I See
I do not read; I see — by my meager sight
Cast on these stones of living light
Placed in my path, by greater men
Than I. Such passion from their pen
Which I, a fool, give furtive look,
And make impure, the virgin book
Of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Joyce -
The dripping honey from their voice,
The painful bliss and beauty found
And fed to me on yellow leaf
And hearing beauty’s silent sound,
I feel the depth of joy and grief
Of great heroes in the myths of old,
Of Odysseus’ story told
Throughout the ages, and I look
And see the malice of Captain Hook,
And Quasimodo’s star-crossed love,
I read and weep the love he lost.
I gaze upon the wondrous thoughts
Of great authors who have brought
Forth beauteous light upon my eyes.
I see the questions that arise
From conflicts that the hero needs
To grow. I see when I read.
I do not hear; I see. Soft touch upon my hearing eyes -
The sound of raindrops from the sky.
Enchanted notes fly through the air -
High notes like the earth and sky
In movement through the heaven’s sphere
To life, to death, to weep, to cry.
From Mozart and his lighted sounds
Which finds me somber — music drowned.
Or Beethoven’s purple deep
With dreams, and hopes — of life and sleep.
Great mountains of imagined gray
Mixed with yellow lightning that
Surrounds my visions of the place
The music leads me to.
Unknown waves of blinded sight
Of brilliant colors, brilliant light -
Of black, of gray, of red and green -
That gleams with a holy gleam.
The wind that whistles through the trees,
The green and brown it sings to me.
I hear the budding of the day
In leaves that die — fall’s decay.
The sparrow’s song contains a drop
Of golden sunlight fallen down
From fading sun and crescent moon
That I see through sound.
The crunch of snow beneath my feet,
And the bubbling creek,
The sounds are light -
I hear with sight.
I do not smell; I see — the air tinted with spiced light
That I breathe and know and smell the sight
Of cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, and thyme
That coat my ever-smelling eyes.
The soft tinge of an autumn day
With leaves, and fire, and decay
Of summer’s growth and the death
That comes soon with winter’s breath.
With sight, I smell the fresh-cut grass
And see the scent of chicken fried
At work and in the past.
I see the smells with light.
And coffee in its morning brew,
With earthy tones and bitter hue,
I see it as a darkened drape
That cast aside, makes us awake.
The coldest morn when I rise
Like icicles upon my eyes,
I see the raindrops as they fall
And hit the ground with heaves and pours
And touches softly, dirt and mud
And mixes with the terran flood
And breathes out life and silver dew.
And smells cast their hazy hues
Of brown, or amber, or blue
Within my mind, the colors grow
Because I see with my nose.
I do not taste; I see — my tongue sees colors bright
When I drink Earl Grey or Vanilla Chai -
Chocolate chip cookie — just a crumb -
Flashes lightly on my tongue.
A streak of rainbow flying by
When I taste the pecan pie,
A ray of sunshine shining through
My mouth when I chew
On a bit of beef or a piece of bread,
A snow-capped mountain in my head
When I taste the freezing wind
With its substance, sharp and thin.
The light sweet of the water clear
And the purple raindrops that appear
In pomegranate — crystal light.
And in the dark brown sight
Of coffee and its sharpened haze.
I see when I taste.
I do not feel; I see. I see the pain I had
When I was young, when I was sad
Get Unto the Father’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
From falling off the monkey bars -
Falling off and broken arm.
I see the softest face that looks
At me from where she stood -
That I might touch that cheek!
That I might see.
I see the red hot fire where
The fever burned, the fever flared -
The coldest winter wind that blew
Its icy frost, its silver hue
Of death and life and sharpest touch -
I see the earth — coarse and rough.
The golden sparkle of the sun
That warms, and lights my way
Throughout the summer’s day
Until the night when comes the moon
With slivered silver touch of calm.
And softest fluff of dandelion -
The gentle blow of evening breeze
That shows the nightly quiet
And I see the sandy sea
With gust and blow of tortured wind
Across my face and on my feet,
The gentle gold and blue blend.
I do not feel — I see.
I do not think; I see. I think I see
The crushing weight of time upon me,
But in my thoughts I find — do I find? -
The secrets I have hidden in my mind.
I see, therefore I am. I see soft clouds of light
That pulse so softly, purple bright
And sparkling thoughts that float to me -
Heaven’s abundant creativity.
And yet it hides from my wondering eyes
Which seek lost colors in my sight.
I see a red that never was;
Lost it when a word was said;
Colors floating through my head,
I see them in bright thoughtfulness.
One by one they pass me by -
I can’t recall. I cry
To who or what? Perhaps, to me?
I do not think. I see.
I do not love; I see. I see with flaming sight
The spiteful passions around my nights -
Shrewd demons of love, they cast their snares
And entrap me with my lover’s hair.
Soft hair, like snow — and warm as sun -
And softly flying cherubim
That laugh and smile in flying stead
Around my love-enchanted head.
But their vain stains that pierce my mind,
Have no respite to find.
For the love I see is not my own,
And I am all alone
With empty hand, and falling tear
That lands in fallen ash around
The fireplace burning low,
But I see within my eyes a spark
Of some lost love within my heart
That could be kindled some long day
Even if all my hopes have flown away.
And I see the glare of fiercest fire
In the deepest recess of my desire
And all the peace and all the hope,
The warm feelings and the love
That I feel for friends and family.
I do not love. I see.
I do not see; I see. I see more than I see.
The dark grey cloud is more than cloud to me;
The sauntering giant in the sky
That brings its rainy cry
To bring sadness, but later life -
And lightning is it’s knife
It cuts the air with wicked hiss
And thunder if it miss.
The rose with softly blushing face -
my love when I had went away -
had left her far behind,
But always in the rose to find.
And a golden leaf that flutters down
To paint the air with golden sound
That must be seen by wondering eyes
To see the painted sky
Of red and pink and purple hue
That mixes in the sunset view.
The brick that lays within the ground -
Of red and grime and deepest brown
But no one sees the beauty
In the common or the dirty.
The trees have arms in outstretched stance
And wind is music for their dance.
Their back is strong, their skin is rough,
And yet their hair is soft to touch.
The dreams they dream are food to eat;
The morning dew, when they weep.
So I softly whisper, softly pray
That I won’t forget to time’s delay
That a silver raindrop is the heavens’ cry
When they see hidden beauty die.
And my heart has wings to swiftly fly,
To cast my cares within the sky.
But my eyes are blind to earthly light.
I do not see. I see with more than sight.
