ÐÂnte’š Ϝire उ


May 21 by The Running Son




Ϝire ̍̉



The Blue and the Red.

When Dante rises,
all growing will stop
and creation will know why birds fly off.
And all blue knowers
from every earth corner

will stop, and blue hearts
will turn heads and ears
to the ground,
listening, breath quiet, for a hue, a sound–
a redness.

But only the sound
of the last life you said
I met you in? Remember
the sweet sound of us, founding us?
And the motherly and blue star-crossed

care for eyes, that last time
we played
near great ledges swallowing air?
We had no fear. We were children
playing chicken,

tickling the ages
and taunting, with color palettes and flirting,
tired, and sleeping sages.


The Blue and the White.

Then, Dante opened his chest
and gods spilled out,
You see, blue sleep
makes them white, and blankets peace years.

Turning braids and tangles them; deep
where they are in rock-chambers
keeping company
with dust-flute players and planet-sayers.
Then, tones slip in,

primordial waves
of chara-synth crystalline, shattering
songs and gathering muses,
singing blue spring kundalini tunes
and awakening juices, and you–

ringing off my red heart!
And all my walls.
For a moment there we breathed,
and all stilled in time.
Then, a sigh escaped high

and tongued heaven, savored her, blinked,
then ate her whole, took her
to inside warm places,
where fundamental

rhythms move
ancient and large beings.
where gods watch
quiet and slow,

and waves shock souls and eyes dilated.
It is then soul-eyes know.
So snap open!
G shocks of you in me!–slumbering instinct–
pulsars held at bay, but building

identity still to come: zero point energy,
and then you will make sense
to me
and all creation will stop
where white shadows blue,

and red meets face to face
with you.

The Red.

Our breathing will slow, down
to quantum tones
and the hue of groans
dating back to the life I met you in.
There we touched
tender ideas, thought

and ate, braided hair,
tangling wetness up and down
spines, curving
in our own timing.
But rhythms, coiled

inside me of light fractured night!
The red!
Seismic night wake-events bid me
into red ledge photon-molting

chrysalis, me, broken, but growing
fast–flesh to fiber
pink to red
sealed tightly and opening, and again, again.
Now I understand Dante’s fire,

here, alone in regions. The center
where breath begins
and eyes look down a moment,
and stare,
then up to you, and there,

me and you arc-sphere–
become two
of breath, hair, and deaths
ageless sharing
of natures color to hexadecimal ties.

All the spans, the angles I find
and want to geometrically
mine in, and enter for a time,
with care.
I’ll map cave-arts and wall places,

and brush embedded jewels
until they shine soft,
sending colors out.
Now Dante’s hiding fire dragons
breeding tremors, until

walls close and eyes widen
and fault lines rise,
and high mountains smoke
tops hard rock
tumbles, and waves

splash concentric color
over day breaking,
and wide open
spaces, and everywhere.
Closed eyes and held breath

now face us.
We now lose all false intonations,
and false heart casings.
We are taken, so blue and white now–
for a red ride,

again, in Dante’s chariot races.





by Jim Aldrich

.namaste.   -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •-   .namaste.

11 thoughts on “ÐÂnte’š Ϝire उ

  1. Kira says:

    That was simply brilliant. I’m don’t think I’m smart enough to read it though 🙂 The imagery was profound and the words were pictures. Beautiful.

  2. I wish you had a LIKE button on your posts so I could let you know where I’ve been today in your blog. Leaving a comment on every post simply isn’t practical.

    Since your blog is runningfather.wordpress.com, you should be able to change the default so that there is a LIKE button on each post. Let me know if you want to do that and I’ll show you how. It’s pretty easy. Meanwhile,

    Thanks for letting me camp out in your blog for a little while today. I had a great time and tried to leave my campsite as good as when I arrived. I’ll be back!

    • Russel, you just gave me the in I need, I think.

      I turned them off in frustration. I dont want to be the mysterious poet prototype, not me anymore, but a deeper survey of the blog will reveal some depression, and many of my ‘longer’ time followers have seen me go thru uncomfortable changes, right here on the blog. They have become quiet, which was appropriate in many ways til now, but I would like my poems read whether or not they feel like they need sneak. Period. That is the issue, and this way, discussions begin, see? You commented, and I think another person will too.

      I’ll turn them back on. This is a necessary phase. Like long monologs about Likes.
      I’m human, and this is a rather lonely time. I am doing what many bloggers do worldwide. I reach out. Admit it.

      Here endeth the friggin epistle.

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RFB editor Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013

RunningSon aka Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013 | This site is dedicated with the deepest gratitude to Dr. Cláudio Naranjo, whose writings gave me life.

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