Illusory

The peace of the Lord comes by way of a non-contentious heart through judging not his own brother, for I shall not judge you based upon a simple word(s) for they remain illusory. Illusion leads to judgement and judgement leads to hell (upon earth).

This world shall not end in total destruction but only through the spoken or embedded words within a man’s heart through the judgement of the least of these.

Peace, will she ever be found in the hearts of a biased crowd, or from men who scream and shout out loud?!

I do not believe so.

Perhaps within an illusory plain, a dimension of humanity’s perceptions, or dreams.

But I doubt that as well.

And, I know you know me not, for we have traveled a different spherical dimension, of the core of the heart, the other based upon principle…your perspective, and my transparency.

Thank God the Immortal One, Holy even within the depths of our humanity, we sin, and we suffer, and we judge, therefore by which we judge of the least of these, we think we are in our own alleged legal rights, judged by our own thoughts, and so on, and so on.

The Mystical Mirage of Looking Inside

Traveling inward I discover the tempest for a night of one-thousand nights strewn in a darkness so deep I no longer see, for I have become blind by the madness of the humanity factor. Can it be so a light shines within the shadows of a demononic plague? Or, is it just within this landscape of the bones left behind from my traumatized soul?

To whom may I pray for a tranquil reprieve exonerating me from this sudden death? I turn then by the will of Heaven to the Mother of exculpation, “O Clement! O Loving! O Sweet Mother thus crowned in Heaven, pray thus, now to save me!

Your earthly visit has begun a new incarnational transformation within this mystery for a golden glow that surrounds you as aura. You have instructed me as I die a thousand deaths upon this landscape for the inkwells of the poetics that has begun to do its work to listen. Forty-three centuries of a wise-woman way may bear witness to this mystical mirage of looking inside. I do, and have come upon treasures of not bone and ash, but of the flesh within my once stoney heart. I have been reprieved as I mature in a spirit-filled journey save yet, yes, from a woman’s soul, transparent rainwaters over which so much wasteland punishment lay.

I lay adjourned, seeking only the reward you have bequeathed me. Now, justice fulfilled within a transformed heart, I see the ancient cliched light for my redemption that walks now through a field of revitalized grain of graces, the truest measure of a man who once walked the tarry pits of a hell so deep, the only angel to save me was in fact, the Mother of all Angels.

O Clement. O Loving. O Sweet Mother of God.

A Black Man Once Told Me

John Gregory Evans © 2019

It remains not mine to say whether I would pity a colorful word of verb and noun, or, from where it may come, or the color of its skin, for I have seen the Lord, and, know him to be of spirit not acquainted with such superficialities. I believe in you O soul of the deepest of transparent hearts, only to reach out in love for our lovers with skin as dark as the night. The ocean is deep, and so may a man’s heart burn in love for his neighbor of color and his words that reflect a right to truths the earth refuses to hear.

I become saddened in knowing the earth was in despair, and know from whence it came, where colonial powers for a haughty jurisdiction influenced only by fear lingers, why, I hear my brother’s cry, not at a distance but very close by. For man or woman to write with an open heart, infused only by the transparent Spirit of God, may we come to know the justice that suffuses us all.

Time, and time again, truth has been revealed to me by men and women who offer up a rose, whether brown, or black, or red, or white, the rose remains the same soft luminance of light – undefined by a single atom of gratuitous action, I must concede to the truth of Absolutes, where, right is right, and wrong is wrong, but, yet I say, the truth shall always be the truth.

Write on, dear brothers and sisters of faith…your truth has already been heard within the beauty of the writer’s word. A poet’s truth shall always know. Our experience is of an invincible and indestructible value. Our truths from an oppressive state must be made known to this regimental world into the hearts of the eremite, hermit, loner from fright.

Oh, Dear Angel – Come Back to Me!

John Gregory Evans © 2019

Arriving home late one night, appeared a gentleman from out of the darkness, from out of night,

His skin was dark, his face was bright, for he carried a smile of intended delight,

A thing was noticed within the course of this night, was that the gentleman was – politely polite.

I feared this man, in a sense or two –

But discovered his truth was a truth anew.

I doubted as Thomas, for fear rest in my heart,

I had a family to serve and the young man I served not.

I feared this man, in a sense or two –

But discovered his truth was a truth anew.

Though my heart and soul queried his appeal, an after thought remained as I closed the door –

And in a flash of an instant I realized I was wrong,

Went after the man, and discovered he was gone!

I feared this man, in a sense or two –

But discovered his truth was a truth anew.

And I stared and I thought, deep into the night –

Was he my angel to travel with in a year of countless lights?

Oh, Dear Angel – Come Back to Me Now where there remains no more fright.

I feared this man, in a sense or two –

But discovered his truth was a truth anew.

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Silver Love Under a Crescent Moon

O love! This contented night of a crescent moon lie sweetly b’ neath a drunken sky, and your hips of round succumb to the dark, the burn of love persuades me to dance naked with imparted lips, the slaughter of my soul…and finger-tips. The tilt of your head as the burn rushes through, the salted flesh as you kiss my wounds. Your back, your breasts, your virgin thighs, entices my time with your dark glazed eyes. We build this altar from love comes two, as this cycle of seasons drinks a kiss from you, then freely I say! So alluringly imbued.

Divinity sleeps within us but rises to the flame, the candle in the darkness assails each vice a blame. Though beauty sleeps like an infant child, a stable’s length away, where beads of round curled ’rounding the urn, prayers lifted again, once more today, as the virgin loin’s blend where two will play out each other’s fleshly request. Beauty’s plea, her cry, of a Siren’s new birth, the earth, the sky, the moon at our feet, petitions which pulsate the flame and the burn, the I in our we will never possess you, no matter your love which sweetens new heights, I ask of your favor to lend me your hand, embody me, personify me, I, a slave in your land. Silhouettes from the night as we burst out as flame, release from inside your hijab as myself do surrender – this lion to tame.

Though losing our essence, where within the depths of this blackness we lie drunken in love, we – are nowhere to be found, but within there is God, who performs only and through this stillness of grace, and of the diffusions of discernment, so deeply imbued – as his Voice remains silent, I think, Yes! This is his Face.

Villanelle of the Eastern Pond

John G Evans © 2019

Arise, dear child! Walk due East:

I have come to greet you,

Behold! Our open hearts shall meet.

This eastern pond, My masterpiece

I’ve spoken words here, created, anew

Arise, dear child! Embrace this peace.

Through wood, and hill I shall guide your feet

Envision this pond filled with morning dew:

This form of word our covenant, leaving Us, this memory.

Arise, dear child! Come play with me:

My creation waits, tadpoles, marsh, and dragon-flies, too

Arise, dear child! There’s just us Three.

My Love for you abounds as Mystery:

I’ve created earth to be home for you,

Arise, dear child! Delight this feast.

Sleepy boy! So tired and beat,

I shall hold you near:

Arise, dear child! Walk due East;

Behold! Our open hearts shall meet!

Silence: My Love

Silence, O silence, where has your mystery of union left me? In this midst of an enigmatic cloud of unknowing I search myself, touching, reaching, pulling, always stirring away at my dreams, for who, but I? Am I not in this hypostatic union with the Lover of loves? Why, never has there been a love as this. Delve into the mystery of God for without this mystery of the Immortal One I remain lost to chaos in the streets of a corruptive clamor bellowing insults to the demons in the streets. And, they with their fiery eyes screech back with whispers in my gifted mind of sanity stealing away at what is really in my incarnated heart, but silence heard with a Voice mighty as this choir of angels and, silence as deep, though still as a tranquil lake high upon a mountain-top with clouds of knowing his Name.

As I witness from my earthly bed, this mystery of a silent way, my eternal home appears distant as I do not hear the Voices or see the flashes of light any longer, but, I know, they are still with me. And, within this calm stillness I recognize an old friend. I come to remember his knock on my heart’s door, and I miss him. I miss him terribly so. And, perhaps, in a micro-atomic second, I shall see, or hear, or feel his Presence, once again. I recall a day when I searched for him as a child plays hide-and-seek with her precious friend. In an unabandoned earnest I searched for him traveling long distances over much desert sand to discover my Beloved friend. He is here, with me always, I had just forgotten how to look.

War in ’72

John G Evans © 2019

Ah, poetry! Some do, some don’t. I do. You either like it, or? For me, a splintered soul wounded by the predatorial muse that searches me out in all my vulnerabilities entombs the vastness of these desert skies.

Freedom, a word untouched for none owe a guilty price. Or, we all do, and yet, the raven still flies and calls me by name as golden finches own the lands of metaphor and, I aspire to make my stand.

During the era for the war on Nam, where undo leashes from stony fractures and stares from the skulls of distant Marines, with stories of their own, impotent with the pen and pad, so I write for them all where pain lives sad.

Most I knew had a duty of honor. Others hoped me dead. And still, I survived. My pain was real and suffused, repressed, confused, by the taunting of arrogance and the humanity factor: thus ego.

A crystal remembrance of Carolina wood, or Beaufort’s swamps, and the ocean that would kill, in fact, did so in ’56. I was not there but read of the occurrence in a book entitled, “Marine!” No, my scheduled tour was overtaken by a vehement battering one darkened night in ’72. And, days later in the field covered in wire with shards of steel I felt its sting with blood and spine as the quake of ground exploded before me. “I’m hit, I’m hit,” but the words fell not from my shock-filled mouth full of gravel dust and a ton of grit.

Derelict voices commanded my moves. Blood snaked down my neck that would soon take flight beneath a bulldozer’s blade, as the proof must be substantiated with a confirmation from friendly fire. But, it did not. Death was prevalently imminent protrusive of the perpetrator’s eyes that burnt like fuel.

A medivac ne’er seen for the wounded Marine who lay in the dust bitten by the unseen projectile. Only a wipe of the blood from the enemy’s hand, crony or fiend of who I have no name. No! It all happened too fast. Shit!

Time will tell, for in the end the wary shall fall with a guilt not small to overtake one’s life, especially as one trains as a combat Marine (honorably), to serve his purpose for the accompaniments for all who serve. A body meant not to stop the projectiles of war, but to serve each other in an honorable roll.