Prospero Moses

Photograph by Per Volqurtz


Prospero Moses

(Somewhere in Oregon On Wizard Island)


Plucking rocks
From cliffs,
I walk in wonder,
Seeking my better self,
Knowing how strong
We become by what
We renounce,
Unable to renounce
What I most need to.

Here, Nature abhors
A straight line.
Appearances deceive.
Wherever you look,
A landscape of curves.
Rage without anger
And trembling days
Of calm as the sun,
Heron winged, in motion,
Moves through the sky.
Its membrane of passage
Froth of the airy sea,
Drowning me
In the incandescent forest
Of its tide.

Give me lightning.
Give me thunder and rain.
Seed the blue pastures
Of heaven with tumbling
Clouds and wind, that I might
Breathe in the storm.
Make me dizzy with life!
Give me the rough, wild,
Untamed edges of coast.
Conceived from more
Then mortal roots, the blood
In me calls out.
Bring back the forgotten
Gods for here is a landscape
Worthy of their passions.


2.

I walk the night’s dark trail,
Wandering among cliffs,
Approaching
The precipice of no air,
Of watery spasms
Drowning in the cramp
Of molten seas, where stars
Turn inside out, vomiting up
The frozen secret of there
Identities.

Pounding on that door
That opens only once,
I watch as it slowly dissolves
For me, merging my seconds
In the fiery chaos of eternity,
As I move closer, standing
On nothing but air, soul
Flames to dance in its’ own
Embrace, reaching toward
The mirror image of itself,
And I ache to hear the fury
Of its cry.

I approach the beginning
Of the end, look upon the anger
Of its face, and rage at the silence
In those eyes that are my own
Just closing.

3.

Progeny
Of Adam’s sin,
What do I know?
I am beastly,
Of primitive passions,
Gluttonous with false
Pieties.

Exposed to the fiery
Forge of life’s
Hammering, my future
Is an ancient one.

O universe of secret
Gestures, what may we
Believe in but the magic
Of high, wild places
Where all existence
Is white treacherous,
And we are one
With the smoking waves.
O universe of passionate
Gestures, what is a magician
To do? All prophets
Are dead.

Cassandra is dead.
The great Pan
Is dead. Power
Of prayer is dead.
Faith of youth
Is squandered.
In New Jerusalem,
The tree of life
Is surrounded
By parking lots.
Nailed to its trunk
Are full-page ads
For diet pills, miracle cures
For yeast infections.
Everywhere, people hurt.
When hurt, its what’s closest
To them they destroy.

On a cliff of sand I stand,
At the cascading edge
Of world’s current,
Questioning what truths
Learned from the cascading
Waves waded through,
The breakers yet to come,
Perceiving few truths
Permanent except
That the Modern has
Failed us.

The wizard in me stretches
A shaking arm, reaching
Toward the sea, as I wait
For the wave bright lashing
Light to illuminate what I feel
But cannot articulate.

Good intentions are not
Enough, for us all things
Problematical, arbitrary,
Having nothing to believe in,
I choose to believe in hope.

4.
Too amazed to be bitter,
I choose to sing the songs
That charm with the pleasure
Of true delight.

As the wonder of the hour turns,
Let flow that fragile vow of hope,
That prayer of grace, asking
Nothing for itself, drowning
All ceremonies of grief.

Waves wash over me.
Comfort me with the knowledge
That I am a part but not all
Of what I sense to be.

And when I come unwillingly
To the cliff of time’s deceit,
All whistling and conjuration done,
I shall ready the island of myself
As it sinks, and be happy
As the shattering particles of myself
Fly free


Scott Malby

Posted over on Hawkwind Creations