Solstice

The Chaos of Society's Night

   Disturbs the Peace of Winter Mornings

The Celebrations of the Grandest Nothings

   Could never Bow to the Beautiful Silence.

                        ~

And Here, is where I do the Work

   That in itself, is awfully Quiet—

But Here is where I speak the Loudest

   With last night's tired, cracking Voice.

                        ~

All their Laughter, and Stories Grand

   Keep my attention, to a Point—

The Pretty Face—the Conversations—

   All have an Ugly, determined End.

                        ~

See me—hear me—cries for Help—

   I listen—observe—emit Responses—

But no one hears, the Quiet Enigma

   So here it is—deciphered.

                        ~

Age is Lost among the Noise—

   Timeless Battles we cannot Win

We Find Ourselves Alone—Indefinite—

   Are the Answers in The End.

                        ~

One Big Question rules them All—

   How much is the Potential Worth?—

How much Time should I Devote

   To this Eternally spinning Ball of Dirt?

                        ~

The Shortest Day has finally Arrived—

   Less time to Dwell on things Unknown—

More Time to Spend—with the Coldness of Night—

   Its Noise, its Lights, & Blood-red Lipstick. 

                  Trail of Ashes

It left its Mark,—a Shallow Scar—

   As a flash that leaves our Vision spotted—

A Song still Trapped inside our minds—

   The smoke that Clings to Last Night's Clothes.

                            ~

When Time Arrives, we notice the Crime*

   Of invisible Hands stealing from us

And in the Place of what was Taken

   We are given, Nothing.

                            ~

Memory, they say, is the Gift of Time—

   But what of Now?—as we Remember?—

What could Become of this Moment,

   If Time did not steal it as well?—

                            ~

Its Gracious Gift, now unrecognizable—

   A Face once known, just as our Own—

A Voice now faint, and quickly receding

   Away from all that we've been Given—

                            ~

For who knows Magic like no other?

   Than Levitating Minds alone?—

Than Poems and Songs of the Cosmic Dream?—

   Than the dire Moments of Love and Bliss?—

                            ~

...I've spanned a continent with a single Blink:

   A Spark of Darkness—Brief Eternity—

Where laws are broken and there is no Ground

   To keep us from sinking In...

                            ~

The exhaled Atmosphere of a sigh

   Shoots Life through the barren, Silent Land—

Forgotten by the Worlds around us,

   But known, via Echoes of Time.

                            ~

Our Place remains a distant memory

   Caught in the Tangles of ill perception—

Struggling to grasp the Passing Glance

   Of Times's Fiery Escape.

  

                                                 *Sound

 

"God is Dead"—Nietzsche, 1882

"Clearly, we lacked the Upright Spine needed to generate 

the necessary Courage to actually Kill God, and so we used our 

famous talent for Cleverness to surreptitiously employ Science

to Artificially Preserve Him in a Cryogenic 

Chamber."

"And now, due the Inherent Nature of our 

self-destructive economic system, its gradual decline's

reciprocity has failed, gaining speed, and can no longer sustain 

the Expensive Preservation of Corpses."

"And Look!—one Nation under God never existed!—Divided

   we were, and Divided we Are.

And Look!—God has Thawed out, escaped His Chamber,

   and walks among us!—

And Look!—there is still enough Fat on His Bones that He 

    can Burn Brilliantly!—

And Look!—there are enough of Us to Capture Him and 

   Burn Him at the State once and for all!—His Glorious Flames

      Lighting the Way for the New World!"

And Look!—Mother Nature, (much too patient), waits for Us

   to Worship Her!....."

                                                        —Lucien J. Boisclair, 2022

                       Avalanche

At last, I built a Mountain of Snow—

  Steep and Piercing through the Clouds

Such Perfect Slopes out in the Open—

  Holding strong, for All to See. 

                            ~

The Winter Storms have Blessed the Hills

  And crags of Immovable Slate & Granite

With countless Frozen, unique Crystals—

  Quietly Bearing, in Placid Harmony.

                            ~

But just as We Touch this Frozen Scene

  Of Water & Stone, and Earth & Vapour—

A delicate Balance—a thing of Beauty,

  And thus, Inherently Dangerous—

                            ~

A Thing Completed stands not long

  Before its Time runs out—

For off in the distance, another Storm

  Approaches with chaos & Pregnant Cloud!

                            ~

Shards of Ice now Piercing the Words!

  Strokes of the Brush losing Stability!—

The Violence surprisingly Quick & profound!—

  Dismantling the Mountain's Orderly Repose.

                            ~

Now Feel the Rumbling from Underground!—

  All Connections—Disconnecting!—

See the Stones Break Loose now rolling

  Downward in a Wave of Deletion—

                            ~

The grade too Steep to hold the Weight—

  The Sun at Noon, relentlessly throbs!—

Cracks are forming as the Snow

  Starts to Shift and Crumble—Down!

                            ~

And see it Falling!—gaining Speed!—

  It Falls upon itself and More—

Collecting Everything in its path—

  Suffocating All with Cold Irrelevance!

                            ~

Beware! you All, about to Climb

  Upon these Slopes of Titanium White—

For the Weight of what we think we Know

  Can Break the Day—into Pieces of Night.

                            ~

And no Apologies from your Gods,

  But Warnings Fairly, always given—

And as we paint our Pretty Pictures

  They are Prone to Burn at any Instant.

 

Chance be had—I sit Here, Now

  Guilty of the Summer's Heat—

Melody Smothered by the Mowers

  Killing the Insect Symphony.

                        ~

No more Innocence on the Page

  Have I to pull from Years—

These Rented Walls come with Age—

  An Outer Peace—No one hears.

                        ~

See the Squirrel, On The Fence—

  Caution in its Gait—

For the Jolt of Energy—

  Both It, and I,—await.

                        ~

Words are Timid to a Thought—

  Attach—Commitment's Task—

Importance, we are amply Given

  Yet of Nothing, does it Ask.

                        ~

We—the Killers of the Silence

  Draw, and Bleed, and Sweat—

To Ask of the Black Fountain

  Am I Alive—Yet?—

                        ~

Arriving at this Spot Demands

  All Attention—Focus—

The Spinning Blade now fast Approaches—

  Blades of Grass—at last.

            Killer in the Sky

The Killer's in the Sky this time

  With no Gun nor Mask—

Fear the Star that Shines the Brightest—

  And Believe it's not the Last—

And Smile! Please!—but hide your Face!—

  No!—don't breathe the Air!—

Poison Spawns in every Case

  That starts with a Killer's Dare—

As Home-Made Spaceships skyward rise

  To Puncture Boundless Void—

The Cosmos Littered with Curious Traces

  Appeasing the Paranoid —

With the Sniper, Timidly, on the Roof—

  Sees everyone Pointing at Him—

As we're taking our Final Cautious Breath

  He sets and locks his Aim—

While the Merchant in the Dying Market

  Sees Hopelessly Holy Pockets—

What was for Sale, now unavailable—

  Reserved for the Wanted Artist—

As they pace behind their borrowed Walls

  Bleeding out the Rent—

While serving Patrons withered Hearts

  Long after they've been Spent.

And Science pushes out their Quotas

  Seeking lost Believers—

To fuel a Monster that will Deceive us

  And keep our Dead Redeemer. 

While the Banker sweats & smokes his pipe

  His Existential Exhale

Fills the Air with the horrid stench

  Of Blackmail still for sale—

So exhume an Artist from their Grave!

  Harness the Lightning from the Sky!

Set the Pace of a transplant Heart

  And wait for the Creature to Rise!—

Impaled by Debt and Buried with Doubt—

  Disgusted by the Poles Elect—

Liberty herself, no longer appointed—

  And Patiently waits to Reset—

While wearily—Faithfully—we raise a Flag—

  Reciting our peaceful protest—

From the Gutter to the Glove 

  We're lured and dragged

    By the Hand that knows no Rest—

                       The Mirror  

Through the Dirty Lens of 'Things not Completed'
  I stared for long, into the Glass—
Now Broken and missing half its pieces
  From Falling through it the night before last.

                            ~

Oh what debaucheries had we indulged?—

  What interrupted the progress of Days?

Where are my keys?—my wallet is missing—

  Bring me a Potion to change this Phase!

                            ~

The things I said last night by the Fire—

  Does anyone remember at all?—

I seem to remember it was getting Profound

  Sometime before my Fall.

                            ~

And thus sums up the Cycle Complete—

  Silence—Idea—Revelry—Void—

Regretting that there was no Pen nor Machine

  Nor Mind to Build the Voice—

                            ~

The notes I've lost!—or could not find!—

  The Words that never Arrived!—

I Forgive the Instruments, tuned and ready—

  For it is I who deem them Alive.

                            ~

For what is Lost, by me or None

  Was never Lost Itself—

It Remains,—as it always was—

  Waiting,   to be Pulled from its Self.

           All Thoughts Fly

The Artist must Walk the Other Way

  To See it All pass by—

To not get Caught up in the Flow

  Of the Current Paradigm—

                    ~

To hear the Siren's Pitch go up

  Then down as it speeds by—

To not Join in on Noisy Chatter

  To let our Voices Fly—

                    ~

An Airport is an Ideal Place

  To Live Inside the Flow—

To Be Still, and watch the Race

  Seeing All Arrive—then Go—

                    ~

Or a Truckstop, in the Night

  When most are sound Asleep—

To see the Freight in Constant Movement

  Is to Spy on Reality—

 

To End all Suffering and even Death—

  Such an Ignorant Fantasy!—

One only need Attend a Funeral

  To see how much we Need

To Feel our Pain, and Definite Loss—

  To Feel our Love, Inside-out—

To Know that we are More than This—

  And Death, the Everlasting Kiss—

For if Death was something to Overcome

  Would we not simply throw it away?—

Like Trash we put out to the Curb—

  And Forget, as we Leave for the Day?

If Pain and Loss, and Tears, were "Bad"

  How could we ever know the Good,

Of a Happiness that will never last—

  How would we know, it Should?

 

                Being, And I

    "......There have been better times,

  and we can all dream of Being

            born into them.

     However: Here we Are—

             thousands of miles

        and hundreds of light-years

away from whatever it is

            we're after.....

        and, what are we chasing,

  but our own Thoughts—

       only brave enough to come out

            while  we   Sleep?"

        Part One: The Meeting

There's something going on out there 

  I hear it all Around—

The Universe, as an Orchestra

  Waiting to be Found:

Mortality is Nature's Joke

  Said a Being from far away

All is Just, and as it Seems

  Except what is Now—Today.

Intrigued, I pour us both a drink

  And Invite this Being in—

Speak to me in your Foreign Tongue!

  And the Being, began to begin:

Your little Rock is in a different Time—

  Its Circumference smaller, and yet—

So similar is your Kind to mine—

  Four Limbs and Hearts, full of Regret

While you're asleep, I've shown you things

  Our Brains are Tuned—you are aware—

But you have not yet figured it out:

  How Dream and Matter, here, compare.

Your problems now, I see them, sure—

  Not too different than my own—

Your solutions though, do not Endure

  And fail, as History has clearly shown.

The world of Matter is tricky business

  And so is the World of Words—

Too often the one speaks not to the other
  And the Thought, though Pure, Obscured.

You've lost your Code, and rightly so—

  It lagged too long beyond its days

With that you're tired from asking questions—

  Your answers lost in a complex maze—

You Wander in, then you Stumble out—

  No Will, Direction, nor Drive—

A Herd of Followers without a Lord

  To Guide every Choice and Stride—

You're born from Love tho' fearing Loss

  Screaming in fear!—and so Alive!—

But Without a hand to clutch and kiss

  You're afraid, and from Life, deprived

Of the ability to focus and follow a dream

  To its end or indeed, your own!—

Your Elixir of Life—sadly diluted

  And has drowned your Philosophers Stone—

Let us go Out, and you can show me

  Your World, as you see it today—

From that I may better guide your Limbs

  Toward a Light beyond your Cloud of Day

  

For Reality and Fantasy—we do not have—

  The two to us, are one and the same—

Show me the Sane, and show me the Mad—

  From there, I can begin to explain.

For though I am Old, I'm also quite Wise,

  My only Intention is your Ascendence —

For Others will come from Other Skies—

  Parasites with Death as their ultimate Sentence.

At this I paused—uncomfortably Silent—

  Oh the depths this Being could See!

I Finished my Drink and stood up Decided—

  May it all not Be what it shall Seem!

  

      Part Two: The Showing

So out we go, the Being and I 

  In our usual Jest and full Disguise—

We go downtown, where the People are

  And I Begin with a heavy sigh:

See The People: some drunk, some laughing—

  This has become the Established Routine—

All their days are spent expecting

  A Golden Ticket to find and redeem—

Day in, day out, their feverish Toil 

  Is spoiled by the Idols they kill or defend

And here in the bars and darkened theaters

  Is where and how they make their amends—

Drowning Dreams in Drink and Laughter!—

  Can't you hear them? Hear them Crying?!—

No this is not the thing we're after!—

  It's what we found while Soberly trying—

  And Look! There! —

Their heads pulled down, faces a-glow—

  Smiling at themselves, lonely, scrolling—

Saying nothing but complaining, blaming!—

  Pointing to a Nothing that draws their finger.

  And Look! There!—

They voted for the scum of the rotting earth—

  For it is their Right!—and have Everything

To say about it—so they Blame out of disappointment

  Lost, and too stubborn to ask for direction.

  And Look! There!—

They are obviously Sick and they know it—

  And there is Everything we can do —

But they have their hobbies & they have their games

  To stay Busy, Avoiding.

  And Look! There!—

See how they consume with closed eyes

  And open mouths bored, frustrated, insatiable

Discontent!—we have no Leaders—no!—

  This you already saw and you are right.

  And Look! There!—

See how the smart ones keep to themselves!

  They are Preserving their Tranquility—

We have forgotten how to Live Dangerously—

  To build Fires in a forge of Force!—

  And Look! There!—

They are suffocating! bleeding a River of Ants!

   We have indeed forgotten how to breathe 

In this vacuum we call Existence!—

  Hangovers and Debt—our greatest obstacles!

  —A Revolution is out of the Question

For we have been Taught to have Answers 

  Lined up in a row before us

 Before we ever even open our mouths—

                 or minds...

  And Look! There!—

They are trying to create the New Language—

  But no one cares to listen,—it is White Noise

To the black cloud of a drunk Society

  Reaching for their pink cloud of a final Sobriety.

  

  And Look! There!—

They've managed to forge their Opinions into Blades

  And have thus cut their own High Perch

And have fallen, bones broken crying—

  They will die Alone, and miserably.

  And Look! There!—

They seek Happiness for they are selfish—

  And they are unlucky for they suffer the most!—

Their only purpose is to be Content—

  Yet break their necks by nodding in Agreement.

  And Look! There!—

They are genuinely unhappy but hide it well—

  Hiding in a self-made net of safety & comfort—

For at least it is not as cold and as dark

   As their once-warm Emotions have sadly grown.

  And Look! There!—

They are bitter and they grind their teeth

  They envy, and are jealous, they are full of scorn

For they once Had, but now Have-Not—

  Thus they fear to Have ever again.

  And Look! There!—

They are tired for they have tried, and failed—

  Numerous lives they wanted live at once—

They've succeeded and lost, but Loss always wins

  And now they drink alone.

  And Look! There!—

They are so bored all they can do is cause trouble

  For they are restless and born Alive—

Pain and death have become more Exciting—

  And this, is not their Fault.

  And Look! There!—

Their Religion has failed them—

  But they'd never admit to Treason!—

For they are safe and secure when they go out 

  Drinking and laughing among their Flock.

And I as well have indulged myself

  In various states of ill-repute—

And many a drink have I thoroughly enjoyed

  Forgetting what I can, and hiding the Truth...

At this I was done,—tired from Observing—

  I looked toward the Being,

    Who seemed to Be,  focused on Eternity...

     Part Three: The (partial) Telling

It all makes sense said the Being then—

  I hear the well-springs of your woes

Indeed we've seen all likes of men

  Behind which there, is much to know—

Your Bodies rule your base desires—

  Fear is guiding your every step—

You've taught your brains to figure out

  Mathematics, becoming quite adept.

But All is not in Equation form—

  There's another level of understanding—

There are no Symbols for what I mean

  Only Poetry can Begin to explain:

The trees have been Speaking to you all along

  But you, too busy to Listen—

With the Wind their branches are singing you songs

  Of your Planet's Cathedral Organ—

The Noise—White—has filled your days

  And nights, keeping you awake—

But behind your Walls—thick and Dark

  You Sleep and for Silence,—Wait.

Instead, you've Focused Intently on Birds—

  Their Obvious Voices of song—

And from their Bodily Notes you've built

  The World you've turned out Wrong.

And as the Wind can fell a Tree,

 So too you have Destructive Power

Derived from Intentions pure and sound

  But tangled within, Emotions' Wire.

At this the Being Disappeared

  And I was left Alone

With what Seemed to be a Dream

  Within a Dream I've Known.

 

            The Solar Flare Nightmare

                                          —(a Basement Tragedy in 33 parts)

                         Part One:

"The Morning never Arrived like we wanted it to—

           Perpetually early—

                 and the Night, incomplete—

                          dissatisfied with Ephemerality.

  The Day demands too much from us—

            but we're taught to Fight, to Endure,

                    and so we do,    —but then,

                           we are too tired, for Dreams"

Silent Greetings, then Wait for Tomorrow—

  Unable to Purchase what we've Borrowed

As Previous Lives Fight for the Present,

  Our own Demise, is our Absence.

                            ~

A Song played Backwards, yet still the Same—

  Jumbled Oblivion—the Melody is Wrong—

New Life Enters without Permission—

  As we Laugh to Deny our failing Perception.

                            ~

The Light has long been Dim in our eyes—

  The Spectrum has narrowed across the Sky—

Obligations now emptied of all Recreation—

  Inventions now Posing Personifications.

                            ~

Divine Intervention has left us Stunned—

  From Fear and Truth we will always run!

The Fantastic Arrangement has already started,

  As we willingly stare into the Dying Sun.

                            ~

Our Curiosities—how, they wax and they wane—

  A Celebrated source of Infinite pain—

All Gains are fraught with equal Losses—

  A Natural Talent, in all of us.

                            ~

We've already Lost what we're trying to Find

  And the Void isn't even Partially noticed—

An Answer found, is a slave to the Question

  And we, to the Pangs of Distortion—

                            ~

This Dissonant Symphony of Devoted Emotion—

  Drowning! in the chaos of Idle Commotion—

We want Love to be enough, but never it is—

  Too often it Takes, all that we Give.

                            ~

As we notice the Spot in everything Clean

  As soon as our Eyes are Open—we See!

Yes True Perfection, is Unremarkable!—

  Silent, with neither Ambition nor Intention—      

                            ~  

And once it is Noticed?—Gone forever!—

  Escaping the Reason—the Noise of Existence—

It's by Chance that we Recognize anything at all,

  And Trying, is Crying to Fiction.

                            ~

As we tightly hold on, to all we should not

  For Treasure, for Hope, for selfish  Memories

We Shatter the Sand that made our Glass—

  Expecting even more than Charitable Reprieve.

                            ~

And always expecting some Unforeseen Joy—

  Then shoving it away—to Doubt—Revert!—

Our Plans are ruined by our own Failing Dams

  And the Water is Cold, and we are Submerged...

                            

                                Part Two:

Now what is this Angel?—dark-haired, mysterious?—

  The Moon reflecting off a shimmering Blade's Edge

    Turning Dangerous Rays into calm, soft Flames

      Which through Tired Eyes, warms a cold Heart?—

                            ~

Or perhaps She's the one with a Garden of Stones?—

   Its Statues innumerable from countless Stares

      Into her Deep, Dark, Tourmaline Eyes?—

                            ~

When the Sun throws a random, fiery fit of Rage,

       Do we Humbly bow Down, and to it, —Pray?

                            ~

Are we all just Demigods, spoiled by our own Thoughts,

      ...Desire, forever Cursed, in Exile?...

                            Part Three:

Our History Teaches us nothing New:

  Patterns repeating, Love, then Death—

Fighting to save, fighting to gain—

  The Record is Round, Play it Again.

                            ~

Our Land is stolen, our time is borrowed

  Our Life is destined by our Name—

Our minds are lost in seeking religion—

  Our Hearts know well, it's all the Same.

                            ~

The Sweat of the poor is Wine for the rich

   Empires are built by children and slaves,

Our Waste is seeping in through the Cracks

  Of our Helmet and we're starting to stink.

                            ~

A Jigsaw Puzzle,—we Prescribe it Life—

  We try to Know, we try to Feel,

We form our States and draw our Lines,

  Our Debt assures us that we're Real—

                            ~

We have our Number, we have our Place

  We have our Rank,—we're in the Race!

Running toward that Grand Illusion—

  The Dream was Real!—what's the confusion?

                            ~

The Family? The Government? Abel? or Cain?

  Likely stories keep Breaking it Seems—

Trivial Accomplishments keeping us sane—

  But the One Great Error, is All of our Being.

                             ~

Now we're tired from waiting, tired of wanting

  Tired of Talking, —Here we'll stay!

Let's Drink and Dance and forever be Gone—

  Drunk on the Beauty of Life's Decay!

                         Part Four:

As this tenebrosity creeps in slowly,   unnoticed

      —except for lines becoming blurred,

        lights too bright,    shadows even darker, 

                          details imperceptible,

    windows losing our interest,

                          faces no longer able to smile,

                 and laughter, now, a forgotten 

           bodily convulsion,

                   our attention shifts, 

 to imagining something...something...very different,

            and we are lost in contemplation—

    squinting into the distance

        at that mountain piercing the clouds—

its sight reminding us of something long forgotten—

             forever in wonder,     forever pondering

      the meaning,    and direction,

of it All....—and, 

        in the Heat of the Sun,—

    likewise—also bitterly resentful

                       of its own mortality—propose: 

"Perhaps the High Water Mark

       is too  far  Above  our  Heads...."

            (to be continued)

-----------------------------------

 

               The First Drink

Trapped in the World of Words!—

  We're born, kicking and screaming!—

Enjoy Today to Suffer Tomorrow!—

  The Heart is pounding, pounding!—

                        ~

In Prison behind, the Barren Land—

  Each day Blinding,—Silent Killer!—

And then the Night, can never Pretend—

  Each Thought Bleeding, turning Darker.

                        ~

And in the Comfort, of my Palace

  I arrange the Figures closer, closer—

As I pour the Faithful Drink to Think,

  Words are Melting, softer, softer—

                        ~

Thoughts Escape with Borrowed Wings—

  Three large exhales Fill my Lungs—

The Ocean wants to Show me things,

  But I forgot what that entails.

                        ~

As What I Know, lets go of Me—

  And Who I Was, is now Forgotten—

Who I Am, is Undetermined—

  A Vase of Marbles, without Flowers.

                        ~

And then the Figures, start to Resign—

  My Walls are Painted, as the Sky—

My Dreams forgotten, and better still—

  The Shore Recedes, with a Nod, Goodbye~

 

Remove my Skull

  That a Brain may Breathe

And Stretch into the Sky

  The Dream last night

    Wants to Return—

  It does not want to Die—

                ~

Too long it's Flown 

  Through Empty Air

Seeking Manifestation

  And I at last—

    Reality-Bound

  Am seeking Transformation—

                ~

Yes crush my Bones!

  That I may Melt

Into the Cosmic Sea!—

  This Heavy Form—

    Its Limbs Archaic!—

  With a Heart that wants to Be

                ~

On Time with Schumann—

  And coequally 

Paripatetic with the Dream—

  Oh Ancient Light!—

    Carry Us Away!

  To the Hindermost Galaxies!

                ~

Where all my Thoughts

  Can Wine and Dine

Without Exigencies!

  Where All is Sound—

    For This I reach

  Over Current Societies—

                ~

Who was that then?

  Where are they Now?—

What other World had I seen?

  And Why do I

    Remember them?—

  Do they remember Me?—

                ~

What was that Place

  So stark and vivid—

No Memory did produce?

  I'll await Tonight

    To Travel again—

  My Agenda, I will Induce.

                ~

...But wait!—

Is it not I

  Who left unwillingly—

Called forth by This Reality?

  Or was I uninvited,

    But allowed to Visit?—

  Then why are you Haunting me?!—

                ~

How would I acquire

  An Eternal Pass?—

Yes this, I'd like to Own—

  No Cost too great

    Could ever there be—

  My Debt has built your Throne.

                ~

And with these Words—

  A Spark of Hope—

I Build myself a Fire

  Where I am Fulcrum

    To the Cold,

  Over the Decisive Pyre.

 

                      Insignia

Bring me Sickness with my Health

  That I may Feel a Little Death—

Auction off my Tools of Steel

  That I may Dig, with Filthy Hands. 

                            ~

And let me Stand, by Lying First

  Face-down in a Bed of Dirt—

With heavy Weights upon my back

  And Cameras rolling to film the Act.

                            ~

And watch the Rain come down and turn

  My Bed into an Alter-Urn—

Then Watch as I with Foul Face

  Mock the Worms that Drown in Grace

                            ~

By Standing up so Tall and Proud

  Proclaiming something, somewhat loud—

As if to say, "I've Cheated Death!"—

  When in Reality, I could use the Rest.

                            ~

But we All know Poets—how they Lie!—

  We want to Taste, without the Weight—

Cowards really,—or perhaps we're Brave

  Enough to Touch, but never Save?

                            ~

For what has Eyes upon its Pain

  Cannot Face Death the Normal Way—

It may live past its Expiration—

 "The Good die young"—our Exoneration—

                            ~

We Refuse to Return to Mortal Dust

  While claiming Beauty Belongs to Us—

Could we ever Build a Temple of Air,

  And Claim no Land, or Person there?—

                            ~

But Let our Souls Live On as One,

  And through our Thoughts, when we are Done—

Becoming Less than Human Flesh!—

  Attached to and Torn 'tween Life & Death!?

                            ~

But Humans have, as their Central Art

  The Will to Become, both Ill and Smart—

Prone to Inventing their Noble Schemes

  Where Insignificance, shall Never be Seen.

           Parked on Charlotte

"And the Wolves were Out seeking Lambs

    And the Humble, their Lionesses—

  Power is not, the Ability to Pursuade,

    But the Vulnerability to Love..."

                            ~

The Fog of Transition, Lifting Slowly—

  New Light washes the Murky Noise

Of an Inconsistent, Swarming Night

  With a blue-white Steady Wind.

                            ~

A Pristine Air, Rushes into the Lungs—

  Fresh off the Sea it seems,

To be the Surest Sign of Life—

  Raised by the Ancient Sages.

                            ~

As Echoes of the Asthmatic Night

  Ramble around Inside,

And stumble into subconscious Realms—

  The Catacombs of Memory...

                            ~

And what was She, who sat Alone

  Deep in Distant Thought?

But Molecules, so Delicately Arranged—

  Inimitable, as Fire.—

                            ~

And what is This?—but an Anchor Cast

  With threadbare Sails still Raised—

Tearing violently in a Vicious Wind

  Too strong to Light our Way?

                            ~

Mere Tricks of Strength have left Them Blank

  And I, from Robbing Graves—

Pulling all that I can possibly Carry

  With me, to the Master Page—

                            ~

For Love is what we Always Seek,

  But few ever fully grasp

The Forms, the Depths, the meanings of

  Questions, that Love may Ask.—

                            ~

Must Love be the One, always asking?!–

  Or is it Fear who cannot Know?—

Have I been Spoiling all I Suppose

  With Bones Buried years ago?—

                            ~

Do I have the Courage to Fall once more?

  Strength, to Cry in Vain?—

Will I Allow myself to Feel,

  —Short of Breath, again?

        The Hour Glass

                     I.

Before we ever fully Live

  Death too often Takes

All there ever was to Give

  Caring not the Stakes

                    ~

In a world we never chose as Ours

  We try to make a Point

We try to Fit inside its Hours

  We try to make a Choice

                    ~

Time cares not our own Agenda

  —Has no Respect for Beauty

The Earth rotates without Direction

  But we, Direction Choosing

                    ~

Go about our Way with Might

  Just to have a Part

In this Blade we all call Life

  And that, is our only Art.

                    ~

                        II.

The Page Commands what we Say

  Our Sky, how tall we Grow

Our Eyes, how far we dare to See

  Our Mind, how much we Know

                        ~

Our Heart is Here, to only confuse

  The Order and length of Happiness

And at the Core, we're all abused

  By our own flooding carelessness.

                        ~

The Age Demands what we Say

  The Wind, the ease of Direction

And in the Eve of every Day

  We heal from Time's Dissection.

                        ~

                        III.

In Leisure touch the Greatest Thoughts

  —Songs, so Pure and Free—

How dare we move about so fast—

  And Limit what we See!—

                        ~

How dare the Clock Mock the Time

  With its Calculated Movements

For it knows not the Meter and Rhyme

  Of our Own Precious Moments.

        

                                                    May 7th 2022

                                                 St. Augustine, FL

                        Human,

See all of Our laughter, trailing and weak,

  Watching elected celebrities Age

As we let our Language succumb to meme

  And our Dreams turn a Fading Page.

                            ~

Our legs are sore, the Gate, unfound—

  To which we've always held a Key

Our Heartbeat winding, quickly down

  From keeping a relentless Beat

                            ~

Of a Song we could never Perform or Perfect

  To a Tempo too much, too fast—

A Melody born, first strong, and pleasant,

  Turning Dissonant and shadow-cast.

                            ~

Our brains are tired, from taming* our Hearts

  And alas!—they're now Deflating—

Now all that's left, are sad-heavy limbs

  Crawling down shady Scaffolding.

                            ~

The life we've built was never expected,

  Nor, what we had Imagined—

As Children, we dreamt of far greater things.

  As Children, we never were tired—

                            ~

We've Neglected the Sun, too long, to Light

  Ever fully Remember—

Perhaps our Fire no longer is needed

  To fuel the Fearless Ember...

                            ~

Smolder on all Ashes!—To the Aether all Dust!—

  Revel and Dance in our billowing Mess!—

May it End with dignity, pride, and Hope

  For another Chance at Lasting Success...

                            ~

The Machines live on, to tell the tales—

  A thousand Voices never Heard—

They'll focus in on Impossible Details—

  Let's Hope, they're permanently blurred.

    *scolding

The New Obsession: The Oliver Typewriter