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Unpublished Poetry Series: The Thunder-Spirit

  The Thunder-Spirit Night time--the orange Clouds withhold oncoming rain; Afar the thunder Lingers to oblivion: Restless are the ways That fulfill unspoken dreams Their lives amongst us, As time that summons passing As a startled bird To wake us in the moonlight Of a winter sleep. Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: November 7th, 2012 (With Audio)

November 7th, 2012 The sky is overcast and somehow the more beautiful for it.  The resurgence of something, at one time held in the light, gains the absolute clearest perspective when it can be approached on cloudy days.  It is not that we see anything new, rather it is the coming into contradiction of our own perception.  In that way, what was held of interest once before, now finds conflict with how we must approach it.  This is true for the way we read books, listen to music, and try to figure out the tasks of our day, and this is also true of any solution.   The lake is deeper with the loss of light, the forest more silent; animals step with an approaching calm, and it is all too easy to forget that we must function with the rising of the sun.  The trees have gone from light yellow to dark red in the matter of a week and it is with renewed interest that I take up the terrifying banalities of life. Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: October 29th, 2012 (With Audio)

October 29th, 2012 The 27th was the first day of autumn--a faint chill and pelting rain; the trees taking on different colours, the ferns rusting away.  One day we wake up and it is spring, another winter; for we call the first of things pure: the first taste, the first scent; but the first expression of autumn, the first realization that our earth is moving further away from the sun, in that thought alone there is the greatest solitude. Daily life has a great warming effect to it--it is wonderful to be caught up in our habits and see from within the season changing.  Haste, anxiety, and dread, all take on new meanings, those of which we can recede into and find relief in the fact that our own storms and our own frailties are matters less eternal than the wind.  It is even soothing to rediscover a pressing need and find that the importance given to it was but an illusion caused by the summer months or the full moon--in reality, we don't know.  The way we feel a certain l

A Poet's Journal: October 11th, 2012 (With Audio)

October 11th, 2012 A large group of cranes pass over.    There is something so bland in life that we become subverse to the very details that make it up; and yet, brought to our attention, those details are of no special concern, though they have created our interest in the first place.  When we ask someone to stand out, we are not asking of anything genuine or long-standing, but merely a blind antagonist to draw us in to an ever greater competition of self-worth.  But how foolish!  For he who is willing to combat his fellow-man proves he is not on even terms with him and has not attained the superiority of triumph in his own mind.  Instead of the ideas of excellence that another puts forth, should he find the terms for his own conviction.  But if there is a sage of dire consequence, he has folded up his robe, for among the vast infinitude of prophecy there are but one or two decisions to be made.  Perhaps we could still hear his echo if it were not that he too has become so

A Poet's Journal: October 3rd, 2012 (Audio)

October 3rd, 2012 That which is unique seems all the more to make what is around us less so that we forget the whole circumstance leans solely on the force of our own interpretation. While having dinner last night, just at the moment that I happened to look up, a greenish-blue ball of light fled across the tiny part of sky that our window encloses; but from that moment, until I spoke of the object only a few seconds later, did a confidence steadily grow in my disparaged and up until then unsure attempts in writing that everything thought childish in my life up to that instant became truth and whatever I would do from here on would not lead me astray whether I doubted or not.  It was a coincidence that touched something I had hardly ever seen; it was not a revelation, nor did I think some divine presence involved in it, but it was the circumstance that bade the whole realm of possibility, the whole realm of existence, mutual to my own poor and daily life.  Superiority and the hi

A Poet's Journal: October 2nd, 2012 (Audio)

October 2nd, 2012 What is it that we conceal when we look towards ideal moments? What appears to us comes as part of a world that we can only vaguely conceive, but one in which we imagine a whole set of circumstances, accomplishing this or that with greater or lesser conviction until we arrive at some culminating point where perfection is grasped for just a moment. And yet we know that if something perfect must exist it is only because imperfection exists and the whole way unto the ideal is a series of sufferings. But we must not consider through all our pains there will bloom within us an everlasting peace; for just as a door and four walls may lead us to expect shelter, the rain may still come in. When it happens though, when we find entrance into a warm and inviting home, the essence of that ideal is always hard to grasp and we despair over the contrast of perception and imagination only to turn upon that thing that was always concealed within us and within the event. It is st