In the Middle of the Night

I needed to see the tulku for myself
I needed to eat the soil
To taste the Earth

In the haze of a half moon
The fish are leaping
Leaving the waters behind

Now comes the rain
Like a child through the grass
The clouds a continent in the sky

Where are my people
The sons and daughters of this soil
Those who will become fish

A shooting star answers
A warrior slips from behind the clouds
His belt and finery jangling

The face of the destroyer
Cannot stay
The people are leaping too loudly

The warrior dances down to the silver grass
His heart is with the fish
And the clean tasting soil

Call to Arms

What is America
Not the U  S  A
The corporation of slave owners
It is the Iroquois
The Blackfoot warriors
The stream enterers
The white man painting in his kitchen
The brown woman entertaining in hers
It is this soul of soil
The land beneath our feet
The air around our heads
Taken in our lungs
Driven back out
Into the trees
The grasses
It is the right afforded
To all of us
We are here in this
Made for us
To shelter
To steward
To love one another
To smash the Empire
Land of prophets
Horselover Fat
The firebrands
Like a sharpened phoenix
Here in the palace of pumas
The range of masterless men
The foundry of Allah
This time and place
Where we choose to be true
Choose to make good on our gift
This is the land between the Arctic Sea
And the Aztec Ocean
Give in to God
And Thine
The thunder
Rolling down from the mountains
To sweep ashes out to sea
The rains running
Clean and clear
From Heaven’s wideholding
To Earth’s endless turning

I salute the warriors
The ghost warriors
Awoken once more
To bring the battle back home
To bring in the ringing dead
The sweet spheres
The raging blaze
Sun, son
Son and daughter of this earth
Rise up
And take your arms
In this embrace

Do your most
Spread your fingers
Sink them in the soil
In growing things
In the soul

Command yourselves
Standing on the deck
Of your sleek barques
Soul-filled pennants flapping
New flags rising
The old doors opening
The stone age slipping
Between the ribs
Like adzes and arrows
From a thoughtless bow
Primordial archers
With the teachings
Of America
And controlled fire!


Rome, one life was enough.
I rifled through your grandmother’s pockets
And found a vial of sweet water
And a few coins.
They will serve
To cross this river and bless that bank.

Seth Paradox

Seth Paradox was given a middle name meaning “poem” and taught an indelible love of the word. Publicly, in his late teens, he began reading poetry in New York’s Bowery. Later, studying poetry theory, literature, and writing at the University of Washington, the form became a serious part of his expression. He has written often on his travels throughout Western Europe and South/South-East Asia, seeking after the lineage of poets, from Keats in Rome to Rumi on the banks of the Ganges. Currently, Seth is penning a poetry novel, Love in Dreams, about two beings at the end of time.


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