Fluid Inspiration

A misty whim distills on dust of destiny,
Condensing into drizzling downpours of desire.
Amassed on vital earth, it gathers into dreams—
A stream of vision mirroring tomorrow's light.
Its softly flowing course is simply swept aside
By foolish envying, relentless lethargy,
A coward's satisfaction or distracted will.
However, left unhindered, nature's native course
Provides a path of pleasantly torrential turnsCascading ever onward into swelling peace.

The Sweet Remorse of Pity

The herald of the dying crow
Announces all deserving woe
But long, long afterward the crowd remains
To hear the herald speak the woes again.

Until at last the glutted crowd
Complains the dirge too sad and loud.
They dig the wretched remnants from the ground
And set their frame on strings to dance around.

The crowd thinks nothing of the show
But cries the louder should it go.
They place the fetid thing in sheltered frame
And proudly pass to marvel whence it came.

They hide their conscious shame of grief
In epitaphs on gilded leaf.
Their empathies all twitch in final bow,
The last effect to crease a wrinkled brow.

Genuine Approval

A smile
And a nod
Tell me my work is accepted,

And my labors are not wasted.

The Individual

All across reality people are swaying
to a song and a beat that nobody’s playing.
Along for the ride is a man who’s not paying
it any attention.

Self

What is in a name?
Or a secret?
But is the secret the truth,
or only an illusion,
set forth to ends with no beginning,
and no purpose?
As leaves fall into a forest with no ears,
they make no sound.
But here is the truth,
that all become wise-
Truth is in the eye of the beholder.

Persistent Hope

Though dark you see the day to be
A brighter day is on its way.
Though dread and fear seem always near
Your true repose is ever close.
Though seem it strange you cannot change
This fact that night gives way to light.

The Progression

That which fills the void,
That which needs be understood
Yet cannot be defined,
Give it glory.
Let praise its justice work
Until it is decorated with a thousand compliments,
Glittering in the limelight like mail.
Obscurity does them no justice,
These flowers of the cave.
Try to accompany them, if you can.
You add to their height
As much as any other of their shadows.
But the pressure of pain can impede their proposal:
The progress of all save but a few.
Greater than these may have fallen.
The mystery that vexes the ages is this:
Will greater rise up?

As One

We’re seeking order in a frozen time.
Throughout the tender center, can we be
Directed now toward a common goal?
Do we impolore, expolore or now deplore?
Make now your choice, the sweetness of a life
Unfolds itself beneath time’s steady hand.
So why preserve the solid conter safe,
To surely find itself so unrefined?
To let the hour of grateful recompense
Be silenced loudly by an unseen hand?
The helpful, hopeful, happy time to come
Will not, though all impede, be so delayed.
Such is the attitude so well endowed
To surely set aright the thing offset
That of istelf itself does not correct.

Sunset

At twilight hour the sun lays down to rest
    And breathes a colorful relaxing sigh.
He thus emits a palate to the west
    As orange atmosphere consumes the sky.
The clouds give up there hues of white and grey
    And turn a charming pink.
A velvet lining adds to their array
    As daylight further sinks.
Producing so surreal a light
The sun, descending out of sight,
    At last recedes
    And then concedes
To the night.

Withering Words

They rudely rip the hairs from off the head,
Sanguineous perspiration dapples red.
The cure becomes a sting and nothing else.
Without this sting a tender hotness swells,
Refusing touch, a raw malignancy
Tenfold the product of its injury.

A Safe Place

I’ve crossed the threshold into a dark room
Where I no longer feel safe.
A looming danger standing imposingly before me
Is my destination.
What nightmares spawn themselves there?

I swiftly run towards it.
To do otherwise would certainly cause my destruction.
Foreboding shapeless threats
Make their first attack on my imagination.
Evil intentions stab at my feet,
But I have arrived
And now my feet are safe.
Darkness tries to crush my chest
But it is now safe.
Tiny potent creepers try to poison my head
But they cannot reach me.

I am safe beneath a securing blanket.
This reckless safety so consoles me
That finally consciousness melts
Into comforting sleep.

A Warm Wind

I expect to be chilled
But instead I am thrilled.

Change

At night I feared to see the day
Because I knew what sunset meant,
And yet I found another way.
I feared the moon would ever stay
Ev'n when the twilight hours were spent;
At night I feared to see the day.
The shadows would not go away,
Confounding me where e'er I went
And yet I found another way.
I clung to well-known shadows gray
In case they fled the sun's advent.
At night I feared to see the day.
The morning light bid me obey
But I resisted to relent,
And yet I found another way.
But when the sun dawned bright and gay
I found I'd gone where God had sent.
At night I feared to see the day,
And yet I found another way.

Simplicity

Isn't it great?

The Misunderstood

A song that meets the ears is oft bereft
Of meaning its creation should have brought.
By fate or fortune, what we hear is left
Fragmented—far removed from native thought.
Then music heard can often be untrue
To thoughts inspiring, left inside the mind.
An artist needs divide between the two,
Whether to show the sounds left unrefined.
Concealing thoughts that might expose the heart,
A song devised may hold in secrecy
The sacred inner truth, the hidden part
That shrouds itself in sleep and subtlety.
And yet, when played aloud, each song retains
A tune that only he who listens hears.
Perhaps from this a newer theme remains:
A matchless melody for list’ning ears.

Choice

The enormity of the future
Sacrifices nothing of its potential
So long as the soul is just.
The chains of choice yield freedom
To those who follow visions
From the surface of their souls,
The very place where Hope distills.

Sight Inside

Inward and onward
Deeper and hopeful
Forceful
Waiting inside to be found.
Insightful but trite,
Wary and
Wayward it creeps without sleeping
But always intriguing yet pleading
Away from the force that supplies it with
Life and enjoyment and pure satisfaction.
It’s span is away from the
Scale that’s expected,
And yet we accept it.
For what is it there?
Do we see it or sense it inside?
Does it hide?
Can we tell,
Or wait for the test to begin
From within?
Deeper and darker it lurks
And waits for the light
To chase it away.
Why does it wait,
And what is its purpose?
The mind can’t define nor divine such a purpose.
Enveloping warmth can intrude.
Now excluded, the fact it was there
Is forgotten. The mark it once made
Will fade.
Inside its lost presence
Intrudes like a menace,
Invades and
Waits
To be filled
Once more.

Twenty Eyes and Twenty Ears

Twenty eyes and twenty ears
Watch my footsteps as I make them
Wait to see if I mistake them.
They have followed me for years.
Thirty ears and thirty eyes;
They, I see, are all around me,
Always trying to confound me.
They my purposes disguise.
Forty eyes are watching me,
Seeing what I’m doing always,
Limiting my thought in small ways.
In their bondage am I free?
Fifty eyes and fifty more
Take my words and scrutinize them,
Change my thoughts so I despise them
Still I claim them as before.
Sixty eyes are in my mind.
Always they have been inside me,
Watching those who walk beside me.
Have I always been so blind?

Inspired by the book 1984.

The Flower

A flower on the roadside lay
Its petals to the sky.
I would have passed and let it stay
For time was short that summer day.
I stopped and held it anyway
Yet did not know the reason why.

Against the backdrop of the road,
It grew defiantly.
Where here, so out of place, it showed
That life can thrive and make abode
Where wind and rain and snow erode
The place where it was set to be.

I pondered on that flower rare
With time I didn’t own,
And thoughtfully began to stare
Upon the flower lying there
While wond’ring how a thing so fair
Had on that dirty roadside grown.

I went along the road to see
If other flowers grew.
Beside that road, it seemed to me
That weeds grew up quite readily.
Of flowers I saw but two or three
And wondered why there were so few.

I took one with me as I went
Preserving it with care.
I held it as a monument
To lessons learned and time well spent.
That evening by my bed I bent
And thanked the power that put them there.

The Artist

It is simple to see,
to cast one’s eyes where he may.
Who, then can tell
what there is to see?
Greatness falls from the sky like snow,
and it goes unnoticed.
Imagination,
how fickle it is,
how commanding!
Do we notice that
             we
have that power?
And control it?
It is our power of
creation
that we see and use.
How few there are
who can truly see themselves.
Who can see the power
of Vision
besides those who look?