My head is heavy
My thoughts are deep
I am not tired
But very weak.
…
Category: Poetry
Amateur scribblings often over rhythmic, rhymey, shallow and too Freudian.
Hump Day
My inner middle schooler likes the middle of the week. This time of year, the walk to my son’s bus stop is dark. Jupiter shines in the sky but clouds obscure other heavenly bodies. The muscadine grapes have ripened to perfection. I accidentally knock one to ground. Pity. The weather is beautiful yet a storm threatens. The distance rumble of clouds and chaos are apparent only to me for the storm that threatens is in my head. I fend it off by building a high pressure system of calm and positive thinking. The storm, a low pressure system, moves further into the distance; at bay, yet ever present, waiting for other systems to build. And Jupiter shines in the calm skies.
Duty
I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
I woke, and found that life was duty.
7 Cups of Tea, by Lu Tong (795 – 835 CE)
The first cup kisses away my thirst,
and my loneliness is quelled by the second.
The third gives insight worthy of ancient scrolls,
and the fourth exiles my troubles.
My body becomes lighter with the fifth,
and the sixth sends word from immortals.
But the seventh—oh the seventh cup—
if I drink you, a wind will hurry my wings
toward the sacred island.
Translated by Christopher Nelson
Passion
Stars have blossomed in the night sky
The last wafts of smoke rise into the purple
Framed by tall pines covering the horizons
The flames have subsided
A loud crack, snap, pops from a remaining log
In the ashen pit
A bright red glows within the coals
Oranges and yellows echo the memory of the recent fire
And emits warmth
A memory of the burning, passion
Stars vanish
One by one millions of years after they extinguish
Violently
The sky darkens
Stars disappear more quickly
Clouds blanket the purple turning the sky
First grey then black
Thunder claps and the first rain drop
Falls on the coals with a sizzle
Hot timber in the pit screams
An ember is splashed
It winces, darkening
Then resists, glowing more strongly
Water falls from the sky, faster
Pouring
The ember glances around
Seeing other embers doused
Forever
Fewer to support each other
Chilling
Yet the ember fights on
Striving to produce
Heat
But losing
The fight
The light
Gone.
Beneath a bed of ashes
So wet on the surface
Awaits an ember
Feeling the cold
Holding onto its own heat
In hopes to be discovered
Uncovered
Resurrected
To bring forth a fire.
Numb
The dream is gone.
Tick tock
It’s the last day of the month
I’ve never felt so fucked
Deadlines loom
Choices to be made
Life goes on
Day by day
Future becomes the past
Days go too fast
Opportunities missed
Obligation in the way
Watching kids grow up
What would Chapin say
Tick tock
Another beat of the clock
Time is an illusion
Created by man
Used to fill the void
Used to drive us mad
Disproven by physicists
We exist all at once
Until observed
Then we’re fucked.
Just relative
I just had a conversation with Yesterday
About Tomorrow.
He claimed I should be focused on Today
And went on to chastise the Future
While praising the Present
Using words from the Past.
Me
I hate
Enlightenment
Eventually the fog will lift
Revealing the landscape
Ravaged by blind pre-dawn fumbling
Hope for a lengthy day
In which to repair the damage
Before dusk comes
Bringing darkness again.
That Place
Between desperation
Desire to fold
A longing to lie down
And go no further
And glowing optimism
Working hard for the top
The willingness to win
And putting in the effort
Is the Crossroads.
Hopes and dreams
Hopes and dreams
Misplaced ambitions;
Life too short
For wasted time,
And silly superstitions.
Hopes and dreams
Driving youth
Towards ends and means;
Without direction,
Nor goals which Wisdom brings.
Hopes and dreams
Lost over time;
Replaced by routine,
Obligation and burden.
Hopes and dreams
Aged away;
Faded day by day,
Ill guided
And never realized.
Hopes and dreams
Wasted upon the youth,
Who have the vision,
But lack the Wisdom,
To see a dream,
Come to fruition.
Sinking
Legs of lead
Mind of mush
Sadness too much.
The Silent Pulse
At the heart of each of us, whatever our imperfections, there exists a silent pulse of perfect rhythm, a complex of wave forms and resonances, which is absolutely individual and unique, and yet which connects us to everything in the universe. The act of getting in touch with this pulse can transform our personal experience and in some way alter the world around us.
[Source, George Leonard, The Silent Pulse: A Search for the Perfect Rhythm that Exists in Each of Us
]
A happy marriage is a silent marriage
In marriages that work
The husband and wife
Don’t treat each other like jerks
The best way to avoid a spat
Is to remain quiet
And never chat
