Poems by John Hurst

Poems by John Hurst

Poem 1.

The Joyous dance that has already begun

Our chosen emissary,

Our hook up to God,

She stands patiently and loving,

Identified by her priestly collar and wider mischievous smile.

She waits for me to play my part,

For me to play my role in the forming of our union through the invocation of an ancient ritual.

It is a simple act,

An outcome already assured by the Love that we share.

Yet for the moment my words are like a nervous tango dancer,

Falling over themselves in a bid to pay homage to transcendent powers of Love.

They hold themselves in suspension,

Determined to do justice to the lover beside

The dancer who once sought to teach me how to Waltz but instead taught me how to love.

My vows are adamant.

They will not reveal my depth of feeling,

not until the timber of my words tell the full measure of our tender Love,

and of the sanctuary that we find in each other’s company,

Of how the sound of your heartbeats brings me back

to the best of who I am,

Then,

And only then,

Do my words step forth?

My words did not mean to alarm you by their delay.

They trust in your patience,

In your generosity of spirit, allowing me to synchronize

My words with my clumsy heart.

Familiar with your instinctual knowledge of alchemy and Love,

In your knowledge that what lies beneath my prideful boasts and equips is the full measure of my love

Your loving and silent gaze is enough to convince my small ego to surrender control of the moment.

Our Love has given my overworked ego a more abundant world in which to exist.

Our gifts to each other are our hopes and dreams, not recriminations,

We exist in a place where acceptance and forgiveness take on a rhythm of their own,

Like two pianists playing a single piece on the same piano.

My words now at least begin to match,

Begin to echo the fullness of all that we are to each other

I pledge my Love,

Basking in the memory of our many silken ‘Pas De Deurs’,

Each of them unique.

Some marked by fierce turns and sharp angles.

Others executed through acts of loving reparation.

They have already become part of a symphony that will carry us through the years to come.

But it is not the future that now holds me in this time and place.

Nor is it the pleasure I derive from your exquisite form and mesmerizing lilac scent.

No.

It is none of these things.

It is the joy of knowing that I have found my "other."

That the tango dancer who I first pursued,

has become the partner who now resides in my heart,

Who my vows now refer to as my "beloved" because no other name will suffice.

Poem 2

"Room for you likes of you"!

The words of the doorman are like a failed incantation, failing as they do to eliminate my corporeal homeless mass.

Even after he has gesticulated with the swagger of an army recruiter,

I remain,

Seeking only the use of the hotel washroom to remove remnants of my concrete mattress.

The hotel doorman executes his orders without sentimentality or remorse.

He is a seasoned Centurion,

A professional,

He is committed to his task of ensuring that only those adorned in silver and gold man enter.

He is unperturbed by how those he admits resemble the wax figures in Madame Tussaud's

I move on,

A man dressed in An American flag catches my eye.

He looks like a ripened tomato whose skin grows redder with every word.

His gaze is like that of a telescopic rifle, unrelenting and cold.

"No room for the pagan followers of Jefferson or FDR',

The man with the telescopic eyes identifies himself as a Tea party official.

He has adopted the water fountain as a perimeter,

A domestic 39 parallel that only admits those who renounce multiculturalism,

Affirmative action, feminism.

I move on, still thirsty but

Unstained by his vitriol.

I know my thirst will pass,

It is temporary while the ranting of the man dressed in red, white, and blue is unquenchable.

I move on.

Memories arise, and I allow them to remain in my consciousness.

They serve as my traveling companion through the seasons.

One of the memories takes form, adorns the coat of a doctor, and asks if I remember what he last said to when I visit his clinic?

Yes. I reply.

"You said you had room for me,"

"That the price of admission was a formality,

That I need only take blue pills that reduce my voice to a whisper and eviscerate my soul."

I remind my memory how I responded,

How I played the devil advocate, arguing that his offer of hospitality failed to do justice to the human condition.

I reminded my memory of how his panacea left no room for the passions that free men from the grip of tyrants.

My voice rises as I reminded him that courage and Love are qualities that cannot be quantified.

I offer the image of a union organizer,

standing his ground as the blows of Pinkerton strike, busters rained down upon his head.

The memory takes the hint,

It understands.

My essence has decided to remain in transit

Until there is a room that can house the totality of my essence,

A place where Love and hate can coexist within me,

Where sorrow and joy understand the kinship is the right of all of humankind.

I toy with the thought of a world where such rooms exist.

I imagine a world where those with wounded souls are as welcome as those that called the able bodied,

Whose scars are well concealed.

I dare to imagine such a world and find myself smiling.

A moment of optimism catches my consciousness by surprise,

Like a last minute tip from a knowledge bookie.

I imagine grandparents educating their nephews and nieces about the need to honor those with wounded souls.

I hear them now instructing the young in what it means to be human.

I dare to speak to them directly.

I tell them that in making room for one such as me,

They will be making room for the multitudes.

I will tell them of the spirit's invisible and immutable march towards justice, a journey that no bullet or edict can stop.

I will off-load the images that have sustained my body and soul.

I dance so that they may see how such images become ingrained my muscles.

The image of this gathering lingers.

It ends when one of the children I imagine steps away from a paternal figure and approaches me without fear.

He promises me that he will build a road,

One that is wide enough for not just himself,

but for all those who may wish to travel with him.

He pledges to seek out the man with the wounded soul and ask him to join him on his journey.

The thought of such an act heals my wounds, lifting the pain of past generations from my shoulders.

I walk on,

Towards yet another community resource,

My heart no longer filled with just despair or bitterness but with something more enduring,

more transformative.

It is the knowledge that I am no longer just a man with a wounded soul.

Poem 3

Spirit liberator.

We knew her first as an instructor,

A channeler of Meisner method,

As a working man’s shaman of the arts.

We sought assistance in freeing the actor within,

In embracing the schizoid parts of ourselves that make for great drama

And that we hoped would bring money and fame.

That was the aim of many who started the journey,

Their efforts proved futile, and like an out of favor Harlequin in a Italian opera they soon departed.

But those who stayed,

Who did not shirk from the encounter with themselves,

Found strength in the Celtic warrior strength of our teacher,

In her compassion for the battered parts of ourselves that needed coaxing before they would take

The stage,

That would always be within reach when the tyranny of egos sought to attack from

The wings of the theaters we hoped to make our homes.

Never once did our spirit liberator, as we came to call her, did she cease to believe in our gifts.

She stood fast, barring our sacred space from the tyranny of critics who sought to dissuade us of

our inner brilliance by summoning our inner critics.

Even when our fledgling instruments produced only nuggets of authenticity her faith was not

Shaken,

Holding fast until the roots of my craft were like a rich deep vineyard,

Connecting us to both our hearts and spirit.

My Presidio journey has long since ended.

I have come to understand that my work is not entirely my own,

That it is a mosaic,

In which everyone bequeaths their gifts to those who share the experience with them,

Who never demands thanks for liberating the Soul.