The Patient Stones
                                                           

Copyright 1996 by

Rachael Hohenstein

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cover design by

Laurie Ray

Libray of Congress

Catalog Card Number

96-92296

 ISBN 1-57579-018-1

Introduction  to "The Patient Stones"  by Timray
this book was never intended to be shared with the public, it was the culmination of work several years in Mexico. it was originally shared in a small community of others from the artistic world i inhabited. i am at best a dilettante with an avocation. i am not interested in humanity.

my latest book: The Fate Within
https://timrayii.blogspot.com/

simply click on an entry

behold Beatrice, Pitcairn
it seems to have been forever
i admire and love 
the children wait upon the shore
the boat is as weathered as his face 
Juan tells you he is an immigrant, northern mexico
when my thoughts trail down
ah yes, i have heard this sybil before
he wears a simper
we poets are waiting for the moonset wandering the beach
she looked at me, arctic blue eyes
my friend, you had to ask
my child, thru this prism
she is running down the staircase
she sells goat's cheese. not my favorite
somewhere in the north
i wander these winter beaches
i become lost in these lazy days
waiting in the silence
i know why i sit here
the moon commences its' illusion
you speak of boundaries
i am sitting alone again
outside lies the snow
trust is a precious gift
i love our early morning
do you remember those seals
i suppose they will all
i pass thru these hallowed grounds
salient arguments
nature can make my walks drudgery
the nights were filled with arguments
and so i have returned to Los Angeles
beneath these covers
we awoke to five machine guns
Georgia, you have flown free
we were drinking mexicana libres
it is rumored that Lord Krishna

behold Beatrice, Pitcairn
the sunsets lie in paradise
sunrise, the folly of easter
islands, sanitoriums, deluded, denuded
limbos and purgatories, the never evermore
polynesian metaphors transmigrate my mind
o to graze with the deer, dear
the tree never falls silently
lizards scatter, birds scurry to flight
i could never buy into falling silence
let alone Galileo's descending weights
forgive me for being sententious dear
no pity for Cyrano
a failed Benedick in port
without Dante's delusions
Service, woman, a slightly tainted saint
Tennyson's wound that never heals
Petrarch, Augustine, it grows insane
ah the vicissitudes, where was i

your laughter starts in those ignescent eyes
ignition, brush fires of rippling ballerinas
facial muscles lost in abandonment
to some elfish music i see, never hear
lips widening, bursting rubaiyat pandemonium
i adore your infectious risibility
it is your amatory smile i love most
demure, candles gamboling in the moonlight
i am a moth lost in the flames
of your demanding timidity
it is then i see in your eyes
the dove gracing your hands
the beast who serves your lust
this is why the Norsemen
fear nothing but women
swords once ready, beserkers, Odin
now lie silent volcanoes in my heart, Freya
the seas are without headstones
and i am wondering again terricolous
all of this is the clouds overhead
it is the heavens i see in your eyes
not the red dawns i fear
we see the jungle, its' song, inevitable war
the struggle to stand in the light

possibly besotted, erratum
the seas have long not cared
with you, i learn, heal
we are undeniably humanity
we are paradise lost
the hells of yesterday
need not rule the heavens of today


         Miramar   94

it seems to have been forever
since i held your hand in mine
watched that smile race across
my thoughts are storms raging at sea
                       with no ear listening
i am alone upon the deck, wandering
lost in the stars above and you
the sea lies quiescent

somewhere you sleep now
lost in that vast realm of dream
copious as the stars above
am i still in your deepest thoughts
does it cause an arm to wander across
in that emptiness is there a longing 
we were not ships passing in the night
fools yes and i will leave it as such

perhaps now there is another
i am but a remembrance
surfacing in the days confusion
they say it is better to have loved, lost
but that is a game for philosophers
therein lies no comfort to a sailor
whose thoughts are storms raging at sea
                            with no ear listening
perhaps you also stare into the heavens
and wonder, such are thoughts
wandering the deck
whose fate is a raging sea
holding you only in moments
when you sleep
i no longer dream
the sea lies quiescent


         Phoenix   88


        

i admire and love
the creatures we call birds
watch in envy the soar, the dive
those landings of awkward elegance
internecine territorial disputes, my laughter
salubrious songs of morning, my smile
the mocking bird's nocturnal cry, my reflections
living where the weather suits
something humans rarely achieve
never leaving an heir 
with more than air, they survive
living instinctively in nature's harmony
they have taught me
we humans struggle with freedom
birds simply live it

i once thought myself free
wind in hair, pistoled hip
a motorcycle between my legs
yet i was chained, another ego

it is much more than wings

i have my cane now
my quiet walks thru God's plethora
and the only wings i needed
were always between my ears

some people prefer life complex
me, i am for the birds

          San Blas   91

the children wait upon the shore
eyes fastened to the horizon
behind them stand the women
with a gaze far more serious
all impervious to rain and wind
the hurricane had turned inland
last night it was moving north to Baja
the fishermen left with ease
it would soon be gone
yet, early in the morning it moved east to Nayarit
chaotic nature, in the end, reigns supreme, it always has
in the distance dots appear, fishermen driven home
as the storm rages over them

children and women frantically search 
the returning pongas for any familiarity
as the fishermen struggle valiantly in the waves
tonight some prayers are bearing fruition
while others were lost to an angry sea
a storm none could predict
nor ever will with certainty
the candles burn at the feet of the dead
now plaster saints, imploring continues 
long into the night, a chance of perchance
that bird that sings in the worst gale

morning brings the tolling of church bells
amidst the devastation
faces who will never forget that chaos
has no favorites
only illusions, as matter may well be, Berkeley rocks
the luck of the draw, despite Darwins' wishful design
the ensuing fluctuating schemes of pandemonium
desultory forces who at best are deficit in reason
or are they, who knows the breath of creation
a constant reminder the precarious hold life has
how delicate the day we the biota share
how precious life is

i learned that long ago from a little tippler
leaning on a dying sun
toasting with manzanilla the heavens above
cursing some matelot beneath her labored breath
now the nobody we all are when the light extinguishes
receding within into singularity
and whatever wormhole we exit will never matter
nor the dimensions therein
gone, as the smoke from an extinguished candle
escaping forever into entropy
where matter never perishes


         Fergus Falls   96

the boat is as weathered as his face
it is his life, his treasure
steering the prow to sea hours before dawn
and in that darkness, the nets are set
small talk meanders the ponga
time to catch up on some sleep, other times
arguments erupt between brothers
keeping everyone awake watching stars
once dawn has passed the nets are retrieved
to pay for the daily bread
it was in that uncertainty two perished
as nature's fury rolled from the darkness
those red skies of mourning
son, brothers, husbands, fathers, friends
headstones never say it all
the funerals have come and gone
sitting upon the late morning shore
watching the fishermen, boats lie tethered
their hands are honest, scarred
their knives sharp, scarlet
as they gut the fish above roars
a maelstrom of pelicans, magnificent frigates
in a serious air-shore warfare for entrails
and small fish these men toss
there is laughter in those eyes
brothers sharing the seas plunder
once the fish are sold they share a beer
stories of the sea, repair nets
clean pongas and more than i will share
by early afternoon they are gone
such is the daily bread here
where the demons howl the night
the angel's right to sing dawn's glory
these are the patron saints of cantinas
vassals to the sea, nature's capriciousness
whose fate on the morrow 
could be drinking in Neptune's Tavern


              San Blas   91
for the fishermen of San Blas, Matachen Bay

Juan tells you he is an immigrant, northern mexico
that he learned to speak english in iowa 
and these coupled are the reason
Juan's accent is different
Juan is not mexican
Juan lives in fear of americans
Juan in america is a raghead
a camel jockey, sand nigger
this is not unique to america
the world is filled with such
infidel, hymie, gentile, untouchable
the word hardly matters
the effect is achieved
somewhere in the stratum
there is a lesser being
and while all are not as such
there are more than enough
to keep men such as Juan
ashamed of their heritage
the most segregated hour is 10 a.m.
on sunday morning, those easy pieties
of the church bizarre
mr. jackson sits in front of his mirror
in a prominent section of los angeles
mutilating himself into a white man 
sometimes society is so successful 
in its emasculation
we become our own honkey
then again, how can we be asked 
to give up our nigger
when even god seems to refuse


           Phoenix   93

when my thoughts trail down
those wooded paths we tread, i wonder
what there was to see in you
other than the beauty of any beast
wisdom dictates never befriend physical attraction
nothing is expected of friendship
other than the love it is
analysis, fools rush in, live and learn
you saw in me a kindness to your needs
someone on whom you could depend, moments
when the soul lies distraught
the world walks on by, as i have learned
then for some reason, perhaps an innate evil
lurking in all of us
my kindness you perceived, a weakness
this did not leave me, bright position
prognosis, this too shall pass

in this discourse, leaves have fallen
winter always takes its toll
yet spring returns, life begins anew
yes there are frail branches
in this trees strength 
but they have learnded to bend
let go, survive my judas
find your salvation therein


            Phoenix   87

ah yes, i have heard this sybil before
she speaks in cosmic verse
adheres to the ethereal. demands concrete
stands beneath a rainbowed stone
whose cosmic vibrations
flow into that garret
she calls an advanced neencephalon 
sybils siblings deserve their fleece
Anatole France's penguins on a walkabout
ARE WE THROUGH WITH THE VITROLIC
fuck metaphysics, pataphysics, thanks Alfred
we need no new myths, nor mythomaniacs
mankind is rampant with them
old age, new age, same horseshit
as Hollywood, tinsel self-indulgent gods
what we need is a kind working reality
not interplanetary mentalism
abandon the priggish bullshit
we humans so dearly love
all the churches in the world
cannot change reality
are you listening
I AM TRYING YOU WERE SAYING
irenics is a good step to syncretism
yet the light i see at tunnel's end
is yet another credulous jihad
ARE WE THRU WITH THE DIATRIBE
fuck ontology
WHAT ARE WE LEARNING HERE
misandry will never cure misogyny
watch that tone in your voice
a fine line between ascetic and apostate
remember you cannot write
i think i will play with the boxelder bugs
YES, YOU LIKE THEM
GIVE UNCONDITIONAL LOVE
not always the bright position in life
communist pull off their wings
fascist prefer to yank their legs off
LET 'S NOT PURSUE THIS COURSE
what i like most about them
is when you say "cogito ergo sum"
they give you this look, "so what"
mind if i change channels of channeling
while i am waiting for Longfellow's dawn
GO AHEAD
do you hear someone talking
NO
stay tuned as next the poet
tells you what life is really like
where flowers never die
where there are no double entendres
where the prophets no longer hear voices


             San Blas   91

he wears a simper
at times hopelessly lost
in the garden, his campo
retreats from the maddening crowd
for artists, writers, friends, occasional poet
worries over his flowers, his trees
clearing the jungle for more jungle
he is a good neighbor
has been to me a touchstone of gayety
we have shared laughs and tragedy
my pork chops, his garden vegetables
so what is this all about
this is about a fear i harbor
that in this world there is a segment
who would wish this man harm
simply because he is gay, such as
the religious right lacking a communist
are vending old fears, intolerance, hatred
towards others they do not understand
love one another, never to judge
the credo of real christians
he to me is a gentle reminder
i also need love, acceptance
from my brothers, sisters gay
we all need love and acceptance
there is too much hatred in this world
he has an adorable smile
lips drawn back, eyes rolling up
it is disarming and genuine
but the most important to me
he is a gentleman
this world needs more


             Miramar   94