Abstract One
…and then,- for our achievements,
- what happens to the timid?
There, caught by shadow,
- we receive the twilight,
- like living
- outside the edges,
- and are avidly devoured,
while those others,
- who are starving
- from being without voice,
- become what we were
- in the light of day.
Yet,
- you would be anything,
- if only you could dream -
you would be believed
- if only you could know
- what it is to be real
- and be told what happens
- happens through
- no fault of your own.
But,
- all too often,
- we defer too easily,
- immediately impotent
- with our vulnerability
- sweeping the shadow into light.
Abstract Two
Free from the symptoms of a will- that would have us think
- we are our own excuse for being,
- emotionally you find yourself
alone
- and sure of so little,
- so full of the doubts and guilt
- that have come to be
- our only experience of the hours
- when we struggled to be found.
And, alone, your life is in retreat
- as you surrender to your fear,
- never even trying to understand
- that what lies between you and I
- is a bridge to have us touch
- what we remember - to have us
- nurture the lizard on the cactus
- that are no more - to have us
- find something of ourselves in
hope.
Abstract Three
And what we do- we do because
- we have been betrayed
- by our own synchronicity,
- opened out for all to see
- like a reality
- that is free from boundaries,
- free from dying.
And what we feel
- we feel because
- we are never as divine
- as in our heart’s dreams,
- never as innocent
- as we dare allow ourselves
- to believe we are
- and have always been.
And what we accomplish
- we accomplish because
- we have lost the will to believe
- in the approval of others,
- an approval we, for years,
- learned to take as read,
- but have come
- to question as foolish worth.
Abstract Four
Perhaps this soul is rotten?
A mess of words on pages- that mirror an addiction
- to a truth so seldom encountered?
A searching for sorrow
- when there are delights to digest?
Yet, this soul, my soul, is not without love.
This soul, my soul is a door through which
- our dreams we meet with laughter,
- our happiness the very thing
- that becomes clearer
- by the day.
For to think it funny
- is to be reminded that life
- is only clay in need of form.
To shape life as comedy
- is to make way for possibility,
- all angles to be kept open,
- willing us on.
That each of us
- can sense this
- is the point
- where we become
- on the way there.
And over time,
- perhaps,
- the silence will heal.
Abstract Five
Simplicity,- in human hands,
- is the freedom
- we deprive ourselves of,
- blind as we are to how it really
is,
- bluntly, but slowly, replacing it
- with more and more
- of what we believe we need,
- too much to hold on to
- the next to nothing it is.
In short,
- a suicide of sorts.
For we are dead to it,
- dead to its invaluable answers
- to the river of mystery
- along which we flow
- as fast as time itself,
- and so attain little
- of what our lives should be,
- each day checked by
- our snarling imagining
- there is only dust to bite.
Abstract Six
We are those- who might just whisper the truth
- others would choose to have
- stunted, secret.
For your gospel flower
- is the proof of all things found
- and my vulnerability
- is that of all things thought.
Alike in no way,
- but, still, as one
- in our hunger for faith,
- we are those who might just…
Abstract Seven
To hear- a critical voice
- is to hear
- a straining stream,
- a poem inspired,
- leaps of faith expressed.
As with a song in mind,
- you hear it
- over and over,
- as if meant
- to keep going,
- never to be final.
In a way,
- the traces of ourselves
- each of us
- leaves out
- creates a like-sense
- of no choice but to let go.
Nothing we do
- we have to,
- must do,
- and nothing is so soon
- when there is no plan,
- just future.
Abstract Eight
Too humiliating- is the art of loss
- for the blunt intellectualism
- that runs from the morning
- as if from silence.
But, like a rite of passage,
- it is an art of darker dreams
- that become self-inflicted wounds.
It is a time passed through
- when then meets now
- and we sense ourselves
- to have learned to yearn
- all the better.
For it happens that with loss
- comes a splendid, naked potential
- that points the way to a new
reality.
And, as each moment comes
- of another moment going,
- you and I, malnourished,
- have turned to this, repeatedly,
- as our kernel of truth.
Abstract Nine
Most things begin with either- fear of reality or fear of
failure,
- without seeing the connection.
Afraid of the future,
- afraid of thinking -
- but you are not alone,
- you are only one of many.
Rooted by fear,
- with no real cure.
I,
- also,
- meet my fears as you do;
not alone,
- one of many.
Afraid.
Rooted by fear,
- no real cure.
Unable to jump,
- to run, to surrender to change
- on the eve of success.
Lost.
Abstract Ten
We are shaped- by an energy
- that flows through our pleasures
- and by whether,
- by how much, we resist it.
We are between
- dreams like water
- and a desert parched of joy.
Yet, being
- what we are,
- where we are,
- we lack only a path
- that is always sure,
- a way that, finally,
- may never emerge.
But still we don’t turn back.
Abstract Eleven
We may find- the ruthless lies
- of others
- that have cost us
- our appetite for truth
- should be sustained,
- but only
- to keep the river running,
- not by way of acceptance.
For the relationship
- we have with the winds
- will begin anew
- in a language
- strained, dictated by ritual,
- choked by experience,
- but, with each word,
- we will come, all the more,
- to own our lives, as we must.
Abstract Twelve
You voice- the taste of poison
- the years past
- still leave
- on your every thought -
bitten once
- too often
- to forget -
your anger
- takes to the road.
I, however,
- take to my cave,
- re-examining definitions,
- learning the parameters,
- the boundaries
- of this darkness -
the next page slowly
- beginning to unfold -
our two paths
- born of one will.
Abstract Thirteen
With an end- there is still no final answer -
no shadow,
- no shape,
- no sacred tribe found.
We are by ourselves.
Alone.
We are the distance from home
- travelling a winding path,
- never straight,
- but always our own.
|
