THREE POEMS BY RON J. HOUSSAYE

Franz Kafka in Therapy

Kafka dreams his metamorphosis
and gives up psychic secrets
as phantoms materialize in process of disclosures
for an hour in a quiet room

Each soul, so many faces, dare we look
beautiful, ugly, damaged, obscured
In greeting our personas we become ourselves
we gain the courage to love

The actor plays the character
but knows the real self is in hiding
To be lost in the role is to forget the self
for a time, only for a time

Mask on, mask off, the same
Soul to soul is truth alone

Tap gently on my shoulder Franz
when I do forget in selected moments and hours
my role is a mask, my mask is a tool
behind the mask resides the Self
in all her blissful joy



The Bird the Wheel the Climbing Up
for Maggie Kersgard, friend/lover/fellow poet who climbed ahead

Our birth is a tiny chirping bird
that first flies unsteadily
searching for life, equipped
with only
hope and courage.
The Wheel of Time turns
offers to us new chances
to learn, to understand there is
no pleasure without pain
no clarity without confusion
no joy without sorrow
no tedium without transcendence.

We are gifted with choices, reactions, intentions
ideas, conclusions, recognitions, perceptions, impressions,
desires, fantasies, delusions, distortions.
Our longings attract us to others
but our delusions and distortions obscure who they are.
Must learn to wait, think, talk, look
see what is, accept pain.

Death arrives like
a large, elegant crow
flying surely
to the horizon
bringing with her hope and courage.
So our climbing continues.
Those once strangers may become friends, some lovers may transform back into
strangers, some devils may become angels. Some angels may become devils.

We learn to become strong in quietness.
Our humanity becomes tolerable; our mortality
becomes a blessing,
and Love becomes
the Precious Gift
worth all the pain of living.

Creating the Nature of We

So earnestly we lay our heads upon white pillows

trusting as two geese
searching for release

trying not to stir
or make a whisper.

I learned you must not clutch at love
fearing to lose it

so wisely let go my finger muscles
to release your arm

releasing your body and soul.

So we sailed to a destination known but uncharted

the map of you and the map of me
are not writ, but to be found at sea.

The difficulty of love is like the difficulty of a poem
finding a rhythm, creating a texture
enduring first drafts and own's own
bad writing.

Needlessly is love dreary, as poetry is needlessly tedious

the poet's words are caresses
a lover's kisses are phrases.

So earnestly I now lay fingers upon these keys

to express what is true
it is what we do.

So soulfully we created a bond of love
not assuming, only feeling, letting in
our childhood pain,

making room for grief, permitting shadows
to speak the lost, long-ago cries and whispers.

Soul was breathed through our skins invisibly
and soul is surely the nature of we.


Copyright Ron J. Houssaye