My castigation was decided long before my backslide. And that is inexcusable, the righteous might declare "unfair". But I don't want any belligerent accusations against this 'unjust watchfulness' from above. Some entity must have understood that I didn't need guidance; I needed walls: some forcing to reach my destiny. Without my jailer, I'd have chosen one of three and let them lead me into a darkness that the pitiful call 'demons'. Claws and teeth? No, each monster was irreplaceable and I loved them. If possible, if they could comprehend a 'love', I vow they would have loved me. But the Warden took them: my punishment before my crime. Perhaps the disposal of these beasts seems considerate, but toss aside those foolish illusions because the burden has not lessened rather, it is unfamiliar. Omitting strength, for I lost my foundation, I stand in fear with this hole. The Three aren't returning; I'm left with loose bindings - the knots are the songs of my memories. Beautiful Terrors, do I need you? Let me tell you their stories.
I remember his voice calling for me. "Daisy! Flowers for you." It was our little game, and I'm sure he made girls jealous when he handed me a bouquet of roses.
My name was Petunia, but I hated that name, and I loved all that's yellow.
So when we were little he took my hand, and we went into a treefort, and he dubbed me Lady Daisy.
He was 7 and I was 4, and there began my adoration.
Then I was older and heartbroken, and I was calling him. "Waldon! It's hurting me."
He arrived so soon, I was still in hysteria - that of a 14 year old gone through breakup.
Then I cried harder because somehow my brother presented me with a tulip and declared, "It's an early present from the only boy who's going to love you more than I do."
17, and I understood fascination. And Willow (for though it's girly, I liked it more than Waldon, and he let it be) was entranced by a wild girl. She was a shockbomb - a warm sungirl that rocked stilettos and never littered nor waited past a minute.
He fell for her so hard from so high.
One day that girl kissed him straight on the lips, then jetted off to England.
Said he could follow her in spirit.
I couldn't hate her because she left his body, but it was hard to appreciate his body when the government took even that away, insisting he be laid beneath cold dirt. Then too many questions: "Why did you hold his hand for three days? Were you thinking of following? Petunia, why won't you buy flowers for the gravestone?" Then there were horrified eyes when I asked who Petunia was, because I had forgotten. Or, truthfully, there was no Petunia, only Daisy. And Daisy had Willow. The Flower and the Tree: that was supposed to be the story. So I refused to buy flowers, and without any sort of ceremony I stopped being 'Lady' and became 'Crazy Daisy', who talked to her demons. Now you see why I never wanted to part with Number One, because although he was a monster (you can't deny the terror of a body with no spirit), he knew me best.
Dear Warden, I've no suicide in me, and there's none left could lead me there, and it may be that I've grown taller, but I'm practically blind.
She was weak since I can remember. I'd say her vulnerability was pneumonia, which I can only presume led to my hatred of 'Petunia': two words incredibly similar when reason encounters a child.
And I liked her name "Maribel" because it sounded like a flower.
I mimicked my brother, but he was persistent that I must call her mother.
Again, this made no sense until 8, when I had a revelation that all this time I'd had no family. At least not in the heart of a girl, because Maribel wasn't a vibrancy to look up to., though she was my one relation.
There was just her in a bed. Sometimes a man visited but I never knew why Willow grew tense; all I saw was my mother acquire spots of brown. How I loved brown, because it seemed as though she was genuinely Mother, like all those other moms that the sun tans, or that could be given filthy hugs that left patches of dirt. In turn, I always welcomed that man, and he was a 'saviour'.
And Willow's father.
Death found both Willow and that man (I know, now, the difference) before I understood 'abuse', and try not to blame me because she never complained and I thought abuse meant people were unhappy, but I saw both of them smile. I laid her beside him, but with space inbetween: a ground for my casket. Because I'd gone slightly crazy and I was telling Number Two that if I awakened as a zombie, I'd need to be able to find his hand first.
That was nuts. But Warden, I don't fully understand. You stopped her bleeding, but I'm left with nothing. I hear their voices in my head, telling me I'm healthy, but I know I'm barely breathing.
I dealt Three tragedy. And in doing so, I guilted myself into worthlessness. Classic to the moral law is: it is not acceptable to introduce a roommate to a shady character. But I ignored the concept of shady - applauded my nonjudgmental attitude, because with my twisted past I would have also been a shadowy figure. With a sweet, sweet smile, I handed that bright girl over to a Peacock who promised to give her 'a good feeling.' And I ignored her tears, because he said he'd please her.
Maybe if I hadn't been loopy, the only way I could "be" with One, I might have noticed that me and he weren't the same, and I could have judged him like the others.
Annie, I'm sorry, please just shine once more.
Even if you're afraid of me and my wickedness, don't be sucked into the gloom, because I can't offer advice to resurface, when I think there's none.
Now, there's Zero for me to turn to, because that's what I am. I am empty. I suppose that's what happens when I trust a boy who leaves, yearn for one who's weak, and think I've the durability to rely on myself (but I've equaled a pitch black crater for a while now).
You're more clear now, Warden. I can understand why you've taken everything. Since nothing I had would give me my fairyland ending. But where's my reward? I need my gift first, because these feet don't know which direction to head, and it's more like I was holding onto rocks that cut me while they warmed me. My feet kick against the waves, but in this half-in half-out position I can't get a good momentum, so a hand now would be nice.
My stories, did they surprise? I hear all this chatter about monsters, but I think we've got them wrong. Monsters simply have a hold one you, and there's no release before you've no choice but to part. They are strong, and it's true that I saw nothing stronger than the Willow. Only my jailer saw my potential, and he directed me to Zero. He asked for recognition so that I knew my task was not optional and he raised my walls until I stood there, lonely - pushed into belief in myself. But now I am the strongest I know, and I am walking on wind, and from up here I cannot see a single barrier. But Warden, don't you ever leave because if those walls break for a second and I see my demons, I know I'll lose flight and beg them to come back. And that would be the end, because there's no chance Number Four.
his eyes were blurred, half open
and constantly shifting, his mouth
a soft gash along his chin, his hand
twisting among the grey, wiry curls on his head
and with one arm along the seat behind him
he slouched, facing the doors
like an uncomfortable silence
like an awkward comment
like someone who didn’t belong
and yet i could see that he did
there on the bus at one in the morning
this man was at home, as he tried
to make eye contact with me and i turned
to the window instead
and the woman behind him moved
to the back of the bus as soon as she could
to escape his wayward, grasping fingers
and i felt pity for him
grey, gasping pity
pity that made my eyes travel back and forth
between the window and indoors
as, inexplicably, i tried to capture
the creature sitting there
and i watched his feet shift
as the bus rocked beneath us and somehow
i saw the world from his eyes, the shady seats
and the angular, beautiful people
each one passing him by
hands gripping the posts and avoiding his gaze
and his mind was swimming in amber liquid
i knew that, i saw it
plain as day, this man was drunk
and though when he met my eyes
my brow was furrowed, my face uninviting
inside, i felt that same aching pity
and i thought damn, i’ll make poetry
from this somehow
and perhaps the words are simple
but i’m sure it’s the first time
that anybody has ever put that man
down on a piece of paper
in full colour
For this years Thanksgiving, I have decided to focus on developing a sense of gratitude. The world is full of real bad stuff happening to too many people and its easy to let the darkness of our times cast long shadows of resentment, anger and ill will over our outlook on life. So today as I travel to a relatives home to gather for our national day of thankfulness I choose to leave resentments at home and cultivate a sense of gratitude.
I’m grateful for my eyes. My sight allows me to perceive the million graces The Almighty abundantly confers upon the inhabitants of the good earth each and every day. My eyes help me to discover the pressing needs of others and respond to it. My eyes help me to discern light from darkness, distinguish the forest from the trees and eschew pedestrian views to behold a beautiful vista. My eyes are a pathway to my soul moving me to contemplate the good, forsake the bad and move against evil in service to truth.
I’m grateful for my ears. The grace of hearing permits me to listen. My ears alert me to the cries of my brothers and sisters and enables me to understand our shared human condition. My ears tune my spirit to the chords of exquisite music and the natural symphonies of Mother Earth’s angelic chorus of singing birds, heaving oceans, the majestic pause of silent mountains and the fleeting rush of the swelling wind are all divine voices singing the joyful hymns of life.
I’m thankful for my sense of smell. Graciously my nose breathes in the inviting aroma of a lovingly prepared home cooked meal, the wholesome scent of baking bread wafting from the door of the corner bakery, a briny snort from the boundless sea, the rich compost of the deep woods after a soft summer rain, the bouquet of an infants hair and the perfume of a lovers embrace.
I give thanks for my ability to touch. Hands engaged in productive work and gainful employment is a blessing absent from too many Thanksgiving Day tables this year. We yearn to connect and the sense of touch invites our ability to feel. Feeling is the father of empathy and the mother of compassion. Caring for our animal friends we live in communion with all sentient beings. As we touch one another and allow others to touch us; the hardest of hearts is softened, the most grievous wounds are healed to liberate the sensual yearnings dwelling in the deepest recesses of ourselves. Feeling allows us to become fully present, fully aware and fully alive in the celebration of what it means to be fully human.
I’m thankful for my sense of taste. As Sinatra croons “from the brim to the dregs” the wine of our lives may not all taste good but it all flows clear and true. Sample, savor and learn. Taste and see the glories of the Lord’s banquet so abundantly placed before us. The bitter herbs, the sweet cakes, the leisure repast, the fortifying meal and unrequited hunger is the daily bread of being human. Pause to consider those that are lining up for the tenth Thanksgiving Day meal in Afghanistan and Iraq and pray that the awful rations of war fed to our young soldiers be supplanted with the good manna of peace.
Perhaps we loose our sense of gratitude because expectations of ourselves and others always seems to come up short of the mark. Imperfection is our most endearing quality. It informs our ability to forgive transgressions, form bonds of friendship and unconditionally love each other. I remain grateful for the sense of my imperfection as I overlook your imperfections and remain ever hopeful that you will extend your hand to help me overcome mine.
You Tube Video: Jean Ritchie, Shady Grove
I want to thank the HP community for your kind support and comments
I wish everyone a great Thanksgiving...
peace and prayers
I had a dream the other night
For people like me, dreams are nonexistent
We never sleep, so we never dream but I was so tired
I had been around the world more than hundred times that day
My body was drained of energy
So I fell asleep, and well, dreamed
The rain has finally let up, clouds begin to clear
Rays of light soon peeked out from behind
Trees surround the walking paths, grass covers patches of land
I take a seat right next to a fountain
Mist attacks the pores of my skin
My fingers graze against the slight sheen
Just as I am about to turn around, let the water hit my face
A woman appears next to me
She wears a red scarf with a bright, yellow coat
It sort of screams McDonald’s
But when her elegant, innocent face with big blue eyes and brown hair
Turn to me, Mickey D’s is the last thing on my mind
A soft smile graces her lips and I return it hesitantly
Not sure why she is here, or what’s going on
Do you come here often?
She asks and I almost laugh at the pick-up line used by so many
But those eyes and that innocent expression refrain me from doing so
Um no, I don’t even know where I’m at
I reply honestly, because I don’t remember this place
There are so many; I can never keep track
That’s a shame
I love coming here
There’s a silence here, not many places have that
Silence, something I rarely hear
But it encompasses this entire area
I notice it then, we’re the only ones here
The thought vanishes when she speaks again
So why are you here?
I stare at her then look all around me
Tall and lean trees surround the vicinity
Encroaching on the small stone trails
Sunlight blotches in thin lines between leaves
Green, plush grass covers the land between paths
The soft water of the fountain can be heard and small chirping sounds emerge
I begin to relax, let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding
I needed a break
She nods her head and doesn’t ask why
Something I’m grateful for
Instead she says
I know what you mean
Someplace to catch your breath
Find a moment of peace
When she says it, it hits me square in the face
Peace, that’s what I needed
I nod my head once, indicating I understood her
You can’t stay for very long, can you?
I shake my head no
That’s what I thought
Don’t you ever just want to settle down?
I look at her—this girl, this woman, this stranger
Who reads me like a book
Turns every page and reads every line
And finds all the secrets hidden inside
I wish it were that simple
I say looking down the shady path
Well, I have to be off
She says as she rises and rearranges her scarf
I grab her wrist, signaling her to wait
Where are you going?
I ask looking up with an expression that surely reads displeasure
She smiles with a teasing glint in her eye and takes my hand
Come on, you can walk me out
I follow like a man in a daze
Her hand warm in mine
I glance down at her and realize how much taller I am
She’s so petite but so breathtaking
What’s your name?
I have to know that at least
Her lips turn up slightly and the glint returns to her blue orbs
We reach the end of the path
Where the trees widen
Into an open area
Full of grass, knee high
But I see it, in a distance, another trail, as trees part for its way
One, I assume she is going to get on
Well, here we are
It was a pleasure
She states facing me
I look down at her
At a loss for words
I stare at her in discontentment, not knowing why this has to end
I don’t want to say goodbye
She smiles wider this time and reaches up to touch my cheek
Oh how different you are
I almost forget to breathe
Emotions swirling around me
Captivating my body
I blink to regain some motion
And she’s gone
I look around frantically
Searching for her
Then I catch sight of her
Across the way on the other path
Waving in yellow and red
I attempt to run to her
But my feet don’t move
I look down and see them fading
Before I know it, the sun becomes cloudy, trees blur and vanish
And I wake up feeling a loss like none other
I had lost time, during the dream that night
But I knew, those hours, those minutes of peace
Were worth it, even for just a moment
Then I remembered, I did know her
I try to stop by every chance I get
Just to look at her, make sure she’s okay
Even though she sees right through me
Her innocent charm, her wonderful personality
Of course, it would only be her
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful kandi kids freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will make them look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuitions skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the abundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding orgasmic adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grim extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple thoughts and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be, beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move. To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but damn.
The there are over the counter candies, oxycodone, oxycotin and codone. Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, cocaine and speed easily obtainable to kids. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so that the kids parents can feel like their actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on them because they cannot handle they way their children actually are. Some parents actually do want help their kids and feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn’t so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterdays conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom, groans of apathy and the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system us but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and detcation so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share sexual fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones knowing they are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, god fearing, devil worshiping, mantras and meditation. Psalms, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Kabala, scientology and wiccans
Amish and Mormons
All spate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents staling social media, recordings of our personal lives. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protester, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi received every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to deplete these countries of their natural resources like we’ve done our own? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the murder machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, playboy, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s panties. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who raped them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the condom that was just thrust deep into their loins.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to creative something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chino, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the Rainey days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burley firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMTs, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere one inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout to no one, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to a shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it, it’s like eating glass it does no good for any of us anyway. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. Gay, homo, faggot, queer, how about kind, funny, genuine human being? The right to be married and divorce should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovahs going door to door, Mormons from Burbanks. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is on the rise, blood diseases, sexual diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years or some cant remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some cant even sleep at night but they still carry one. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. The be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Un hindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, kill, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The heartless selfish people who make the thoughtless decision to have abortions because they lacked the self control to take the time to get protection and do not want to deal with their consequences, feeling no guilt throwing away what is the very make up of life and love they had created themselves! Although there are those who do so for they cannot support what they have created and give it a life they deserve, I can understand but I still weep but I empathize with such tragic forked road decisions.
Mystery men raping innocent home walkers and killing them or leaving them to live their lives in pain and shame. We can make our own trouble but we can also undo them. No one has a right o put hardships upon us and if so at least I will fight.
Who are the ones to look for when guidance and facts are needed? Look to the poor, the unfortunate poverty stricken open eyed weary ones. They’ll tell you how things look at from t he bottom of the hill. Ask the ravers and hipsters, college students they tell you how it is when climbing the hill. Joyous, miraculous realizations illuminating the visions of the mind. Growing fields of love and dreams. Weeding out the falsehoods with ease.
Ask the children, so innocent and naïve, giving a simple yet meaningful perspective. Same as the geriatric wise ones who time wears thin. Both have intrinsic values and wants.
Talk to the lustful lovers they can tell you how in one moment a tangent can be created in one foul swoop. Or the leathered whip weilding, dominant/submissive practitioners of pain. They’ll show you the exquisiteness of pain and bondage, domination and twisted, alternative pleasures. The nine to fivers commuting as if their lives depend on it…and it does! They’ll tell you how precious every minute of every day is. The drug dealers, the drunks have outlandish perspectives, yes but they have merit all their own.
The mentally unstable, chemically unbalanced children of the sun.
The soldiers, parents of struggle. Or go to the metaphysical; God, Ganesh, Vishnu, Shiva, Gahandi, the Dali Llama. Ancient prophecies shed light on your darkest days.
Travelers have been to many places, come across many persons, seen many things. Interview a man from Munich, see what he has to say.
Confront a delinquent or a deviant, they have voices too.
We all come together in this wild weird universe where everything is relative. Where everything happens for a reason but without a single motive. A place where explanations and ambiguity go hand in hand. To achieve balance, understanding, self awareness, self confidence and control of emotion and thought; endless unconditional love and the notion to stand up for ones self must be acquired. Equality and tranquility flowing effervescently across the cosmos. No separation or bigotry no thought of color, race or creed, color and background. With all our senses heightened to see all the truth in the world, to smell the sweet aroma of familiar places, to feel the cool wind on a warm day, to taste the sweet and sour flavors that make up a day. And to hear all the wondrous sounds around us music, laughter, crying, honesty, lies and to distinguish between them without having to look.
The ability to articulate all you’ve seen and heard. Everything you’ve tasted and smelled and touched. The emotions felt, the thoughts you’ve gone over and over time after time. The eradication of grief and suffering. Heartbreak, loss and demolishing surprise. All the memories and people you’ve met there. The places you’ve traveled to, the relationships built and destroyed. The lessons learned or forgotten or maybe the ones haven’t grasped just yet they are you! They are us! All the same yet different to create a mixture of assorted frequencies and combinations of destines and the trails that take us their! So rise my friends Rise! RISE!
Why are you doing this to yourself ?
But you are not a slave
You are a free born before now
Yes I know
For long you have been free born
Why this now ?
But she was not a slave
Was she born into slavery ?
Nay she wasn't
But why did she allow to be silenced ?
Like a marble with no life in it
And calm like a dead sea
Ah ! You have been silenced like a grave
They have made your land a desert
A pit hill of the aliens
There you stand
Having your gifts lies in ruin
Hmm,cry and rise for your restoration
Those of spoilt background and greedy mind
Have cracked her skull
And drained her out of life and strength
Day after day
They take away her breadth
Through their shady decisions
Now is the time
I mean the right time
To fight your cause
Wait a minute !
What is your name ?
I am Nigeria
A country at Niger side
The giant of Africa
Did I hear you say GIANT ?
Giant don't freak
Common act like one
I am a lion
The precious gift of Africa
In me inbeded lots of natural resources
Then wake up
And prove it
That you are indeed
The giant of Africa
That should be feared and respect.
I want you to understand
I don't need you to lend a hand
Your absence pulls my chest apart
I need you to lend your heart
I don't think I will ever understand
Why my heart fits perfectly in the palm of your hand
You hold it unpinned from my sleeve
Leaving me with my red stain vacancy
Reached through my ribs to apprehend
You took my love my skin won't mend
My soul won't send or receive signals
Grabbed hard squeezed tight
Grasped hugs felt right
Got greedy with your need
But never gave it back to me
Not a fair trade
More like a shady drug deal
You got the goods and
I got the grief to feel
So you see I'm empty
I want you to break open your body
Our transaction is incomplete
You have mine so swap your pulse out
So I can have a beat
I've fallen down I cannot stand
I don't need you to lend a hand
My blood is still and needs to start
I need you to lend a heart
I need you to lend your heart
The eye of God is open
it bleeds into the cup;
I drink the wine.
Daylight falls behind
me slowly as restless
hands count time.
My waking hours are no more;
I gave up what I hungered for;
and all the answers plague
the bricks my bloodlines slaved to lay
their brilliance in crimson
pools upon the ground,
and blinding snow
blankets the black
of the earth in a mask:
the Truth is below.
Dig through the roots to the
heart of the matter and know:
the eye of God is closing --
get in your sins while there's still time
The spy of sophistry
mulled over the tangled web
of his design,
as Saturn fades into
the shady groves of
Surrender to what I must endure,
taking it all like the sacred whore,
and when the ashes blew away
I had no place to lay
their brilliance in crimson
pools upon the ground,
and blinding snow
blankets the black
of the earth in a mask:
the Truth is below.
Dig through the roots to the
heart of the matter and know:
the I of God's demise
is framed in theologians' lies
The elegance of her ardor
Captures you and lures you into her clean hands
But living in this cynical world, with overflowing grimace
Many souls lack to understand
Why her stride is full and incandescent
She posses a sweet force were every murmur she whispers pushes you to listen
A voice fully soft spoken
It's a gentle breeze through your ears
In the absence others' may make you feel
In her presence, you are here.
The quantum she share is as petite as her frame
Longing for more, she makes it impossible to maintain
Her ratherness for avoiding the curves and steeps that one can provide
Would leave you at a daze with desire
A fire inferno
Burning inside of your eyes
Seconds and affection she hardly gives
Made her a tenacious woman in twenty-one years
But the love that she gives.
The love that she gives
Is more sweeter than honey in a tomb of one thousand years
Seeing men fall into her deep dark abyss
From their own creation and temptation they couldn't resist
Attempting to crawl back into reality, after losing themselves
You would think she's a Black Mamba
Looking for a prey to lead astray
But she's only a sweet soul that God humbly perfectly made
A gift that many fail to contain
That makes every Man yearn and kneel to pray
There is No woman like her
Her ineffable felicity you will not find
Her Respect, you'll give
Or you will not live
She posses the power to take over your mind
With every thought you feel
Her time isn't wasted on pleasures and life's immorality
She's the meaning of a blessing
She fails to degrade her self down to worlds level
You'll fall in love with her originality
Some would go far as calling her stuck up
But a deficient mind wouldn't comprehend
She's a woman of God
And your respect she demands
To me she's a courageous lady
Some men call her dangerous
I call her Shady
I’d hidden away the mirrors
Packed them up and sent them off,
Taken the shine off the saucepan lids,
Sandpapered the coffee pot,
Everything that reflected I’d
Sand-blast, like the sliding doors,
Even got rid of the polisher
For shining the wooden floors.
It was very like narcolepsy when
She saw her face on a plate,
She’d go in a trance and sit for hours
In a crazy, dreamlike state,
I’d take away the reflection and
She’d sit and weep for hours,
‘You’ve taken away my beauty,’ she
Would say, and take cold showers.
It seemed like a terrible sickness that
She loved her looks so much,
She’d say, ‘If you won’t let me see myself,
I’ll just make do with touch,’
She’d run her fingers over her face
Explore each crease and mound,
And sigh to her satisfaction as
She felt her lips turn down.
I couldn’t get rid of the garden pool
That flowed on in from the brook,
Babbling over the standing stones
From the woods at Nether Hook,
I’d catch her kneeling beside the pool
And staring into its depths,
Smiling at each reflection that
Would ripple with every breath.
‘Beware of the evil Water Sprite,’
I told her more than once,
‘He takes advantage of lovely girls
For he hates to be outdone.
He’ll lure you into a shady pool
With guile, and his tender lies
And hold you down ‘til you surely drown,
You’ll avoid him, if you’re wise.’
She told me then of a vision that
She’d seen, that of a prince,
He’d smiled at her from the water but
She hadn’t seen him since.
‘That’s not a prince but the Water Sprite
And he’s trying to lure you down,
To put your face to the water, but
I’ve told you once, you’ll drown.’
The water was babbling gently on
A sunny day in Spring,
In shades of the weeping myrtles and
The sound of cuckooing,
Miranda was knelt beside the pool
And I saw her head go down,
When claws reached out of the water
Pulled her in, without a sound.
I raced across and I seized her hair
And I pulled her from the pool,
But claws had raked at her pretty face,
She said, ‘I feel a fool!
I should have listened to you, I know
But I thought that just one kiss…’
But he had turned to a monster and
Had bitten her rose red lips.
I put the mirrors all back in place
And I bought new shiny pans,
Polished the floor, you can see your face
But she hides behind her hands,
She never looks in a mirror now
Though her scars are healed and white,
But goes each day to poison the pool
To kill off the Water Sprite.
David Lewis Paget