Tag Archives: poem

Dust

Dust dances through the attic within shards of light slowly passing time along well worn planks. It’s magic they seek in the eyes of the beholder. They have no fairies or ghosts without the fertile or feeble minds staring in wonder.

Creeks and whistles play staccato games with swaying trees just beyond the pain. But this is a space of remembrance. A place where memories are free to roam through cob webs and yellowed paper.

Slowly I run my hand along wooden chests and metal straps. My mind travels along colorless photos of perfectly groomed alabaster faces wearing oversized suits and cinched dresses. I wonder how long it took these memories to arrive in my hands, in my mind, are they even mine.

I smell the struggle to open these boxes of yesterday. Places and moments are separate in the still morning light. Every box opens with a sigh and closes with a question. Is this real, was that then, or is this some cruel reminder of how distorted time really is. Minutes and hours are easy. Days and nights are bearable because tomorrow still exists. Past this yellow fades white, laughter sounds distant, and feeling is a remembrance or dream.

But I have what’s left of my memories in a box, that’s fortunate. I have captured time, or has it captured me, sometimes I wonder. What my hands can’t grasp my mind helps along. As the dust dances on in the light of a new day I’ll become the memory. A blessing and the curse of a life long lived.

Of Nature and Desire

Concentrically narrowing foliage chokes my optimism with caution. Thorns and petals stalk my path to a less humid endeavors. But this is how truth hides, just beyond the greenery withering in all of us.

The canopy has levels that reveal light one shard at a time, until your above the tangle of vines where there is no forest floor. All you see is beauty framed by heaven as fresh air wisps away the rot decaying below.

If only I could fly away to stone. An edifice imagined. Stolid and thoughtful granite curves that time hides. Water cascades over the riffs she’s etched in my strength. Sun glistens on the darkness creating black rainbows in the mist, and lichen warms the crevices of my souls.

The beauty of this carnage we call nature is odd, like love it takes great pains and grows with time, only to be passed on to the budding life below. The tallest trees see it while taking warmth from above, mocking us as their roots draw from our strength. Their saplings without us withering in the clutches of vines, but it’s beauty to the naive.

Life is a beautiful struggle between our nature and our ideals, between our needs and desires. Inside us the biological and psychological battles constantly feed on us like the worms that till our soul, but all we see are faces as we paint our landscape with beauty.

Randomness

My mind lazily stares at the reflection of the door in the rainwater collecting on the sidewalk. I struggle with which door to open, which door to walk through for the rest of my life. Both have become surreal and the glimmer of hope in my reflection is as real as the sadness behind the pains encased in reality.

In the end choice was an illusion, a weigh station to a truth I already knew. Home is an illusion like the mind. It doesn’t have matter like a house or brain, of which both will eventually collapse. And so it is, choice, the stairway to somewhere, always leads me on.

So is life an illusion brought to life in the reflection of inconsequential notions of reality. Are hope, faith, and prayer the home of truth, reality, and the work that brings shining moments. We aren’t meant to know, only care enough to try.

Does it all matter, probably not, but if you don’t care, it’s not worth living. The reflection means no more than the reality and that’s not a crossroad, it’s a void. A place where nothing has color or tears to dry. A place where death lives and life passes on.

Everything has meaning, has worth if we care. Reality pushed the boundary of sanity at times. So hold onto your reflections with the understanding that life does matter, as do the illusions that give it measure. When this gets twisted you’re no longer real.

Universal Guardian

Miles and minutes are the twins of time and space. The distance they wedge between our bodies can’t deceive the space between our spirits, that is the illusion.

It’s out there, we’re out there everywhere
Not a single space unoccupied
And all we see is air, because memory can be the curtain of fools

Within each of us are the collective echoes of all that is, it has to be denied to walk with now. This battle for the seed, the soul, is guarded by the spirit of mankind, which knows no time or space, it’s infinite and eternal.

Remembering can be a function or reaction. The space between the two is where the spirit lives. Like a sentry guarding a tomb it stands silently, eternally vigilant walking unseen, yet reverberating within us. Our soul can be stolen, but our spirit belongs to the universe, waiting for nothing.

Walk with your heart wide open to the possibility that biology is a collection of historical facts, lineage is an evolutionary illusion, the spirit is where time and space have no quarter. It knows no boundaries, because you thought.

A Brush With Life

If pictures can paint a thousand words, our words can paint a million pictures, so speak your mind carefully. Remember that your heart and mind beat as one in a delicate balance.

The art of life is free within the confines of our physical world, but our thought, our dreams, are a world without boundaries. A gallery of wonder revealed within every vessel of hope. Create with your mind and paint your spirit with the rainbow of light.

Death looms for most, a release for a few, and a new beginning for others. The patina of time glimmers on fading memories like water colors running on canvas. A landscape of light melding into a blur of colors washing what was coherent. This is why the light within the tunnel is surrounded by darkness, we become the color.

Be your own portrait, don’t be painted by time or circumstance. Everyone’s an artist. Some with their hands, others with their minds. The difference in the medium is irrelevant, it’s the one who choses their brush carefully and let’s their heart move their hands that creates beauty.

Nothing

It’s been a while since I’ve stretched my brain. I hate the awkwardness of starting. Ideas, grammar, rhythm all swirl in the distance distracting my desire to just write. I have no purpose, like someone who trains for an event they’ll never attempt, I write.

My thoughts are stiff. The process is familiar, like the runner who remembers the “stitch” that comes and goes with time. The rhythm is similar, getting lost in the pace, that’s the beauty.

Once these “old bones” get loosened you never know what’ll come of it. Could be hypocrisy revealed or love hidden in plain sight. Either way it takes my mind off the aches and pains of knowing there’s never a “last hurrah”, there’s only the idea that never got written.

So I mine the imagination for that one nugget of truth that’s universal. This is what keeps my arthritic brain from fusing into some angry rant that rests in dust. Or worse, ceases in rust. The thought of my imagination being medicated into oblivion, or trapped within a blank page is frightening. So the legend will keep me digging and breathing.

It’s not fame, nor trilogies, not even dollars that keep my knuckles cracked. It’s the synergy of my emotions colliding with my intellect that lift my pen. The familiarity of hope never loses it luster as long as my minds wide open.

This is how nothing becomes something and everything becomes one idea away. Possibilities revealed within the white noise reverberating off blank lines of desire. Nothing can be beautiful.

So I’ll end with the beginning; as this is a fitting plot. The snake swallowed it’s tail to remind us that ancient wisdom and a newborns cry are the same inspirations, it’s just where we are in life that determines wether we hear the beauty of each.

Moments of Naïveté

I’m running through my life like scenes on a slide projector. I pause at the beauty of the rolling green fields surrounded by hedgerows and forest. Light shards bisect my path like narrow gorges of hope falling into an illuminated abyss of joy

Everything stops but my breath rolling like thunder beneath beads of sweat. I stand transfixed at the possibilities of love and fear embracing in a twisted affair of the heart that strangles the minds ability to discern good and evil.

The air is thick and humid with indecision as I realize it’s time to move on. The beauty of the moment has passed and now I smell the pungent grass and the rancid decay of insect infected stumps rotting unnoticed. The world feeds on unseen horrors.

Then a gentle breeze turns my sweat to a film of past glories. Yesterday’s love and conquest become the wind at my back gently encouraging my efforts to move towards a life of bliss in a world of storms. There are no good or bad, just life to live and enjoy.

I no longer stop at the site of a beautiful moment, but pause and smile and keep moving with the naïveté of youth. Life is to be lived, not observed, and the only way to enjoy this world is to know beauty when you see it, then leave it as it is for others to ignore.

Hello can be as enthralling as the stream falling in bends and turns through a moss covered gorge. It’s the aura of the moment that captures the spirit of humanity to halt or move our hearts to a rhythm that only love can flow.