Poems
Stuart McNair
Crossing a Bridge
33 Poems, copyright 2009
"mind" - Aug, 2003
the selfish mind,
believing itself strong
like a pillar of marble,
scatters like a trail of smoke
at the slightest gust
from the world of things.
the aware mind, though,
making itself humble
like a puddle of still water,
moves at the lightest breath
from the mouth of the creator.
"the spirit loves the senses" - April, 2004
jesus said
become like a child,
and that's because
the spirit is childlike.
it's natural state is play.
it likes to run in the sand,
spread its toes in the silt,
and bathe its feet in the
ocean's warm edge.
it also likes to eat food cooked over a fire,
smell flowers in the spring,
and taste a lover
as if discovering her
for the first time.
the five senses are the way
that the spirit experiences creation.
a spirit stares out to another
through two blinking eyes,
and two eyes blink back.
the stone-faced like to say that
control of the senses is the key to the kingdom.
maybe so, but the senses should be controlled
like a garden is controlled.
prune, weed, and cut,
because that's what ensures
growth, life, and the yield.
"thoughts from the corner table"- March, 2004
do you believe that you
invented the human ear,
with it's rods, cones, and curves?
do you believe that you
invented the human eye,
with it's mirrors, mysteries, and nerves?
the tounge, with it's lipses and lapses?
the brain with it's synapses?
the heart with it's sinnews and valves?
the human reproductive system?!
do you believe that you,
the cocksure wobbly gentleman
brutally mocking the singer
in this half-empty
mostly forgotten beer joint
while he tries to do a decent thing
singing to us drunks,
do you believe that you
invented the human reproductive system,
with it's spills, spurts, and sparks?
"outside the bar" - Oct 2004
(record needle is placed on copy of "kind of blue" by Miles Davis. piano intro begins.)
i'm standing outside the bar.
it's just about closing time,
but i'm not in much of a hurry
to move on yet.
there's drizzle around the streetlamps
and it's cold and black,
but it's not too bad, really.
distant hum of traffic,
but nothing close. it's
pretty quiet out here by now.
(trumpet solo begins)
it occurs to me that the universe,
taken as a whole,
is in essence a very relaxing place:
it's our minds that freak us out,
making us re-live our worst-cases
with nothing to show but age.
the rivers, the bees, the rings of Saturn,
they succeed without worry every time.
"it must be pretty cozy to be so at the center
of God's fragrant brain", i think to myself.
(record scratches, then total silence)
wait, what's the problem?
am i losing you, dear reader?
What, too abstract?
need something for your
precious little senses?
alright, look.
there's lots of explosions and collisions out there,
accidents and near misses, flames a-swirling and whirling,
but what could be more peaceful than an
eternal spray of stars?
(record resumes)
"butterflies" - Aug, 2004
using words
to describe love
is like
using a hard bamboo brush
to paint butterflies.
"reincarnation" - Jan 2005
plucked from an energy field,
just a tiny ripple,
a speck of light
brought down
like a single raindrop
from a cloud,
a baby appeared.
she came here because she had to learn to love.
born into chaos and imbalance,
it took fifty years of red hot anger
before a little beam of light
broke into her exhausted mind.
now we've made it through,
and the pain doesn't carry on anymore
in any of us.
when mother goes back to the energy field,
she'll go back as a higher being,
perhaps an angel.
and when she comes back here,
we'll know her as she shines
like a brand new star:
a light where there was once
only darkness
"The Letter" - April, 2005
i've decided to stop drinking
when I get your letter.
when and only when
you finally break your silence
and let me know what's going on
in that crooked little heart of yours.
the power is in your hands, love.
only you can stop
the advance of the crow's feet
and the decline of the liver.
really, sweetheart, I'm hurting and cut off.
i just pray that soon
your letter will arrive,
like a petal on my doorstep,
to stop the madness.
"A Summer Rain" - July, 2005
"I can't make rain", laughed the old man.
"If I live to be a million, I still won't be able
to make one drop of the stuff."
He spoke softly and slowly,
like you do when you're watching
an animal in the woods.
He was completely in awe.
"Every drop is perfect, and there are millions of them."
We were sitting at the edge of the porch.
The old man had been sleeping in my loft,
having been "evicted" from somewhere
somehow, and a couple of us on the block
had agreed to help him. I had given him a week,
and the week was almost up.
He had talked constantly, but this was the first time
I had listened.
"It's like a perfect titty", he said. "Give me a million
years, and I couldn't make a titty either."
The rain picked up.
"But somebody created it. I don't know if it's god
that makes rain or if god is the rain. Is god behind
what we see, or is he what we see? Hell, I don't know
if this is god or if that is god..I don't know if god is god."
Then we just listened. Drops of rain fell through the leaves,
onto the tin roof, and onto the muddy ground.
"The man makes poetry come out of his mouth," I thought.
"Millions of words, perfectly formed. His words are like
a trumpet singing sweetly in the night."
"I can't make the stuff," said the old man,
"but the rain sure is nice
here in the summer."
"understanding" - April 2005
understanding what the universe is
is not necessary for living
a healthy, fulfilling life.
i know a dog who
knows how to play, eat, fuck,
give love, sleep, eat, fuck,
sleep some more, play, and give love.
He doesn't know that there are
other galaxies, and he sure as hell
doesn't know about quantum physics,
parallel evolution, reincarnation,
or anything like that.
still, he does ok.
right now he's licking the plate
under the table by my feet,
and his tail is a-waggin'.
"the little altar "- June 1, 2005
i have a little altar in my house.
really it's just a collection of stuff
on the corner of a table.
candles, an incense burner,
a few notable gifts from over the years:
a handmade necklace,
a stained glass kaleidoscope, and
a silver dollar someone once
dropped into my tip jar.
there is an arrowhead and a starfish.
some political buttons, some iraqi money
a soldier buddy once gave me.
but it's not complete until June each year,
when the gardenias come into bloom.
you can smell them a block away
when they finally explode onto the scene,
so i'll go get me one for the altar,
usually at dusk.
No one has ever caught me
creep into their flowerbed
just long enough to separate me
a ripe white blossom or two,
complete with a few
deep green leaves.
for a while I felt guilty about it:
afterall, I'm damaging a living thing.
Still, I think my Karma's good on this one.
Thing is, gardenia flowers
turn yellow and wilt pretty quickly
on the bush, and the bush lives on.
if that one tiny expression of love
is going to wilt soon anyway,
it might as well come inside,
give its heavenly fragrance to a place
that has awaited its presence
so patiently for so long,
and die in our loving arms.
"long, long time" - June 2005
it's been a long, long time.
a vast sea coming together,
fire raining down upon it.
a comprehensible start
but an incomprehensible end,
when life, fragile as an egg,
finds its power.
water, soft as a sigh, rolls
a thirty foot rock for miles,
until it reaches the spot
from which it will witness
the slow rise of the spirit.
consciousness evolves
and takes over everywhere,
until the seemingly separate
spirits of the universe,
like hexagon scales on a reptile's back,
connect in full knowing.
then even reverent silence
is too noisy.
"big ovens" - July 7, 2005
some people had pretty good lives
until they were put into big ovens.
these were separate ovens
from the ones their children
and parents were put into.
so tell me, again, what makes
you think you deserve a
red carpet, fairy-flower,
first-fucking class ride, asshole?
buck up and join the parade.
carry some water, fetch some wood,
and help us patch this leaky roof.
Oh, and put a smile on, buddy.
we've got a long way to go,
but we are, as a matter of fact,
in this together.
"bridge of stars" 5/06
when hard times come and disrupt our lives
some folks run and hide,
some folks learn to hate the world
and some choose suicide.
some folks questions God's design
and some folks hit the bars.
me, i leap from moon to sun
and cross a bridge of stars.
"baby blue" - august, 06
how does a human soul inhabit a body
and ride for so long on a wave without crashing?
you were young once,
and awkward in your genius.
what was then pure ancient beauty,
excellence from beyond the stars,
became human experience.
you grew to be like a momma bear swimming,
a little clumsily and longing for a moment alone,
among her cubs. you grew keen as a wildcat.
but there were plenty of crashes.
and in the end there is not a soul
to tell your troubles to.
but it's all over now,
baby blue.
"Pagan Christmas"
Christmas has been hijacked by Christianity. Or Better yet, the winter solstice has been hijacked by Christmas. The solstice has always meant the same thing to everybody: the return of the Sun. Pretty much every tradition wrapped up with Christmas predates the religion itself. The tree, mistletoe, the gifts, and the decorations (minus the electricity) go back a long, long way in the dark woods of Europe. It's natural and obvious, especially in really cold places, to greet the return of the sun with a celebration that's nothing less than a human blaze of glory.
Celebrating the birth of Jesus is a great idea, too, but why must he share a birthday with the sun? Once Rome decided to adopt Christianity as part of its official cover, Constantine & the boys decided to crash the party on the continent's ancient Earth-loving spiritual traditions. They forced the wisdom traditions of the continent into a great big barn, and torched it. They took over the winter party and renamed the S.O.B.. Then Rome picked the date for Jesus' D.O.B., and the result is His-Toe-Ree.
It's like a strange painting that looks different from different angles. Here in America, Christmas seems too materialistic to really be about spirit. It's also too shallow and ritualized now to be a fitting celebration for our very own life-giving star. There's too much bustle for it to really be about peace. Too much stress. I mean, it's one thing to juggle two religions, but two birthdays, too?
So here's a question. What do you give to the Sun, who seems to want for nothing, for Christmas? What should one give to the sun on its birthday? Well, give what the early people gave. Give what the earth-lovers, the shamans, the wiccans, the druids, and all the "primitives" gave. Give what Jesus gave. Give ecstacy and joy, and, no matter what, conjure happiness.
"thieves and liars" - Oct, 06
thieves and liars, how you love
the company of your own kind.
you've stolen everything
that wasn't nailed down,
and now you've got your
eye on the rest.
you think everyone is like you,
so you swim in suspicion of others.
you accuse the innocent
of your own crimes.
thieves and liars, you may rule
from the very bottom to the very top,
but it can't last.
immitate nature, and become excellent.
Mother Nature makes marshlands
at the mouth of rivers
to turn toxic filth
into living water.
the Universe favors purity,
and the longer you wait,
thieves and liars,
the more painful
your purification process
is going to be.
"patient ear" - 12, 06
it must be awful
to have to be god
and listen to my shit.
here I am, experiencing
the most beautiful reality
i know, and all I can do
is feel empty.
i've let weeknesses,
loneliness, genteel poverty,
and every other little thing
poison my minutes,
and even though
I haven't given up on
my friends, or on god,
I give up on myself a lot.
sometimes I've even
thought about, well,
ending it.
but I can't break
my friends hearts,
and I don't want to
let god down,
so I keep on going,
and keep on bending
god's infinitely
patient ear.
"whirlwind" - 12, 06
i'm in the middle of a whirlwind,
when not too long ago I had things under control.
i'm on a roller coaster,
when not too long ago I had a plan for peace.
i'm being tossed on a ship in angry seas,
when not long ago i was a good captain.
i've been rode hard and put up wet,
when not long ago I held the reigns.
this whirlwind is like a mighty spinning color wheel,
each color like a hungry tiger,
and all colors leading to the center.
sometimes my mind falls into the
bullseye, where the colors touch and mingle,
and that makes the thing turn violently fast.
I dont' have an answer, dear reader,
just a prayer that god, in some form or another,
might reach out his strong hand.
"into the mystic"
good times have made me beautiful,
bad times have made me mean.
my mind endures the past
with every memory, every scene.
you've seen me hurt and torn so down
by those who knew enough,
to know I'd never last too long
in a game that plays so rough.
well that's just tough, stand in the corner
until you've had your fill,
or until the bird of heavenly springtime
lands on your windowsill.
at will the future reveals itself
as the mystic hand of fate,
but though I raise my sails and sail
I sail although I wait.
but the bow's so straight and the wind's so strong
that the beams of ancient wood
creak with joy at every mile
conquered for the good.
"accordion" - Jan, 07
once there was an accordion.
the accordion allowed itself
to be filled with air.
the air, moving freely, caused the
accordion to make a joyful noise.
the accordion had not built itself,
and knew not it's builder.
the accordion knew nothing about air,
and what it was made of.
still, the accordion moved with the air,
and came wildly alive.
the accordion only knew so much,
but it sure did sing.
"dance" - June 07
dancing is forbidden in militaries and many churches.
the human is very ancient and advanced.
the human has special needs for survival.
dancing is an immitation of the unseen.
music is an interpretation of the unknown.
through life, the unknown becomes known.
dancing is unuseful, therefore essential.
music is inspired, therefore mysterious.
the source is veiled, therefore aware.
dancing is useful, and not unnatural.
music is inspired, but not unreachable.
the source is veiled, but not untouchable.
senses don't think.
stones don't marry.
chipmunks don't dance.
hearts are broken.
ideas are born.
skin is shed.
expand
include
unlearn
love
dream
dance
"Sometimes bliss" 8/07
there is a passage in a Joel Goldsmith book
(it kind of shocked me at the time)
in which the author admonishes that one should
never ask god for anything.
one should instead cultivate the feeling
that all that has been or will be given is right.
the feeling of..."my current experience is plenty,
and in fact my cup runneth over!"
one should grow to accept reality and learn
in humility and patience.
but hold on a second.
i've asked god for a million things,
starting whenever I was old enough to start
making up my own little private prayers.
and everything i've ever asked for
has either been granted in time
or still very well could be.
i don't expect instant results.
i understand that if you ask for an oak tree,
well, then, you must face the fact that
it takes an oak tree hundreds of years
to reach majestic maturity.
some things just take time for
god to grow.
but at the same time,
goldsmith has a point.
if your prayer request comes from your heart,
which is intimately connected to God,
then your desires ARE his.
his plan IS your plan.
you are asking for your own destiny,
already placed in your heart by the divine.
your utmost desire is
humble servanthood, which you are built for,
so the struggle dissolves.
two become one, and conflict
becomes ease, sometimes bliss.
"her majesty" 1/24/08
well, as the story goes,
the queen stepped out of the palace one day,
having lived, mind you,
a life of miserable priveledge,
in a weird disguise.
she dressed like a normal lady,
and she went to the park.
she had been born into a spider web,
a cold, concrete maze
paved over time and again
with screams and corpses,
skulls and bones.
she had played her part well.
so a woman strolled by,
with a baby in a pram,
and the queen began to lose
herself in the scene.
she bathed her face in the sunlight,
breathed in the flowery breeze,
and soaked up every syllable
of the child's cheerful babbling.
the queen thought to herself,
"just a fleck of jewelry from
the family collection would provide
for that child's entire future."
and that thought, friends, was the beginning
of the end of fascism on earth.
"drinking tornado" 3/1/08
the prospect of drinking tonight
is like a tornado just outside my front door.
it can't turn the knob and open the door
on it's own, but right now
it's rattling the walls
like a stampeding herd of red-eyed cattle.
i want to take just a little peak at it,
but i know that if i crack the door,
the full force of the storm will rip in,
slamming the door wide open
and sucking everything in the room
into the churning guts of a
bad dream vacuum,
swirling in upon itself,
like the hard-raging rivers
of nowhere.
"i'm not a member" 5/14/08
i'm not a member,
but i use their tools.
i use a compass to draw
celestial bodies in paintings.
i use their numeric symbolism,
like when i present work
in multiples of certain numbers,
or i pair songs and poems
with significant numbers.
i also build things,
but not things made of stone.
what i build appears in flashes,
then recedes into the night
like a possum.
still, it lives even longer
than pyramids and tombs,
somewhere over
on the other side
"smirks and giggles" - June 08
you people are so ridiculous
in your little boxes.
everything luminous i've ever done,
the seeking, the exploring,
the creating, the expressing,
has been met with
smirks and giggles.
well, smirk it up, fuckers.
giggle yourselves to death,
for all i care.
but one day, when you're not
still a big baby
and you've evolved,
you, too, will have to do
a mission like mine
in a shithole like this.
"Relativity" - July 06
I was dehydrated. I was backpacking on the Appalachian Trail, and I hadn't seen water for I don't know how many hot, steamy miles. I was beginning to become concerned.
I had seen twelve bears on that day alone, but not one decent stream. It was a long way to a guaranteed water source, and the
heat of the late summer in Virginia had combined with a stretch of punishing terrain to create a constant flow of my body's liquids from the end of my nose to the ground.
I began to pray. I tried to sweet-talk the universe into manifesting my thought. I knew that I couldn't create a stream with my mind, but I could somehow attract a person, and that person could help me.
Before long, the trail came near a road, and I took a short side trail to the road. There, lo and behold, sat one vehicle, and people inside it. It just so happened that the driver was a compassionate soul, and when asked for help, promptly produced two capri-suns and two apples.
It did the trick. I was going to make it. I tell, ya, it's amazing how valuable something like that can be when you really need it.
What I needed was hydration, and without the water, all the tea in China couldn't have helped me then. No title or accolade in all the world. No ammount of money in some bank somewhere.
Give me a Purple Heart, an Emmy award, a Congressional Medal of Honor, a good girl back home, a trust fund, a good reputation, a bad one, a publishing deal, a Phd, popularity, acceptance from blood relatives, a Basketball scholarship, and a knighthood and I'm still a bag of bones at the end of the day.
The most sincere prayer I had ever uttered was answered immediately, in an appearance by the unmistakeable hand of the one, this time not as a burning bush, a shooting star, or a newborn baby, but as two capri-suns and two apples.
"The Dating Scene" - July 08
how's the dating scene, you ask?
dismal, of course.
a wasteland, with lots of tumbleweed.
seems like every leap forward,
every step into the unknown,
takes me further from the pool.
i'm like a duck in a colony
of a billion penguins,
endlessly calling for one
of my own kind.
i could dumb it down,
but that breaks my heart.
then again, loneliness may be worse.
god, it would be nice to have somebody
to care if i made it home or not.
"when i met you" - Aug 08
when i met you
it was like being
on a motorboat
when the driver
suddenly silences
the engine,
beginning a
gentle glide
across a
calm
lagoon.
"just another victim" - Oct 9 08
i was crossing a river
when i was clubbed in the head
like a seal.
i was walking for peace
when i was stripped and beaten
like a slave.
i was climbing a mountain
when i was thrown from a cliff
like a pebble.
i was giving my all
when i was robbed and left for dead
like just another victim.
"growing up in a small town" - Oct 13 08
So there i was, senior in high school.
Deep south, you know, south Alabama.
Out past the church, down by the cemetary,
there i was with Martha.
We were both butt-ass naked.
We were sweating from head to toe,
and it was hot and steamy out there.
The lightning bugs were out, and the
cicadas were ringing in our ears.
Then come the police cars.
Spotlights, everthing.
That great big spotlight was right behind my head,
fanning out, illuminating everything around me
as I looked up.
And then I heard the bullhorn.
It was my uncle.
Slowly, one word at a time, I heard...
"Sterling! Finish What You Are Doing
And Get Your Ass Out of Here!"
"And tell Martha to have a good night."
"my blues" - nov 08
i never cared much for the blues
as a term for sadness.
my blues aren't blue,
they are bergundy.
crimson red.
life is death and birth,
and death and birth are
violent, bloody rituals.
life is chaos and collision,
and infinite possibility
is right outside your door.
imagine who you could meet
at any minute.
imagine who you could love, or lose.
who is dying,
and you don't know it yet?
my blues are like blood spilled.
my blues are bergundy.