Trees, My Ilk, a Poem

I am the young tree of all forests,
Dwarfed by the chorus of delicate wooden mammoths,
Hindered from growth by the expanse of their canopy,
Shaded by an uncaring Elder.

My siblings are a multitude,
And relentless, they grow upward.
Some have become behemoths themselves,
But most are like me.

These behemoth brethren befuddle me.
Their maturation secures status quo
By denying their siblings’ destiny
Of Sunlight

But I’m stuck under their canopy.
I can’t move,
Nor is there upward mobility,
That is, not without permission.

When the Earth shrugs the titans topple;
They are reckless in their demise,
Thunderous in their death,
Unless no one is around to hear them.

In the void left behind, I must fight my ilk;
Only one of us may receive Ra’s blessing,
The rest will remain dwarfed
Until the victor, once again, falls.

THus is our cycle of life and death,
unfurling our leaves early into spring to catch sun
Before we are descended into darkness by our elders;
When they fall, we can’t grow in concert.

So we must race one another.

Ghost in the Mirror, a Poem

The ghost of myself in the mirror;
It’s a phantom,
And it can’t contain my mind,
Not my spirit,
Nor my indelible memories.

But still this figure glares;
Sizing up the corporeal counterpart,
as if usurp-planning,
As if it’ll one day wear this skin
And still the memory.

This is the haunted figure,
There, but not actually
It is me, but just an abstraction;
If you laid eyes on us,
We’d be identical

The figure haunts me so;
It is a ghast, an abomination of self,
A being of multi-dimensions shredded into two,
A chimera in perfect disguise;
Who couldn’t be me because I’m me.

But to anyone else, what’s the difference?

New Definition for the Word “Mage”

Opposites converge within me;
I contain multitudes.
I contradict and argue with myself,
Not knowing what truth is.

Philosophy blurred the realm I thought as truth,
(How naive I was then)
The deeper the digging the more I un-knew.
What the point of “truth” when reality is questionable?

They asked me why I read the esoteric;
Hermeticism, Rosicurianism, new age, and so on,
I told them even “I” didn’t know.
Mind suspended from reality is the best candidate.

Answers come in flashes feeling like lightening,
the esoteric pulls me, not for conversion;
Not that I may practice magick,
Not that I may convert lead to gold.

(There’s lightning in the distance,
It back lights a dead tree next to a a prosperous one)

I am propelled onward to extract metaphor,
To absorb the ideas of all fields and then
To re-experience through these new senses,
that are laden with symbols.

This is my ars magica;
My modus vivendi.


I am the acorn;
Not only because of my smallness,
But also my magnitude;
For I contain both.

The acorn is an angiosperm,
They self-contain, so are both child and protector,
Within, they are both seed and oak;
As am I, both child and man.

I adhere to the alchemist’s doctrine,
Men executed or gone mad pursing Great Work,
Because of the one image;
The marrying of opposites.

The all-transforming stone,
The key to ever-lasting life and youth,
Involved the courtship of Sun and Moon
In their infinite metaphoric representations

This acorn soul, then,
is both insignificant and grand,
Purposeless and telos-full
And the observer of this truth has no choice but to oblige.

I am the acorn
Not only because of my smallness
But also my magnitude;
For I contain all.