Here, one of each, and each of one;
Strings of crystals and water drops.
The space between the sky and stars;
A sinking Moon and swimming Sun.
To build without the touch of hand,
To see without vision’s burden,
Not to direct, but to create,
Not to construct, but yet to paint.
Every color in, every line gone.
Every sense blind, every sight true.
To leave body behind in faith,
To melt into ether and grace.
Here, one of each, and each of one;
Strands of timeless, silent thoughts.
To see how near we stand,
Violent shifting sands,
Illusions gone.
Visions drawn.
We are
One.
Tag: creative
An Interview
If you asked me
Where lays my pride
I’d say in a grave
Next to my lies.
If you asked me
How were my days
I’d say nearly all
Were painfully dull.
If you asked me
Where it went wrong
I’d say that my fall
Began in my skull.
If you asked me
Where went my dreams
I’d say, with a breeze,
They were strangled by me.
Consequences
The specter was flattered
By all who had gathered.
The witnesses staggered!
Their hearts were in tatters,
They moaned with a clatter,
As their lives were shattered.
And laughter,
The clever crafter,
Hung from the rafters,
Pale ever-after.
Hush
So now you know,
how thick the darkness is;
how heavy it rests
upon the chests
of those who sit alone.
How lucky, blessed!
You’ve traced your steps;
pressed by lonely, growing regrets.
You’ve passed the test.
I now profess, “Welcome home, honored guest!”
Pre-pleasantries, I must confess.
You’ve nothing left, save disease.
Your estates been cleaned
of all that gleams;
windows and doors,
and all between,
but hush!
Hush, don’t make a scene.
All the glowing eyes agree:
There’s nothing worse than being seen.
I plead:
Relax your neck,
Roll back your head,
Think of how
you’ll soon be dead.
Now, hush.
You’ve had your chance.
Hush.
Valley Shade
The pain is real. The fear is real. The shame
is real. But, the future and the past, they
are not. This day, at the bottom of the valley,
between two steep slopes, is battered by
rolling threats of tomorrow and sliding scars
of yesterday. Mass wasting will someday level
this perverted landscape. But, why wait?
Why not just give up the illusion? Or not.
The shadows may shorten the days but,
at noon in the valley, the sun will mockingly
pass overhead and warm our faces.
Gone until tomorrow. Remembered always.
The Rebel
Having to become new; we detest it.
Pouting like children at the prospect
of having our toy taken away: our identity.
this sense of “me.” Our security.
We rebel, but against what?
Only abstractions of frightening futures
and chilling pasts. We build a mask
to hide it. So no one can find it.
No one can come near.
“It’s mine.” It’s personal. A challenge,
an embarrassment, a shame. Really,
we never change. We just complain
and refuse to accept that something might be better
than all the secrets that we’ve built.
Our pride.
Field Notes
It’s a mind-body connection problem. The PTSD
of a life-threatening addiction. The weight
of a depressive condition. The prison
of insanity. We have to face the truth
We have to find direction.
Having a reference point is helpful but,
it kills the romance. Sanity as a goal, a place; it’s
quite the commitment. Really kills the moment.
It simply orders, “This way to good, this way to right.”
And so we cling to our petty rebellions,
our egos and our lust. Eyeballing the fantasy
of healing and growth, while not having the courage
to ask it on a date. Too scared to fall in love.
Too weak to love ourselves.
So, the balance tips, the chest deflates.
Virtues decay.
And we’re left sitting, anxious.
Alone.
