Taking Tea in the Black Rose

PREFACE Since I was a small boy growing up in rural America, I have always imagined one day traveling into outer space, exploring new planets and life forms in faraway galaxies, and boldly navigating the vast oceans of infinity. With just a few close friends and family members to share this adventure with me, I envisioned setting out from Planet Earth with only the clothes I had on my back and whatever my backpack could carry, with the hope of discovering a new world all of us could be proud of, based simply on the most timeless of principles—compassion, honesty, service and right action. However, following the previous centuries of society’s advancement and modernization—as well as man’s ridiculous race towards global superiority—many of us seem to have lost our resonance, or kinship, with these core values; choosing instead to follow a path that disregards these ideals, while serving only the selfish aims of the individual and his immediate sphere of interest, laying waste to the general harmony and well-being of the collective (and our planetary home) along the way. So, as we set out into the world as young adults, as I did in 1987 upon completion of Catholic high school, with a fresh perspective and a head full of ideas about how to establish the New Utopia on Earth—only to find that the world outside is nothing like we were told it was in the classroom—it is natural that we may tend to lose hope for the future or to fall into despair. Especially at times of transition and new beginnings, “real life” can be a firm contrast against the idealistic musings of young truth-seekers and lovers. It was in early spring of that year I began to feel the stirrings of powerful forces bubbling up within me, wanting more and more to find a coherent means of creative expression; I was like a pressure cooker that needed to let off steam, or I was going to explode. I was somewhat of an intellectual in my early days (some insist I still am), but like most of my classmates, I was greatly influenced on many levels by the heavies of the Classic Rock music industry, among whom I discovered a fellow poet and constant companion, whose talent would eventually come to validate my budding desire to try my own hand at lyric poetry. His name was Jim Morrison, front man and lead singer for The Doors, and his new book of poetry The Lords and the New Creatures (compiled after his death in 1987 and published by Simon & Shuster) was flying off the shelves like hotcakes. It was not long before I started experimenting with my own style and rhyme, spending hours sequestered in my bedroom, listening to my rock and roll, and sometimes even daydreaming my own rise to stardom. Nevertheless, if I had any aspirations then to be a rock star or celebrity writer, they were soon to be replaced by my more pragmatic need to find out who I really was and who I wanted to become—as well as the need to pay the rent and put food on the table. And so I spent the next two decades uncovering the richest and most potent aspects of myself, through the quiet hours of solitude, as well as with fellow travelers, partners, and explorers on the way. After all, the time when a young man first leaves home and sets out to find himself and his place in the world could perhaps be the most pivotal moment he will ever face in this life—even more decisive than his own wedding day, I suspect. And looking back after a long journey through the wilderness of life, with wider eyes and an opened heart, I am now able to more fully appreciate the challenges I have faced and the obstacles I have overcome; for it is owing to the lessons I have reaped from these experiences that I have become a wiser and better man. So as I embark upon the final stages of this lyrical courtship with the divine, I have chosen a very simplistic structure for my poems, based on the healing system of Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM), an ancient philosophy which itself is founded upon the sensual interplay of the five natural elements that comprise all life—wood, fire, earth, metal, and water. Thus, I have divided the chapters to correspond with this dynamic alchemical process, recognizing that although each poem tells its story separately and apart from the rest, it is also a vital and integral part of the compilation as a whole. Within this very elastic and symbiotic framework, each piece finds its natural place according to its predominant emotional frequency, thereby providing and sustaining its own harmonic equilibrium in the collection. Over the last several years, Black Rose has become my own magic carpet ride, the Jacob’s Ladder of my spiritual quest, the philosopher’s stone of my magician’s sword. It has been my chariot of introspection, allowing me absolute freedom and mobility, in thought and action, capable of transporting me to unimagined worlds on the outer edges of the cosmos with just one thought or meditative glance. But still more than this, I hope that my readers, too, will find a balm of comfort within its pages and grow with life, as I did, to honor and appreciate their struggles as essential pathways by which we learn to expand and unfold our blessed inner light. Such are the ways of this living paradise. While I was attending Kalamazoo College, a dear friend gave me a scrap of paper with this simple but eloquent quote written on it—the note read, “The slower you go, the more sunrises and sunsets you’ll see.” With that same spirit of hope, I pass his reminder on to you. Take good care of each other and yourself as you travel, respect all life as precious, and leave your destiny to the stars. May our future actions grow from here. Dowry of a Minstrel Behind the tales of Grimm je vous en prie, he glides eagerly through patterned lace from Chantilly sourly snickering over a broken window pane from inside concealed—accidents can happen when the Minstrel is in town The pane and lace, with the civility of the aging madrigal, bow to gravity's smile He tips his hat to the ancient law and showers us with cool mountain breezes in his absence This day the Minstrel has come to town from counties and from farms bridged by prehistory's rocks chiseled from silent laughter in a land swept away by fire and rain cloaked in midnight gloom Fiery patriarchs sworn with staff in hand scatter sentiments of doom like dust that now discolors the riverbeds He was vacationing for months in the desert; now the moist Mediterranean air to challenge Discharged from duty at will he whistles against Saint Victoire counting the miles he's yet to dream Such notions meek or ludicrous to lordly Parisians, but the fishermen and paysans of Provence know him well his short visit predictable, his only daughter one day my best friend to wed Like a vagabond in downtown streets he searches for shelter, rustling through piles of canceled checks and daffodils unworthy of giving, servants all of the deafening night he speaks in an accent no one can imitate; still we strive to comprehend why his chaos still cradles this nurtured land filling alleyways to the rooftops with last year's leaves and discarded letters of lovers, one to the other—a child of the skies can be callous at times With ease he straddles the thoroughfare from Marseilles to Saint Tropez awaiting him a supper of lapin provençal richly abundant, fit for a king the carcass quartered, enticed from its earthen nest by the vacuum which this phantom's quick passing breeds High in the hills he casts circles around swimming pools and from the showcase of stables charms a stallion, squares off his destiny with a twilight retreat Should habit prevail, his maiden's hand mine will be; we'll settle a place close by the sea and to the Minstrel's last breath bid adieu, his dowry like a horse-drawn carousel reeling within me 19 April, 1991