Thursday, March 20, 2014

One Wish


Dead roses bowed in silent homage around a wishing well

where a withered bride watered fragile flowers

with wept tears, flowing down fragile stems.

It was not that flora could not flourish in the area.

In years past the secluded alcove had been

popular amongst young lovers, who sauntered through

Eden; eager to taste that fruit which was once forbidden.

 

At present, the path leading to the graveyard of so many wishes

was marked by a trail of dead, brown grass

leading to a wood that is remembered only by ghosts

still haunting the place.

 

The wishing well has long gone dry

and if there were a penny in the bottom

none could now tell,

for its depths have been forgotten

with those whom had built it.

The bride often wondered if all the

old masons whom constructed the well

were dead, along with the lovers who’s

names were etched into the brick for

she never saw another soul come to make

a wish like she made each day, shortly after the

rising sun.

 

She did not toss well earned money into a fanciful hole

for love’s fleeting fancy, 

nor as a remembrance of

the passing of her dead husband.

In truth, he was alive and thriving

but she had no idea he would tarry on so long,

each of her prayers to go on before him

had gone unanswered day after day.

 

Friday, March 7, 2014

Hum of Eternity


“The heart’s serenity is like gold.”

I saw these words etched above a urinal

in a dirty little bar I called home.

What caused my eyes to trace this poorly etched phrase,

What was different about this moment that had drawn my attention?

Whatever the purpose, it grew.

A disconcerting feeling,

overwhelming weight pressed on my chest.

Two ton bricks I had carried countless years

suddenly became insufferable.

 

This city, too much.

These people, too much.

The dirt, the grime,

this gritty texture of veiled life.

One sentence brought it all in to perspective.

Tearing at my clothes and abandoning my shoes,

I raced out

heading for somewhere,

someplace where life made sense.

Those words kept repeating in halls of my psyche;

“The heart’s serenity is like gold.”

 

A sensation began to resonate throughout my being,

long after the city had left me behind.

Bare feet stepped one in front of the other.

Rocks, like jagged teeth

Gnawed at my tender flesh.

 

Must go on,

I must not stop.

Pain became virtually unbearable

until it transmuted into a new understanding.

This path,

wretched, soul rending path

was singing to me, the melody penetrating my groans

and growing despair.

Pain is part of life,

part of this journey.

It exists as a detail, not the conclusion.

I began to forget my pain,

leaving a trail of silent blood

as a testimony of understanding to those who would come after.

I began to quicken the pace until I ran.

I ran to get away,

to forget and to remember.

Mind so convoluted with deadlines and obligations.

Daily attributes that had chained my life to a finite course.

I ran,

and little by little these shackles began to fall away.

In front of me the end was approaching,

behind was nothing but blood and baggage.

I reached the end of the path,

this path worn smooth by seekers whom had come before me.

I could see their names carved into

the being of the atmosphere.

I had reached the end,

And now what to do?

 

I sat,

sat and closed my eyes,

closed my eyes to see without obstruction

and there it was.

It started as a low murmur,

barely audible and yet still prominent in the background.

It grew louder and I could see its waves undulating in the darkness.

The hum of eternity was surrounding me.

The universe’s silent sigh vibrating throughout all Existence.

I felt my place in the heartbeat of the world.

In leaving everything I had found so much more.

Peace and understanding,

The like of which I had never known.

 

It is the beauty of a silent soul.

It is the view of the first sunrise.

It is everything.

It is God

and it is us as we are God.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Remembering How to Speak

I heard a voice today,
manifested from an alcove long forgotten
and hidden beneath so much social rubble
That I had resigned the resonance of that voice
To a distant past.
That echo, a fading memory existing only in peripheral
Of youth and unrestricted idealism.
The words which were eloquently uttered
Were of a quality that garnered no pretense,  no restriction.
There was neither forethought nor afterthought,
Only pure truth, unadulterated speech.
The words that followed were not profound in their nature,
They revealed no hidden mysteries or insights into the secrets of the cosmos
But it was the honesty, the unfiltered quality of speech
That caused me to stop and pay homage to the holiness of that singular moment.
I realized that an extraordinary amount of the conversations
In which I engage are predicated by complex social custom.
Questions and responses, all designed to produce a predetermined
Reaction on cue.
That moment of lucidity haunted me the entirety of the day
And I made a decision to speak through the spider webbed menagerie
Of everyday social interactions.
The result of which, I have found, is infectious.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Thinking of My Father

As I stand and gaze upon tools covered with dust and age,
rusted from lack of use,
the realization that I seldom spent any time
in this Holy Place; where he used his hands to make, to mend
and to apply a life-time of acquired knowledge.
I only saw the results of the labor he put forth,
failing to notice the scarred knuckles and calloused hands
that made all of our cars run again, that kept solid walls
and a roof over our heads.


I let my mind wander back through the years
searching for the gratitude we surely must have bestowed upon him
for making all of our lives much easier.
The only response that rises to the surface of my mind
is a poor and simple, "Thank you", then we would drive away;
never letting the endeavour of love he poured out settle in our souls.


How were we to know that our time with him was slowly waning,
that those hands made of iron were softening and losing their grip.
I never noticed his diminished stature as the years went by,
that his piercing blue eyes grew dimmer with each passing season.
I always saw before me the man I knew in my youth;
a man full of laughter, a man with a heart that could not be measured in beats,
a man that could move mountains, and would for any of his children and is wife.


I miss that man, and it is only now that I begin to see he was growing weaker
as the years went by; though his body ultimately failed him, he never lost his laugh
or the love he felt for all of us.


I miss that laugh and the way we would talk when no one else was around: "man to man".
I miss his advice, and I regret taking too much of it for granted, though he never failed to give.
I will never forget the way he would look at me with those eyes,
so full of experience and wisdom, straining to will me
not to make the same mistakes he had as a young man.
Though I did not always heed his warnings, I did grow into a man
and I am thankful that we had the opportunity to sit at a table, over coffee,
and talk as men; that through all of our imperfections the love we shared over-shadowed
any mistakes we may have made.


Time washes away the failures of our youth but no amount of time, distance or death
can diminish the love my father left us. That is his legacy; not the cars he fixed, the houses he built or the advice he gave. It is his love that lingers on and lives in each of us, as if he were still here; laughing, smiling and making sure we were all ok.



Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Love Flower

Love Flower

I’ve seen this flower blossom,
to the effect that no other had ever compared,
and the very next day wilt, to the point
where decay should, surely, begin to set in.
Then, without notice, color returns to the leaves
and the stem gains some of its old turgidity back.
Life begins anew.
I’ve known this flower to cause envy
to grow in the hearts of those that gaze upon it,
seen its beauty inspire others to shine with the same radiance.
But, what care is involved, what diligence in
refining and delivering the proper nutrients.
And there are seasons, some that nurture
the unusual plant, causing it to change, to become more
than was promised when seed was first planted.
And other seasons, which defy the natural progression
of nature, seasons that seem designed to destroy
that which could, potentially, outlast the sun.
Patience, endurance, faith.
These are the tools that will see it to the end.
What control do I have over Earth and sun,
over time and chance.
A weary traveler, who fell, floated
and was saved by the sight of a life force
that weathered the long hours.Show less

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Sunday Morning

A sip of morning’s coffee
and consciousness rises from some unknown depths.
There is a dull ache traversing the entire landscape
of my skin, or my flesh in the biblical sense.
The coffee is strong; rich and black.
The smell of it takes me to a thousand different places
where I sat, drinking morning’s dew from eyes
and watched the shuffling of another day
that would soon find itself at a dead sprint.


Ah, but that was the past.
There seems so much of that now,
stretching out along the road that has brought me here.
So many adventures, heartaches and faded glory.
And it is left to my moth eaten memory to house
all of those amber encased moments that seemed would never end,
though did.


So, now I sit with Sunday Morning and she lights a cigarette.
Of course, she will tell me it is a terrible habit
as she takes a puff and hands it to me.
I just stare at her with a half-hearted smile
and mumble some poor excuse of carrying with
on last habit for a little while longer.
Sunday; she knows me better than any other,
has been there when there was no other.
She has seen me in prison orange, sleeping off the reverie
of Saturday Night.
She has patiently listened as I argued with my other self,
discussing the reasons for lingering on a while longer.


I have always decided to stay, despite what the week may bring
I know that Sunday will be waiting at the end.
She has seen me clinically insane, not knowing where or who I was
and sat by me, rocking me gently until I came back into myself.
She loves, despite the heartache I have thrown at her first light’s feet,
because she has seen me shine, known me barefoot in the woods
with powerful words on my tongue, softly emitting my own light.
She knows I am more than one color, shape, emotion.
For as much as she is unchanging, I am change.


She has seen me in her morning’s service, seated and singing.
Searching for that spark that smoldered along the way.
She does not judge, neither approves nor disapproves
but watches and waits as the week draws to an end.
Oh Sunday, if you could whisper to me all that you have witnessed
would our hearts break or burst with light?
It does not matter, I know she remains silent
and is a better friend for it,
so I will come back here again and again
and always find my Sunday waiting.  

Friday, June 28, 2013

A Few Words on Dying

The last words are never right,
the moment, when you look at someone,
whom your heart is tied inextricably to,
and then, without notice, without forewarn
they expire.
You always think you could have said more,
told them how much they had affected your life,
how much they meant to you,
instead you can't remember if you said, “I love you” or not.


It is not the last words, but rather, the life lived.
Do not concern yourself with saying goodbye,
the time to grieve will come,
hold off while they are still holding on.
Holding them, while even a trickle of vitality
lingers in their hand to hold yours.
Those last moments,
the moments you will never forget,
are but a pause and heartache.


Should we let the last images
our father, our mother, our child
sees be the desperation of two helpless hands,
the anguish of eyes straining to notice every detail
the complete, utter abandoned of self;
dropping all pretence of dignity and wrapping
ourselves in a blanket of raw grief.
Our attitude is misconstrued with the dying,
refusing to accept the inevitable
we may end up causing panic and fear to
fill those last gasps of air,
as the dying moves on.


Reserve this time for squeezing hands tight,
for remembering the life lived
and how that life lives on in you.
A person dies, a body is buried
but the pieces left behind reside
in those that were lucky enough to
share in that life before it faded and went on.