Tag Archives: prose

Family Myth

Family is an agreement that love is paramount, time is precious, and honesty transcends self.

Blood is not thicker than water, it’s made of water and flows freely together. Water is the essence of life that beats through our veins and fuels emotions to sweeter heights. Without water we have no pulse.

Absence does not make the heart grow fonder, commitment makes the heart beat towards the memory and hope of another, loyalty minus the exceptions.

Without water blood coagulates, it ceases to flow. A heart that beats dust leaves ashes to fall, and withered limbs reaching for a love without color.

So now I’ve learnt to create moments, behind memories and just beyond hope I feel with my heart as my hands lay silent, ever looking for that moment words pulse with color.

My heart beats in all directions like a starburst reaching out to darkness, or disappearing into the light. No matter though; I can always close my eyes or look at the sun in memory of us, because family beats in our heart and rests in our mind.

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Garden of Tomorrow

Don’t mistake me for the workin man
I ain’t down with wages and death
I’m not following another mans plan

You fell for the dream
Cause they caught you sleeping
And you bought the farm

Now you’re afraid to awaken
To the reality
Of what has been taken

You’ve swallowed a lie
And refused to hack
It was easier to follow
Another mans track

Now you look sideways at your prodigy
Wonder when they’ll realize
You’re a sleep walker
Traveling as a man in disguise

All those dollars you paid to a lie
You saw a doctor, who saw a dollar
Now you’re sick a tired
In a medicinal stupor

You forfeited youth
For a lie
And your dignity
Was your high

You’re the American way
Just short of truth
And captured by the day

I know you had that moment,
That moment where the reality superseded the dream
And you looked around at all you’ve collected that’s turned gray and sags with the weight of years and ignorance. Then you were vested in futility.

Suddenly the guy who has nothing redefined wealth and you’re bankrupt by all accounts. You had no sense of what is more,
or less sad.

I see you, I hear you shuffling
Down creaky hallways mumbling
About “back in the day”
When you were weak stumbling
Along behind another mans way

You never stood tall
Bowing down to fools
And applauding other men
Using you as a tool

I created dollars with my mind
Making sense with my hands
Looking after mine in kind
Sharing dirt and sifting sand

We grew strong folks like weeds
That don’t swallow lies for dollars
Or sell their legacy for another man’s pockets full of influence

Revolution will come one day
And all you’ve fabricated will return to green and dirt where you’ll rest
Eternally in the arms of a lie.

It will be our seed that flourishes
In the garden of tomorrow
You got too greedy, too consumed
With the rope we afforded you

Shadows in the myst

Lightening Streaks across the horizon peeling back the colors of darkness.

Reflections reveal the surface of the lake is real, and it holds colors hostage in its dark depths while secretly making love to shadows.

It’s the thunder that awakens or distracts our senses to our fears, light or sound; the storm is just a word.

The crack of air tears a second of reality open for all to hear, but no one listens, they remember or fear shadows in the wind.

We live in a world of surfaces. Colors and textures dominating our landscape with stolid waves of dirt undulating still, as our feet move through the valleys and peaks carrying thoughts like embers in a pouch.

Lightening reveals a glimpse of chalk painted figures dancing with smoke around orange shards of warmth. The storm is their power.

To them there are no forces of nature, only the power of nature to be harnessed and rode through the shadows of life. No width, depth, or breadth to be concerned with, not even time can catch the mind on fire.

The earth moves in mysterious places open for all to see. This is how the still mind travels and the racing mind runs in circles searching for its peace. The shadows between the two dance with lighting to the sound of thunder surrounded by surfaces like a prism and in between each color the shadow sits silently wondering how they can’t see they’re one.

Gathering Ghosts

Some days I feel like a haloed reaper. I carry memories and tears like wings on a gargoyle. Frozen outstretched emotions of guilt that no longer feather air. Just a concrete memory that I wish I could paint back to life.

It’s time that ticks off the emotions. Weather, seasons, darkness all come like lightening. Unexpected flashes of childhood folly or adult dramas playing out as a reminder. I wonder at the places they’ve traveled in spirit; do they know?

I wonder if life in spirit is more colorful than life in body. Does pain dissipate like myst in the spirit, or does it choke you like smoke. Are you smiling down on my naïveté or cynical about my faults. Either way you speak to my understandings in a way I can’t describe and you can’t communicate.

These friends of mine aren’t “up there”. They’re everywhere I remember. Breakfast tables, playgrounds, even the train tracks we romped. I listen to us on the radio and silently hope you would approve, but in the end I am reminded you had your own ghosts.

So to carry these people and places around is an honor. I’m still here creating my ghost. Hoping I can leave the trace of an unknown smile, or a tear in a rear view mirror. I hope I can create a space where yesterday and today come together without the burden of tomorrow. A space where my loved ones can carry with them a moment in the sound of rubber in asphalt. Until then, I’ll carry Ya’all in the summer breeze and winter storm with the same warmth you’ve given me.

Wind

I close my eyes riding the wind through the tenses of my life. Filtered images fly through the dark illuminating scenes through the scent of memory and hope.

I know not where the wind will take me, nor the speed, for there’s a world of difference between the breeze and the gale, but they’re mine none the less.

The sounds of my past aren’t audible. They come through experiences that thunder or whisper to my soul. Interrupted only by the decibels of reality rumbling across my conscientious. The light rain on the tin roof has more color in mind than in my world.

It’s like the sound of rubber rolling on wet asphalt triggers a silence that brings a colorful emotion that’s silent, but heard. Felt in that separate place between memory and hope.

I can’t live here in this darkness full of light, sound, and smells. I can’t push the world far enough away. I can close my eyes and smile, or cry for dreams long past, or hopes that’ve died. Either way the beauty isn’t lost, it’s in me.

Giving Back

I hesitate, my instincts too far beyond my surroundings

Alert, in tune with my heartbeat and the earths warnings

Now I must stop and seek cover from what I fear

Not cowering, not hiding, but living on the edge of finality it’s clear

Trust is the luxury of believers, I’m not a believer anymore, I’m here

Somewhere between safe and sound, I can no longer wander

It serves me well to stay in the shadows, alert and alive

I don’t need the lie anymore. I know under that beautiful garden there’s violence and decay, things we know, but don’t speak of

Don’t sell me assurances you can’t provide, I’m safe alone

I’m tired of all these people I have to be just to make your world complete

It’s been so long you don’t know which one is me, because you fell, fell into the trap and got ensnared in the one that you could never be for more than a moment

I was hear all along watching you melt under the light of an abstract dream. It was warm for a moment, but only the sun can bring true light, true warmth. The others just illuminated what they wish you to see, what they want you to be

Now your not human, not a person, but a part of something so much bigger than you that you can’t see it’s nothing, you’re nothing. You’ve been put to sleep in someone else’s dream.

Not I. I am wild, but free. I feel the heat of the day and shiver in darkness under the moons glow dreaming of sunrises.

What good is a sunset anyway. The end of a day shouldn’t be honored, it should be remembered. Where did we learn to worship the end of anything, it’s beginnings that have hope. All we have in sunsets are reflections and regrets

So I’ll keep your smile and give you back your watch. I’ll keep the sound of your voice, but give you back your words. You’ll need your hands, so I’ll leave with your touch gently caressing my heart. Everything else belonged to the world anyway.

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.