Poetry, Ideas, Essays
Looking forward to the day,
with my integrity arranged on the shelf,
I feel more than ready for the day.
The vices that once had me held,
now applaud that I’ve overcome.
It seems my soul knows,
that I’m on my way.
A humble knee I take to pray,
It’s a simple illumined request.
Please God light my way.
Here I am again knocking,
Sleeping on the curb.
I’ve sent 37 letters,
And phoned the landline.
I’m searching for a thing I only sense.
Hoping to get to the bottom of it.
Or to get the whole thing in my view.
I’m a truth seeker surfing an endless wave of insight.
Changing and growing, though I hope to some place profound.
It’s baked into my way.
It’s a thirst I try to quench.
It makes me kneel a hearty bow.
And draws a thread through all I’ve seen.
A breath, a taste of land,
In the life lived of one day.
When once began in bondage,
Now a victory is beginning to form.
The summit of apprehension passed.
The nerves of anticipation dulled.
A life well lived is taking shape,
Within the birth and death of one day.
But it’s not over yet,
My eyes have long to go.
My will must hold the strain.
But I’ll honor the breath of victory I’ve sighed.
And give thanks to the warrior self that stepped forth.
Who chose to face the day.
In spite of my whimpering and complaints.
When I cried an unmanly surrender.
He opened the sails to set forth.
To face whatever may come.
I am tired, too tired to embrace the day. My body craves rest as a parched man hydration. So I sit on my bed, back propped against the wall, drifting back and forth across the line of waking and sleeping, as a harbored ship at once strains against it’s mooring lines, then drifts back towards the dock. No great surge of creativity, or effort toward an insight. More a borrow into comfort, while asking the minutes to slow their passing. It is a time of savoring more so a time of preparation. It is a yielding to the body whose protests are not so easily ignored.
Peace. What is peace?
Joy. What is joy?
Do you know?
Do you know the lasting dream I seek?
Can it be had in this life of flesh and bone?
I sense it just beyond the animal in me.
Will it forever remain beyond my grasp?
Tell me, you who is free of binds.
You, whose mind is your servant.
You, who watch not contemptuously,
But, who in the private of your mind encourage.
How did you become so?
What trials did you endure?
Are we brothers?
Will I one day know?
You leach the vision.
You force it to give you more than it has.
You unsatisfied glutton.
But others do the same.
So you feel it’s perfectly normal.
Bastardize the soil,
Destroy the water.
Are you evil?
No, you’re blind.
Eternity exists to pay recognition to what you are. But it is only an attempt.
And the universe sprawls infinity, a painting for the boundless soul that you are. But it is only an attempt.
And the words which try to explain, are only fingers pointing in your direction.
And the beauty of a song, is only material pointing in your direction.
And the mind’s attempt to grasp you is good and free and joyous.
Like the sun’s warmth that expresses my loves eternal chorus.
And don’t get comfortable in anything. And don’t take anything for granted, ever. Serve them, love them with all your heart. And carry them if they need you.
Good morning my life. Good morning my friendly table. Good to see you distant illumination. Concrete Floor, your style is better than ever. Seat you are a beautiful color this morning. Clothes, even you have really outdone yourself. I am joyous just to sit and look at you. Oh dark woods and blacks, if I could surround myself with company like you always, how wonderful it would be. And lastly I am grateful for the height of your ceilings. How your openness allows me to breath. Be my constant companion will you not? You are just as I am. I can hardly believe that others, or someone else is just the same as I.
Workday exhaustion is like a cloud that rests low on the land, adding a certain weight and acceptance of what presently is.
Present and welcome, and impossible to resist.
A practicing of surrender, and a release into comfort.
Made better only by an afternoon rain.
It falls now beyond my window.
Droplets land unevenly on the unnatural flatness of my air conditioner.
My feet radiate with the days work.
The relief when contrasted with the work, bound behind leather, and forced to carry me all day, is pleasurable as any.
And the ornate silence adorned with the hum of the a.c., and the falling rain, the poetry has practically petitioned to be sprawled across my page.
The morning after I behave in ways I don’t understand,
ways that make me feel terrible, shameful and full of self hate.
I drive tow work with my head sunk low.
My body too, is tired from the consequences of what I’ve done.
Once proud and awake, now I creep through the shadows of shame.
I don’t think I’ve asked for this, though I’ve chose it time and time again.
I don’t know where it came from, though I have my early childhood suspicion.
I just want to move on, climb back onto my horse, and get on with my fight.
Maybe some lesson will be learned, some insight gleamed, and some evolution of self obtained.
The morning after I behave in ways I don’t understand,
I pick up where I left off, and forge my ship ahead.
When you start to want to leave it all.
When rest and release is the foremost.
When hopes for your death start to crowd in your mind.
It’s a sign that you’re not doing well.
But rivers keep going and flowing and rolling.
And hell is your life undertow.
The thoughts from the morning, once clear and top of mind.
Are now foreign musings I have no ties to.
But I know they belonged to me.
They are familiar, though not presently on my back.
I’m distracted now by the effort in my face.
A throbbing pain wells from deep inside my cheek,
Making it difficult to tell from where it began.
My teeth pulse with its signature.
It’s almost better being contained in this ordered time.
It forces the creation of a purpose, even if it is just to get from one moment to the next.
And to complete one task after the other.
At least I’m doing something more than just shooting idly through time at 1035 2nd ave.
But still a hugely far cry from the shire of my life.
A Monday morning too soon.
A heart with walls built around it.
A closed off port from the people out there.
Unwillingness for what’s to come.
Resistance to existence closing in.
Scream and kick and curse and swear.
A day of perseverance,
Chosen, not forced upon.
An end not in sight.
An end not expected.
For the sake of the soul.
And a living test of eternity.
Discomfort, in its acute form.
Struggling on the inside.
The common day battle of the neurotics and the sensitive.
Just to live a day is a fight to get through.
And we wonder to ourselves, is this just the predicament of the living?
Are there even some that drift pleasantly all through life?
Or is that a great fallacy?