections

by Chris Ernest Nelson

When I walk in the city there are many
distractions in the steel, concrete and glass.
I see myself passing in windows
of shops and cars.
I see my shadow cunningly
cast upon the pavement.

Though I recognize myself,
I appear comically deformed–
fatter, thinner, taller, shorter–
my face and body twisted by the
shifting surfaces and lights.

I watch how my shadow follows or leads,
or walks at my side like a friend.
I watch him as he moves with grace
and relentless self-confidence.

I think often how my shadow touches the
earth, how he appears permanent in his place,
its ever-running place.
If I concentrate hard enough,
can I plant him in the hard pavement?
Can there be some memory of his passing
rooted deep in the concrete?

In and out, in and out,
the living being is breathing.
In to the body, the private domain,
with its apprehensions and desires,
in to the playground of tumultuous time.

Then out to the universal soul,
exhaling itself out to expanding light
and blissful understanding–
out to a timeless satisfaction.

When he was a child,
he thought himself a singular creation.
As he grew to manhood he recognized
his parents in his mannerisms and his thoughts.
He tasted his character and found it a dish
prepared to a standard recipe written
on many a highway billboard he passed…
his passions, his appearance, his genius
still waiting in line for a prize.

How often do you think of all the ones
you loved who never knew?
Remember how you would timidly approach
and smile in hopeful homage?
Remember how you would linger close
long after everyone else had departed?
Remember how warm it felt
when you touched;
how there was a radiant echo of it
when you pulled away?

Will anyone think thus of me
and for how long
when I am gone?

Real monsters

by Chris Ernest Nelson

Since fireside chants with throbbing drums,
since beating hearts fed to insatiable gods,
and carefully staged horrors on video screens–
there have been fantastic monsters that
threaten, terrorize and thrill.

Imaginary monsters, ugly and grotesque,
with dripping bloody tongues and a taste
for gore that is not satisfied, haunt our
racking nights and threaten from shadows,
closets and dreams.

They cannot harm us, we delight in fear,
exaggerate the danger with a shrieking glee,
that leaves every clutching couple gasping.
These imaginary beasts actually comfort us
because they cannot catch and kill.

But there are real monsters that grow inside
and outside us all, that we cannot appease.
Real monsters made known by piercing pains
and x-rays, by unwelcome telephone calls,
by two solemn soldiers at the door.

Passions

by Chris Ernest Nelson

The Autumn world round has
gone to seed and bare–
only those who love will keep
their blossoms and their leaves
through hoary winter’s deep, and
thus blithely adorned welcome
Spring with flowering green.

Shall such a two delight that
warm the sheets as icy storms
pound shuttered panes, and
who’s passions like spitting
fire are eager in the hearty heat;
then like two fat mice, sleep till
Spring dispels the Winter chill?

The garden shall give testament
to the possibilities of love–
hard earth, some broken ground,
the planting of twin seeds;
that in the frozen earth sleep
sound till the tender sun begs
them render-up their fancy.

Bound

by Chris Ernest Nelson

Who can stop the earth when it trembles?
Who can command the surging tide to ebb?
Who knows why atoms cooperate in matter:
why the earth bends in obedience to the sun;
why the clock advances second by second?

I woke today taking my freedom for granted,
but I was bound to my world,
bound to my work,
bound to my companions,
bound to my body,
and bound to my life.

Who can add one day to the calendar of his life?
Who can preconceive adventures yet to come?
Who knows the movements in another’s heart,
why they rejoice when faced with challenges,
why they shed tears alone when the sun sets?

I looked at my face in the mirror and accepted
I was bound to muse,
bound to move,
bound to laugh,
bound to love freely
and bound to you,
my friend, forever.

The speed of light

by Chris Ernest Nelson

I hear a far-away dog bark,
when the night is still awake
and the occasional lights wrap
themselves in downy mists
for comfort.

I know why his sad voice
is calling for my friend.
After some weary minutes,
even farther away,
almost beyond hearing,
I catch a faint echo.

My musings are like
shooting stars,
my ideas like the dark
silhouettes of trees
at the edge of my horizon.
My confusions are like
lost leaves under my feet.

My longings find a home in
the haunted underbrush.
Vapors descend from the
high untouchable heavens
and linger as hushed hopes.

I have heard,
but cannot know,
that all matter is
really slow light.
I have heard,
but strive to know,
that God is love.

If so, then all I can behold
with my mind,
or see with my eyes,
or touch with my hands,
is in substance
Slow Love.

Meetings

by Chris Ernest Nelson

As the earth turns itself toward tomorrow
and galaxies spin through the circus of
heaven, we meet and meet again.
We always meet and always will.
Life is a perpetual gathering
of hellos.

From the first sight– to abiding friendship–
to the unwelcome sadness of goodbye,
we turn and then we circle back
for one more chance to gladly
recognize each other all
over again.

A leaf drops

by Chris Ernest Nelson

One short step,
one breath exhaled,
one unsaid goodbye,
one last beat of the heart–
the journey into death
is nothing more than
stepping from a shadow
into the sun.

So easy to surrender to
the gentle touch of angels,
so simple to reach for
the irresistible Light.
A sigh,
a leaf drops,
a wave rolls to shore
and dissolves into foam,
foam opens itself to sky.