What once was my everyday,
is now so sadly far away,
and increasingly exotic.
What once was my inner peace,
is now a lost puzzle piece,
and now I’m left a half-wit.
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I wrote many words, meaningless to many, held dear by few. But it is within those few that live the thirst for that certain answer that their mind had been hinging on. To be able to supply that answer, like delivering a small sample of divine epiphany is worth more than a mere message that reaches many but fails to absorb indefinitely into the soul. The abstract and jagged to many are the clear and serrated piece that may complete one of the pondered puzzles to which we struggle with in our lives. The mind may hide, erase or bluntly forget but the soul always remembers.
To struggle with in the mind is to live on and to progress although it aches as any other growing pain. A bit of missing knowledge handed forth is the equivalent to mother’s warm hands rubbing those growth pains out of your childhood legs. So teachers, teach and writers, write. This is a step that follows the ground where one sits idle moving only to the masters whip within the mind that orders action, recognition, for if refused the possible loss of self leaves that person in regret of their self defiance. Doubt sets in though at this step, worrying of the relevance each sentence has to others, forgetting why you picked up the pen in the first place.
So the third step awaits as you realize this and continue to write at your whim, at your pace and with out the oppression of fear. Where does it all take you from there is the final question which may not be answered for a time after death as far as your earthbound name is concerned. Yet, there is an unlimited wisdom one finds for them selves when they become literary fencers. This wisdom may overflow to others, but even if it does not someone has learned.
When the wind swirls and dusk is over the east,
the rodents scurry past
looking for a feast,
wondering if it will be there last.
While the leaves whisper peace
The patch eyed on the patio,
clever Cleo in the garbage can,
frequently watch through the window,
with a growing appetite for the dining of man.
As a morsel is pulled from a plate
Feline eyes widen and a little tongue lashes,
Something has been decided; I believe a rodent’s fate.
The night rouges disperse in furious flashes.
A dangerous time as the evening gets late
Tomorrow morn, shall find a mouse at my door, and they eggs in their dishes.
A sigh exhaled with the failing light
Absorbed into the blanket of an intruding cloud
I must say I felt quite bright
When the storm abruptly turned around
But a whisper of raindrops, the sun at late day height
Shade to the east, shaded eyes peering west
Last treatment of rays before a lonely night
It’s my rabbit friend and I again, taking the world in expansion of chest
We become to some an alarming sight
Small surprise slipped in along their way
I ponder the approach of golden hair, I might
Regret the actions of the day
Would have to be one with interests tight
One who radiated without the sun and equal in depth
For the most subtle efforts to surface right
Amongst Sky’s azure and breeze a good breath
The vanquished storm to my delight
The rabbit growing sleepy, nudges me gently
A break in the storm, one of natures invites
My rodent here lures quite quickly
Perhaps a chance for romance by twilight
The winged are calling the settings suffice
Yet in no mood to enter that plight
To venture for love in female fishing strife
No need to fear regrets slow healing bite
Shall relent in no chase, content and at bay
The days more fitting for the flight of a kite
Such a melancholy day with very little to say
Worry not this lonely night
Or those that stare with sunshine hair
All a pleasure, a credit to sight
But with the light on my face, I’m incapable to care
A reflective day, all is right, I shall be alone tonight.
Those who fight for the unborn
are the same who forsake the masses,
Perhaps because the fetus cannot be seen
through they’re green sensitive glasses.
They cry not for the foreign
nor the meek, nor the earth
But when it comes to the unborn
they suddenly realize,
a righteous sense of worth.
Strange, with all so similar,
and your just another
-bird of a color
Diversity is a necessity,
like all the flowers that bloom in the spring
If all were roses of red and stems long,
all would be quite boring
-and to where would we belong?
Many morals practiced subjectively
Easier to see when thinking objectively
Simpletons judge through simplicity
and thought becomes a casualty.
Ignorance is indeed a human trait
-and may decide ones fate
Though a life a humility,
should be enough to fill ones plate.
Understanding is knowledge,
Yet, knowledge not understanding
Can one ever learn
-without blindly interrogating.
An old soul in time,
the one of which is mine,
Feel as if I have seen it all, before
A twist of gut that I know more.
An elderly shadow, and secret scars
triggers of peace, and twinges of war
I think I have seen it all before.
Feeling a heartfelt weight
that I do not withhold,
lost libraries of faded pages
filled with stories left untold.
Mysteries of the soul, may be ones mold.
When things are less alien
than they should consciously be
Pondering what could become,
Are you what you thought you would be?
The sand of the earth
be the only thing a soul may ever really know.
Just because you think you are,
does it actually make it so?
I know how it is to be judged by those whom I am not familiar
The skin of my soul leaves the story untold and too many it bewilders
To fierce it frights as unknown nights where they see not the burning timbers
Yet I see through all baiting eyes true no matter the maskarade of demeanors.
I am that hooded man in the wooded sitting idle by the fire.
It isn’t quite clear that it’s safe to come near, for I might make you a liar.
If this is your doubt then don’t give a shout, of foolish fear I quickly tire.
Best to walk on, for I rather you gone and all those who shun the mirror.
The cowboys have not a leg to stand on,
But the scratchy voiced corpse of a pawn.
But, the dollar bill, the big bertha
Bombing the word with buyouts.
For them, with no will, it goes no further,
Though the mothers of the slain cry out.
Security for sale, come and get it!
The government is coming to getcha.
If that’s security, I don’t feel it,
but the children sure do I betcha!
The rolling rock of capitalism,
Cannot be deaf to wisdom.
Life, not meant to be bought or sold,
yet fatter wallets bid for all our souls.
On our lives, is on which they thrive,
leaching as we grow old.
But it goes no further,
than the lame duck can fly
identity without liability,
farewell goodbye.
The digital revolution is on my mind,
the quality of music shall rewind.
When technology smothers the burn for profit
and there is little game in producing whores
the Spam business will be forced to forfeit
and the heart of the art, will be at our cores.
It would be quite nice, to break the stranglehold
faceless names have on our lives
When offices are empty, and companies sold,
I look forward to many sweet goodbyes.
The thing about the phoenix is,
It’s never quick to raise his wings, but knows when to fly.
The thing about the phoenix is,
It knows the contrasts of the earth and sky.
The thing about the Phoenix is,
It likes to watch, and through you with his flaming eyes.
The thing about the phoenix is,
It can sense the future, for he is a product of the past.
The thing about the phoenix is,
It burns the ties that bind, though shuns the inevitable goodbyes.
The thing about the phoenix is,
It may consist only of passionate flame that flares or fizzles, but it shall never truly be burned.
The thing about the phoenix is,
It’s responsive to your actions, and questions your lies.
The thing about the phoenix is,
If you can hear his scream you are one who has learned.
