Chapter: A television and Curious Questions and Inquiries
Wonders why
And the morning she was gone
Something else now led the way
A fertile soil, defined this freedom, this toil,
They expected of me, they expected no less
Can I trust the silence of this mess?
They wanted to see what I would say;
Clashing and bashing, ganging and banging, leading the way;
The quiet that silence allows a roguish charm
A mindless tune, a breeze whispers at noon
No answers can come too soon.
What is this that is eating away
At the anguish, something frightens the group
A cryptic attitude, an inconsequential feud,
Gossip I write a song for you to play…
Turn out the light, open your ear
I have a simple desire for you to hear
The hands of death are hard to draw,
The embers of my fire burn out
My ice begins to thaw…
Now stable…
“A dove barges out onto the Ferris wheel of life
Tears fall around my face, but I continue to love.”
I say, as slowly something wicked fades away;
And another me now leads the way.
Remember me
I imagine walking one step on
A walkway onto an ascending stairway
The brackets all encompassing last
As my railing footsteps climb, climbing myself,
Circling myself, circling form
My many spinning parts…an awkward spiral
Always Becoming, immortal being…
Human ghosts…skeletons entire?
Ivory bones, bodies desire
Dream weaving hosts descends
Mind deceiving endless heart receiving Love…
Peace.
Phantom faces one by one
Clock strikes one
The hammer the anvil hits
The lantern cracks the ancient light is lit
Nebulous sky revolving…death is not an end,
Round refrain
Forever around
Cycle of life;
And so…
I live on…
Walking onto a path of an ascending stairway;
Please remember me as I am today.
The musician and the choir
I sing a song of silence
I sing a song so sad
I sing a song of violence
I sing of a world gone mad.
Oh I hum of little things
With no hope I play my guitar strings
Oh myself and my choir a loathsome bunch are we,
A wretched tune, times end too soon, we’re forced to face a dismal reality.
Fight Night
The sweat poured down
as she prepared for the final round.
The mouth guard in
the trunks snug on
the groin protector against her stomach
hugging her hips…
Her boots comforting her every step
tied tight…
Was she ready for battle?
Was her honor at stake?
She came out of the corner
like a raging bull
jab--cross--hook--uppercut
bob--and--weave--parry
so smooth--so smooth--so smooth
was she
as she feigned her way
through the fight.
the color red
red is the color of the leaves in fall
the fall of man
as he struggles against himself with himself
destroying himself in the process.
red is the color of a stop sign
as my family stops caring…
they start fighting one another and forget
that love begins within.
red is the color of my life blood
as I bleed out
cutting away the very essence of my mortal sin and Being
for no better reason than to rid myself of the throwness and darkness of my soul.
The Ox
Look to the cavalry
as he delivers us from our yoke
a yoke weary
Heavy laden
which was
Robbing us of our sleep.
This heavy weight that brought
us to the edge
of a precipice
but rest assured now
we shall not fall
the fall of man
for he is the vine
and we the branch
and he has died for our sin.
Look to the cavalry
for he has delivered us
from ourselves.
“For thine is the kingdom”
And God has breathed.
“Flawed garden”
In a blaze
the sun screams with all her grandiosity drenching vivid texture throughout the sky;
The tilting clouds transparent lines shudder darkness, then alternates with a light that shines brightly.
The many-colored fictions that exist appear within
The winds, Sirens--blank but filled with colorful shades simultaneously --,
tilt together so that they create a white and blue stain across the sky…
The virgin rising of the dawn occurs all unfurled.
She: the sun, the sky, the clouds; a voice which harbors a perpetually
lone starkness, an unfading brokenness, crackles across the pallet of
earth.
Now beside a still water, underneath these clouds,
stands a barbed off little place;
a thorn-ed and thicketed green bed
with storm-struck stalks, in brambles and slush, debased.
But still these stems exist.
For alone in chamber do my flowers wait
crunched under boot and ramble
although flawed, they’re not ready to depart
my garden’s worth the gamble…
“After all, one should always finish what one starts.” says the ancient
adage
My garden collage
Beautiful but what else can Be?
I suggest you come and see…
My flora, my flora, my flora menagerie.
If I’ve learned anything from time it’s been to ask for help. Peace doesn’t come from within it comes from without. “Success” is made possible by working with one another. Brethren, true strength is knowing that you are weak, and not strong enough to triumph on your own over your struggles.
We are stronger together by far and through Love. We, the social Beings, may find harmony in all sectors of our existence (the latter of course being spiritual/inner, social and environmental) by not being alone. Knowing that you need others to help you on your way is truly a blessing that comes with maturity.
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