Books

Books

The books lining my shelves are like good company.
Most diagree over diety and source, each laying on
the altar black ink shaped into meaning;
fiberous pages, symbols of time spent.
Conversations I invited myself to;
Questions answered by eaves dropping and
no matter the eloquence of point of some,
there are thoes that speak intimatley to me.

Tall, thick, timless books,
dotted crowns meaning something more
like eternal and supernal.
Old Aramaic and Hebrew:
Translations
Transliterations
Origin.

I become swallowed up in ideas
Stories born out in honesty.
Time so far gone that it's come
full circle to the lips of my children,
As if it was yesterday or right now.

And then there are other books;
Books that speak of earth and life
Miracles of fruit and body.
Books that direct me back beyond pages
that can not contain the Whole.
Next to the Eternal, in the space between moments,
Hands in the earth, lips to the fruit.
Blessing.
Words that become pages of Hebrew, floating unbound
into the ether to forever ring before a Throne
Some call mythical.

I know pages of intercellular communication
Biopsys of reality;
Catechisms of unfolding wisdomsNear heresy, but more sublime.
My eyes listen to lectures of cosmic disserations
Written in pictures for which there are no words,
And in one brief moment I am forced to face my ignorace
And am brought back to fiberous pages
With ink shaped meanings and words that
must disperse into ether to
make colors and visions that resurface
Into consciousness
Into Vision that can be listened to with eyes
That Hear and ears that See

And my response can only be a rocking
To middle eastern rythyms
To vibrations from tall thick books
With dotted crowns, implying something more
Than translations, transliterations and ink.