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and the wind will blow
and you will drift
guided by chance
and an unseen Navigator  
like a ship on a raging sea
or a butterfly caught in the wind

just don't close your eyes

the light may be
too bright or too dim
the crumbling ruins
may fall hard
beside and inside you

but don't be found
holding tightly to the cocoon
when the metamorphosis
has long been completed.

          --Daniel Irwin Tucker
I originally wrote this poem to relate on a very personal level. But I reposted it because I believe it is more pertinent than ever on every level of human existence in these troubled times.
Aug 2020 · 592
Hope Beyond Political Skies

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
In my New Day I arose from my
and walked down to the banks of the Missinabi River
at the Mattice Landing
with dog’s leash in one hand and my right hand
leading lady’s in the other, hearing and feeling tall grass
swishing against my pant legs
and the crunch of course sand under my feet
that once trod fields of green tall grasses swishing
against my pant legs in the meadows and rocky woods of
my childhood and youth where I spent summers working

at my Aunt and Uncle's farm in
New Liskeard, Ontario and in the woods and along the banks
of the Lackawanna River just over the **** behind
the house of my childhood and youth in the Anthracite coal
country of Northeastern Pennsylvania, which is light years away from the land of my birth where I now live in this Northern Ontario port in the middle of a deep
                                     cold sea of countless
and mountains of snow
where snow white and black flies freely fly.

I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush
burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses
that is in all of us. This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching
under foot and tall grasses swishing and canoe parting
water that flows deep in my mind and spirit once only
winding past burning villages where man rapes and pillages
but now also following a more
pastoral             idyllic             and super-natural course.

A vagabond never quite understands the working-class
woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land. I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand. But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news. They must rise early the next morning, alarm clocks not set on snooze.                                             
Work ethic
Family hearth and home
Days of scent
of freshly mown grass  
coffee brewing  
children playing  
TV and music blaring
dishes rattling
in sink or
swim in the lake.

Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the
crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall
grasses swishing against pant legs. Not only wishing
but going deeper into the trees and bush burning
speaking to our primeval consciousness.
This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses
swishing . . .
The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams
through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand
between my fingers and toes, crouched down wet-crotch deep waiting long enough for minnows to tickle fingers and toes as mosquito’s pin-prickle skin.
Watching creatures much smaller than I gliding,
even walking on calm still water that we humans can only dream of doing in our motorised  sleep.

I think I now understand . . . to not be constantly mourning the plight of man isn't being ostrich with head in sand.
I must keep gunning-off addictions alluring stare.

I must taste life
    Smell and feel life
        Enjoy life outside of my troubled mind

against the backdrop of the latest holy war
and the imploding creations of our kind.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
May 2018 · 362
Bottle in the Current
Thrown into this ocean
Somewhere beyond time
Bottle's in the current
Trying to reconnect a broken line.

Draining out this ocean
In the fullness of time
Healing's in the current
Restoring broken spirit & mind.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
Jan 2018 · 4.1k
If You Let It
When she falls into sleep
Beside me every night,
I'm often haunted by
All the promises I made decades ago.
So easy to make when
Dark feelings were out of sight.
Since then I’ve broken
The locks on almost every door.

In newlywed bliss she was
Sleeping next to me one night.
Still in that distant land
She suddenly sat-up
On the edge of the bed
With her back facing me,  
Looking into the dark closet
Next to her side of the bed.
She called out my name several times.  

Already awake, I answered,
"What’s wrong?"

With back still turned,  
She answered,
"I’m not talking to you,
I’m talking to the other Danny."

A darkened closet is where
My darker-half was first revealed.
My love and I were newlyweds, but
In one year was the uniting of the pair.

Through all these years,
She has sensed with empathy
My loss of peace and spirit
And at least tries to fill-up
The deep, dark empty spaces
That are in the many chambers
Of my damaged heart and soul.

Only this depth of Love can,
In its ineffable heat, melt
Away all traces of impurity,
If you let it.
I have learned to let it.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
Dec 2017 · 2.1k
i the wild seed
i the wild seed blew in my youth
floating on the comfort of any wind
that would carry me high for a broader view
and a little closer to answers of truth.

no direction is sometimes a beautiful thing
responsible for what only concerns you
not landing long enough in soft sweet earth
to put down roots that always longed to grow.

i had dreams of a constant love to put seed into
but the high winds blowing outside roared like the sea
enticing me to be carried on the easy breeze
but the easy way is often a cold hard rain.

the wild seed was called by the high winds
blowing inside warming me with wanderlust
caught between two lovers was never a hard choice
because the high wind was my first love.

i blew thousands of miles and light years away
landed in the soft sweet earth of a girl
a childhood sweetheart often remembered
partly the reason I blew in that direction.

the seed lingered too long in one place
the roots got a foothold in the soft sweet earth
the high winds tried to pull up the roots
causing pain in me and the soft sweet earth.

the germination of the seed caused more pain
seed to maturity isn't the easy way
each stage causing new dimensions of pain
though pain can also be the sweetness of love.

through decades and millions of light years
I have grown in that soft sweet earth
two more seeds and deeper love stemmed from it
as I ignored the tempting lure of the high winds.

but I still listen as the high winds call
sharing this pain with the ones I love
waiting to one day fly high as I once did
though it could never be the same as before.

she too was a wild seed flirting with higher winds
now waiting with me to one day fly again
as we watch our children sail in their high winds
both of us feeling the roots being pulled
and the winds starting to lift us to blow concordantly 
in a higher wind than we have ever known.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
Sometimes you touch me
So unexpectedly
Like a gentler side
Of a gust of winter’s wind
Blowing a thin white veil
Down from its shelf
In the branches above
Just in time to caress
My fevered cheeks
With a cool
Exhilarating rush.
Thank you.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
For my love. Inspired by this actually happening when we took a walk together under a canopy of Elms. One of those wonderful epiphanies that rarely coincide with mother nature's thin white veil.
On the relay
Second guessing
The shrunken head
Of old therapies

The clock says
It's time
To nod off
Greet the morn
With withered fist
Rationalised fury

Trying to
Replace the
Pimply face
Of ******
Angst baseless in
On the tether
Of just another

Addiction in a
Of spiritual
Vices perpetuated
By the nonchalant
Visage of a world

In derision
From calloused hands
Caused by
Hard work
With little or no
Monetary avail

Hand to mouth
Foot in mouth
Hand on crotch
Crotch saddle sore

What's the point
Of a worn-down point
Dull but
Just to prove

The sword of Damocles
Is still hanging
Over the head
Of your enemies

Who pop
Their heads
Up over
The hedgerows
Like pictures
In a shooting gallery
At the carnival of
A battlefield distant

Filled with relics
Of another
Ill-purposed war
Of the worlds floating
On the crest of
Mine-dotted airwaves
Prompting viewers
To drown negativity
And to salvage
The positive

A broadcast from
Bipolar formats
In living colour

Double your money
Doppelganger leading
Double life

All propagated in
Double your efforts
And tune out!

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
Oct 2017 · 498
The Weight of Debt Paid
There is nothing I could ever do.
I could never give enough
To even begin to repay.
I sense the weight of debt paid.

My love and dedication falls short of this
Abundant grace as all the efforts of a world
That gives out of selfishness.

I often live in denial of what I must repay
Though I never could repay.
But the inclination must be there.
I carry the weight of debt paid.

I have learned to acknowledge the debt
And accept that I was debtor
To a weight that would surely have crushed me.

I have learned to freely give back
Of what was freely given to me.
I live under the weight of debt paid.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
There is a price to pay for every negative action and reaction. This debt can become insurmountable after a while. There is a love which pays this debt in full. But even though grace is unmerited favour, love is not a one way street--you can never be free of responsibility.
When you learn this, you will find that the weight of being forgiven or forgiving, is worlds lighter than this weight of the personal & universal human debt you once owed.  True freedom does not come cheap, but it is so worth it!
Aug 2017 · 523
Lost in Echo
Where is the sound
            That once gave meaning
To my name.
It seems lost in the echoes
                    The sound of a
Crying shame.

                     I try to pinpoint the time
Channels I was
Passing through
                    When I could interpret pre-echo
When each syllable
Rang true

                   When my offspring was purer
Relative to
Innate impurities.
                    Girl, boy vastly interrupted.
So much for blood
As a surety.

Belly fire lessens with years.
                     Caution blows back
In the wind.
Flirting with status quo delusions.
                    Slogans & logos
Slowly rescind.

                 Pure thought tainted with church &  state.
Leftist & Right Wing views
Scientifically spliced.
                  This new world creation seldom takes sides.
Calculates the outcome & always
Dresses nice.

I’m halfway there, queasy still
                    Rhetorical views beginning to
Make sense.
Cautious malaise on either side.
                       Starch chaffing neck  
Outcome offense.

                       I occasionally hear my voice
That blew with caution
In the wind.
                    Volcano dormant still pushes the crust.
Delusions sicken me back
To the fringe.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
You don't give a glass of water
  To a drowning man
And you don't throw a thirsty man  
  Into the deep blue sea

Yet I drank deep of that glass
  Though my lungs were full of water
And thanked you for the refreshing swim
  As I gulped the briny down

                      --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Sometimes we can be the bull in a China Shoppe or the clerk behind the counter, the partner in a marriage, a colleague at work or. . . well, just fill-in the blanks -------- --------)    
"Ok, thank you. Now just stand there while i move this nice showcase of our Royal Dalton outside. Good bull. Now slowly turn around  (crash) ... thats ok, I'll clean it up later. What's that? Oh, it's just stuff to eat and drink out of ... bone china is just made of old bones anyhow; don't worry about it... "
The china  metaphor was inspired by a lovely poem by -A- , entitled, Like Fine China.
Cast your ballot for your party's running mates
Strange bedfellows in Roman
**** compromising positions
Straining to see what once was
Their original clear-cut goal

(Even the hot sand of the
Sahara becomes cold at night).

Tarred and feathered goes the ideals
Run out of town on a rail of policy.

Politics of law
Politics of religion
Politics on every level

No real friend’s only polite interests.

Party politics in the bedroom
And church

Spinning ethics and morals
To be fit for desiccation
By whatever spider desires
To make their web in

Palace royal
Church pious
  Courtroom solemn 
Family room secure

Where only a sort of twisted gestalt
Applies and the lesser of two evils is
Often greater than the sum of the
Two--the package being more
Important than the contents.

All that
Is important is the law of the jungle.

Tone-up poser muscles
Groom rhetorical fur
Sharpen intimidation fangs

Demagogic rule being the rule of thumb
Firmly planted where the sun never
Shines because truth is exposed

Only in the light. Plans made in the
Nether regions of base instincts

Where the true nature
Of we humans reluctantly steps
Out of its ancient cage nightly to
Prowl only to return by morning to
Have pure and honourable melodies
Sooth the savage breast.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
This speaks not only of governmental politics, nor of any particular politician, political party or nation. It is all about the danse politico of existence.
The last few dying leaves of autumn
Desperately clutching their sterile lifeline
Like a hopeful body preserved cryogenically

Refusing to give in to the inevitable
Season of death.

Congealed memories of

                          Long summers:

                           Warm breezes


Flowing freely in every vein
Assuming the promise of forever

And the more distant memories of spring:

                             New growth    
                             Bated breath

                         Each day savored    

(A whole year in the distorted
       Knowledge of the mature)

The youthful knowing that life is forever
Only to be lost one day
    In the distorted knowing of the mature.

The heavy frost of late Autumn  
Soon breaks the will
And the leaf is at the mercy of the winds–



                     Blowing aimlessly

Until the eventual fall to earth
Where it turns back into what it always was.

Yet one fine spring day




The youthful knowing that
Life is forever.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
I was going to wait until late fall to post this, but since i use "leaves" and "Autumn " as metaphors, i don't think it really matters.
Jul 2017 · 5.4k
River to Sea
At the beginning
Was an open sea
Knowing nothing
But its own
Owning every
Beach it met
Not knowing enough to feel alone

After many
Long years it finds
There is much
More for to see
Inlets and outlets
On every shore
A sense of greater freedom to be free

The sea joined
To many rivers
Seeing land
On either side
Freedom then became
Just a memory
The river's end was not in sight

But along the way
An Ocean Watershed
Joining rivers to the sea
It had to sleep
In many river beds
To see what it was meant to be

Down in the river
Flowing headlong
To the sea
Joining the
River's rage
That is where
I long to go
That is where I am meant to be

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
An Ocean Watershed is a large basin, such as the Mississippi Basin & the St. Lawrence Great Lakes Basin, where rivers and streams end up in the ocean.
Jul 2017 · 367
Sans Eternal Imagination
I am weakened without
The Eternal Imagination.
                         It lifts me above the bitter
                         Waters I have drunk from
Like a thirsty deer ignoring
                         The faint acridity and
Lapping the coolness until its mid-section
Cramps and it sleeps it
                         Off in the tall cool grasses
                         Only to arise again
                         To drink of the same source.

Foamy blankets outstretch over
Endless bitter pools before
                 This wanderer who searches
The midnights keep for my souls Delight
Passing other shrouded figures  
Who wander through
This universal dream
Like ghost ships
Gliding the haunted deep
Never sailing beyond this
Dark world of mores and memes
And endless waves of prosaic time
Slumbering in our brokenness
Lost in dreams of our barrenness.

How long will Heaven wait
To awaken me from this troubled sleep
Or will this restless dreamer pass
                    Through the final dark
And misty veil only to
                        Continue to wander
But then in eternal sleepwalk
In an infinitely darker universal dream
With the now otherworldly ghosts?

I still have so many more
Miles to go
But I am now wide-awake in deep sleep.
I have escaped the hungry deep
                              As a bird from a snare
Soaring miles above in newness of life

For the levy of holy waters
Has been breached.
Now this cleansing eternal deep
                              Keeps drawing me on
To Reaches unknown.

                      --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Another dance through life!
Jul 2017 · 816
Ballad of Joshua McGrath
He travelled to Canada's west coast
To sit in fields of Mushrooms Magic.
Psychoactive effects created rooms
Filled with white cognitive static.

He returned to his hometown small
In Boreal forests of Ontario's Northland.
Beyond locked doors now unhinged
He sank deeper in grey matter quicksand.

No one quite knew Joshua anymore.
Disturbance eclipsed his passive way.
At the local pub he told Ed and me
He was being followed by the C.I.A.

In one weeks time he picked up a knife
And stabbed his father and mother.
His father lay dead on the kitchen floor
She played dead and tried not to shudder.

Joshua was found just sitting in their car
When police came to the scene of the crime.
In a hospital for over thirty years now
His room has been a static void sealed mind.

                             --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Someone I knew a long time ago.
To:  A Flaming Heart
            Of the Hedonistic School

From:  A Slow-Burn Refugee
                Of the Broken-Back-Pack-Mule


I've had dreams by day
That brought the nightmares back.
?In the daylights exposure it was dark  
When the negative light was bright.

In the sea of people
I was the floating remains
Of a Great White's meal. 
On the lonely roads of thought

My mind was in gridlock.
Comforting memories were suspended
Over a psychic black hole
By jagged and rusted

Medieval-type surgical tools.
My remaining senses
Were nailed to a cross-section
Of psychically atrophied grey matter

Along neural pathways
Guarded by gladiator-type tormentors
Left with nothing
But the stinging desire to be freed

From a curse that had to be cured
And the hell of searching for a cure
When I was convinced there wasn’t one.
The powers that be come with force

To quell primal lusts & desires
Forbidding you of them
As they seductively
Dangle them before your eyes
Until you are so frustrated and unfulfilled
That you no longer
Care for your world.  
This cracked glass remains empty

Even though it is constantly being filled
Then spilled or leaked on the floor
Until you learn to lap it up
Like the lapdog that you have become

For their amusement.
You remain with a love for freedom  
But your cage is so large 
That you think you are free

Lost in societal fantasy.
You think for a while
That these fantasies are real   
Until you come to your senses that aren’t

As you join other fools
In comfort that you're not the only
Broken-back pack-mule. 
But in spite of it all

And in the face of them all
Don't let these birds of prey                                                          
An­d powers that be
Deprive you of what they can't see

In that hidden corner
Of what is still untouched--
The real you
Uninfected by the world.  

Take care of your spiritual affairs.
Don't let the global beast
And your primal hissing forces
Make you be your own pallbearer.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
Jun 2017 · 865
Vox Humana Islands
Poetic minds are islands often found
In common reaches of the status quo
And in remote and deeper waters
Of vox humana in muted undertow.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
May the voice of the human always be heard above the noise of the human!
The Agèd Hands of Time have reached yet another
toll of the bell.

12 years have passed since I’ve last seen her in this life.
Distance and sickness in our being had robbed us both
of streams of time which passed like a long cold winter
into her death. These lost memories often create over-
exposed and superimposed photo negatives of imaginary
frames of time I desperately imprint to hold tightly in my
heart and mind.

But I still hold tightly in memory to her soft voice on the
phone and pictures of split second frames of physical
time my sister would send me. Many people don’t even
have that.

In this life she loved to mother her three grown children
and flower garden as near as she could to the end. It was
in her nature to nurture her resilient perennial children
and to help make the move easier for her annual foster  
children from a confined existence to a deep soft warm
bed of comfort.

Stamped on my mind is not the faded and worn, bruised
and torn image of her outward shell in the Trauma
Center at age 88, but the indelible inner and outward
image at age 38: a lovely young mama who tucked her
little boy in bed every night with a song and a prayer.
The little boy that is still alive in this man.

The Agèd Hands of Time have reached yet another
toll of the bell.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
My poem, The Agèd Hands of Time, posted two days ago, works in concert with this poem which I wrote one year ago today.
Jun 2017 · 934
The Agèd Hands of Time
I got a late call
Just the other day --
    Sister reluctant to say
  What she had to say.

Mama's not well
     She almost passed through
    The veil --
A life of hard work
    Can make any strong
Woman frail.

I'm not an old man
     But time isn't always kind --
Teenage children
Make youth that much harder
                      To find.

It doesn't seem so long ago
               When I was that
        Young and free --
My parents feeling like I do now
            When they'd look at me.

      She was always proud
Of the garden that she grew --
   Working with her hands
In everything she'd do.

But now her body can't
      Keep up with her mind
And father seeks for what
        They both cannot find.

        You're a child with
Parents all your own
Then it's your turn at the wheel
      When you are grown.

Then your children
See you old and frail --
Time goes by faster than
      You realise and you've
Passed through the veil.

I've always watched
      The Agèd Hands of Time
         Winding other lives down --
       They were not mine

But now my past
    Is in the distance and my
Future is as close as my agèd
  Parents and my growing children
     In The Agèd Hands of Time.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
This poem is an older poem of mine (no pun intended) which works in concert with a poem I posted recently. entitled, "My Mama Died Today".
Jun 2017 · 713
Separate Realities
Demons to so many are simply metaphors
Symbols of our darker side
A rational mind may discern what is real
Even with spectres seen and voices heard

Seemingly real what our senses feel
We can swear that we heard a disembodied voice
Or saw a ghost or spirit
But they may be an illusion
Our eyes and ears do play
Tricks on our minds
Like hysterical blindness being all in the head

As in dreams by night
Perhaps these things
Are conscious dreams by day--
Our minds trying to tell us something
In its own symbolic and abstract way
Just as real as physical symptoms
Deeply rooted in the mind

It has been said that your perception is your reality
If so, these things are then your personal reality
These things may be real
But only to you
Or whoever is in your headspace
Or our collective headspace
Where our senses peak

Your reality or your orientation is defined
By what you focus on
And what you look through
Day after day--
You truly are what you eat

But are the negative effects of what you see
Compounded by further distorted perception?

Are you focusing on something through

     <A spider web-cracked window?
     <A spider’s web built across your
     <A fogged-up or frosted window?
     <A coloured or tinted window?
     <A *****  smudged window?
     <A window partially or totally obscured
            By bushes or trees?        
     <A window at night where what you
            See beyond the window is 
            Superimposed with your own
            Reflection and that of
            Objects and lights that are               
            Behind you in the room?
     <A window with the blinds closed?
     <Are you trying to look through just
             A picture of a window hanging on
                        Your wall?  
Whatever windows we peer through
Or whenever we enter
Humankind’s collective and connected
We see and hear these demons and spectres
Dancing through the dark empty rooms
And hallways of mind

Waiting for the right time
To bring the party to the light of day
Where they will forever stay
Since we have been inviting them
And have been preparing the way for them
For a very
Long time

                               --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Jun 2017 · 1.0k
The Mark of Cain
Negative light in the dark
Like a dog's tail chase
Deleting every trace
Of a world dipped in blood

     Can't remove Cain's Mark 
Design of each face
Embedded in each race
And what is in the blood.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
Doctor,  Doctor
We need your help!
Our vital organs
Are in a
State of atrophy
And our arteries
Are hardening.
Help us to see the need
To receive your
Blood transfusion!
May 2017 · 504
What Lives In My Shadow
It hides itself
Better of late
That old companion
In my shadow
That perpetual  
Creeping malaise
Coiling inside my brain

Never springing
Only cr  e      e p             i n g




Logic and common sense.
A lord of fear
Undermining mental
Immune systems
Playing my emotions

Like a violin concerto–
Devil's chord

Out of tune socially    

But then I see her
In her vulnerable position
That sweet  

        Innocent child/woman
Who props up my remains
Who takes me back
To simpler times
And youthful joys

When the hooded cobra
Was in embryonic form.
This one constant in my life
Keeps the cobra at bay

But it waits just outside the camp
Taunting me
Whispering just low enough
So I can't make out what
It is saying.

But how can one make out hissing?!

When you were always told
That you are fine
Nothing's wrong
Maybe a little neurotic sometimes

What can you do
Be reduced to a catatonic state?
Where can you hide but in your shadow?

                --Daniel Irwin Tucker
That "child/woman" is my wife, my love, my soul mate of decades
Apr 2017 · 775
The Crystal Ball Lady
She lays out her heart
On her sleeve  
Both sleeves
As the red
Carpet is rolled
Out for royalty
Whether for
Honor or dishonor
But always
For ceremony

It beats in polyrhythms
Under and on her
Many layered epidermis
Whose layers
Perhaps only a mystical
Archeologist could
The complexity of an
Ancient undecipherable book
Created by years of damaging
Neural and spiritual
Pathways by absorbing
The essence of her
Personal peace pipe
Which is bereft of the
Essential factors found
In thousands of years of
Dream religion

She fancies herself
A new breed of
Shaman perhaps
A connection broken
At an unknown time
In her spirit
But felt strongly
And deeply as
Phantom pain
Evident in her
Crystal ball
And stargazing

A remnant of
A long lost tribe
A tapestry of
Pop cultural  
And superstition

Her motives
Misplaced and obscure
But definitely from
A healing source
But the channels are
Eroded and indefinable
Bastardized by

Extraneous channels
And alien sources
A trickle of water
In a dry river bed
All muddled into
This enigma and

Multicolored tapestry
Which is often
And underestimated
Protected by the
Thick epidermis
And hard to follow
Cardiac polyrhythms
Revealed when her
Many layered tongue
Lashes out and cuts deep

Not intending to control
And manipulate
With leadership
Origins perhaps in the
Shaman or tribal leader
But definitely
Out of place and time
Since their true essence
Has been lost through
Her Westernized
And hyper-capitalized mind

And scattered to the four winds

           --Daniel Irwin Tucker
We have all lost something in and of ourselves living in a lost world .

(a poem i wrote for a dear friend some years ago. she was known as The Crystal Ball Lady)
Apr 2017 · 1.1k
Longing Eyes Upon You Cast
Longing eyes upon you cast
As a mirror does reflection find
In the air of chambers behind
Lingers restless passions laid to rest
Like a silent laugh or tearless cry
My life seems waste to my enemies
Their wrath I did bide my time to appease
But hope-sight you gave me--ethereal eyes
Through these common sight can never be
As a soul into new dimensions born
At these seas I stand formless on the leas
No longer hiding but now riding the storm
Your soul holds mine deeper into these seas
Orpheus and his love reunited forever in
Glorious form.

                       --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Apr 2017 · 1.7k
Afterimage (a fading dream)
Pieces of my soul
Pieced together in memory
Starlight in a Black Hole
Of what never again shall be

A floating fading glow
Darkened room image clear
Now seeing IS believing
Desperate attempt at keeping
The fleeting spectre in view
A faded dream of a
Once upon a dream come true

         --Daniel Irwin Tucker
A visual image on the retina that persists after the stimulus that caused it is no longer operative.
Established landmarks removed test the fates
Burning wind in a vacant sky
Rearranged cosmic hemispheres of mind
Oracle of day not seen with naked eye

The need for warmth a thing of the past
Frigid waters the basis of newfangled cell
Tortured derelicts kept from spiritual vision
Oracle of night hangs in days empty shell

Dubious means to generate a sun of artificial light
But a fling cannot replace a love that is shunned
Yet warm rays of sunlight still flow above the temporal
Still hanging in defiance of the 60 cycle hum

Regain your bearings oh heart of Pure Light
Everything in its place: oracle of day and oracle of night.

                             --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Apr 2017 · 1.2k
Born for the Stage
Where every scene from every play
Ever written flows seamlessly into
Each other in no particular order

Where everyone’s a probable suspect
Including  the investigating officers
Screen writers and audience
Yet we’re all sure we know whodunit

Where everyone’s a dressed-down clown
Even the straight man and the cast and crew
And everyone plagiarises the punch-lines

Where everyone’s a martyr
Even the judge and executioners
And the messiah must be
A flavour of the week superstar

Where the cast doesn’t realise
They aren't wearing any clothing
Even though they are seasoned
And respected award winning actors
And the show is being marketed as pornographic

Where everyone’s the subject
Director producer and crew
As long as the camera is rolling
And it’s rolling 24/7 !

Where everyone’s a drama queen
Including the director producer and crew
And the camera is always rolling
Even when there’s no film in it
And the props and stage are
Being torn down all around them

Where nothing’s really that funny
And the edginess is trite and melodramatic
Like a cast of mimes in a Shakespearean play

Where everyone is the host
Including the audience
And there are no contestants
Only models on a flashy stage

             --Daniel Irwin Tucker
As the Bard said, "all the world's a stage..."  it's still the same old story, except it is now being taken to the nth degree, highjacking every stage & stage of development...all for spectacle, ratings, photo ops & bolstering the crumbling facade of hypercapitalism, and hiding the resulting waste product of quasi-democracy.
My friend came by the other day
As a leaf in the wind he has blown
From street to street
            Town to town

A wanderer he may be, but not at heart‑‑
He longs to be attached to a tree
                                            Any tree

In spring and summer the leaves are green
                                        And attached
Summer slowly dries them out as the tree
                        Prepares for winter

My friend, the dry brown leaf
Blows in his perpetual autumn

We all grow in our own time and season:

Winter dormancy

         Spring regeneration

                   Summer fulfillment

                               Fall  preparing for the
                                            Inevitable season of death

These  seasons of the soul
Are the very essence of our existence

They teach us

                         Temper us

                                                 Fulfill us

But there are those who do not see
The purpose of the seasons
To them winter means only




Spring means only


                          ­            Mud


Summer means

                                Beauty to mock
                                     The heart in winter

I trust in the wisdom of the seasons
Nature teaches us lessons in her cycles

Let the leaf fall to the ground
Let it rot into cold


                                     Winter desolation

Spring will come

Bleak gray will become bright colours
                  Of spring

The beauty will fade once again but will
Reappear in winter's own stark beauty
Though it may be cold and gray
Then spring will come

          Spring will come.

                     --Daniel Irwin Tucker
NOT just another poem about spring.
Mar 2017 · 846
A little girl in handmade dress.
           Black shoes with  
White knee-high stockings.
                       Shy eyes framed
By and hiding behind
            Long  curly
            Blonde locks,
Waiting with me at
                   The bus stop
Each school morning.

             Protected from the harsh
Outside world.
               But nothing can completely
Shut out its
                             Cruel essence.

The outside
                       Can creep in or the
Inside holds dormant
                      Outside influence
Like the eggs of the proverbial tree
                      Lizard laid among the
Other eggs in a
Bird's nest  
             Remaining dormant to eventually
Hatch to feed on the newly born fowl.

Faith soothes the pain
                      Daily standing
On the sidelines
                     Of the pantomime
Of the mundane

As lush dense
Ivy reaches
                         For the sky but must
First slowly crawl
                              Over a cold
Gray wall of stone  
For dreams and ideals
                          Once clearly seen
On the horizon of the
                      Unobscured  plains
Of childhood.
                    A bit harder at the myopic
Foothills of youth.  
                       Now harder than ever

At the jagged  
                  Snowcapped mountains of

The curly locked
                             Little girl still lives
After all these years.  
                             Lives on to
                         Balance the weight
Of disappointments
                    Compressed by daily
Reminders of that

Once dormant inside
                       Influence unleashed
In the innermost
                      Sanctity of trust. Lives

In the security
                        Of ideals gradually
Becoming reality.

                       That place in the heart
That no one can touch  
                             That no one can

Thank God that home is where the heart is!

                  --Daniel Irwin Tucker

Mar 2017 · 948
Dreamer's Dream
The streets were wider
Now they're narrow
I would go
To the place of mystery
Is gone

Truths revealed
The wide-eyed wonder
Of a child has faded
Into the eyes
Of that distant dream
I had dreamt
The visions
Of a peaceful life

I live
The remnants
Of that child's
Dreams come true

Take my hand
And take my feet
On the paths
That no one
Has tread before
No one knows the pain
That dreamer's feel

I cross these rivers
Deep and wide
I search through
Valleys deep and wide
The other side starts
Where each new day begins

Now today
I will walk the streets
Of yesterday have passed
Into a new beginning
Is in what I see

From the bridges
On the rivers
That flow from yesterday
It's clear
That I am dreaming
My reality

Dreams are real
Make them happen
As a child
Plays the games
That are reality
At any age.

     --Daniel Irwin Tucker
An acoustic rock thing i wrote & sang. A little something from my past.
Follow link below:

Mar 2017 · 1.2k
The Next Step
The wishing well has done its part

Now still its water's lie  

The reasons for the darkest nights

Come as the Dawn draws nigh

               --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Just a few persistent thoughts that had to translate from my mind to the pages of HP.
Feb 2017 · 1.1k
Phantom Pain
Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear
                     Staring at faith
                   Staged by hope
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
               The sound of deep
                       Calling to deep.

Repressed feelings buried by time
Epitaph reads on the forgotten grave

"Here lies the child now grown
  His hopes and dreams
       Dashed to pieces.
  This is where the child died."

I often hear the Mystic Keeper
        Calling from night
And tradition calling from artificial light

As I run through scorched barren
                          Fields of doubt

Walking barefoot over these coals
    Crouching low
                   To hide my eyes

As I run    
         And as I hide    
  From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.

When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
                     White cliffs of hope
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea--  
     But they turn out to be just
Withered white
       Seeds of religious platitudes.

        And then there is the ready reflection
Of the looking glass
        That often tricks the beholder
For in it truth is not seen
What is seen is graffiti of soul
       Hiding the crumbling
                         Cracks of age–

The threshold where
         Sanity meets its end.

Isolation has become
       A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
                    Into the heart of hearts

Nothing lives after amputation
Depending on emotional prosthetics--
Phantom pain
                  When nothing is there.

But in the midst of these devastations
I am learning to take

     Howbeit reluctantly

The hand of trust and grace
And to allow
                        Hope to build
      A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
       Than no control at all.

               --Daniel Irwin Tucker
This piece was written at a time when I experienced a dibillatating physical illness which still affects me today  (not physical amputation btw).
But pain, caused by self-inflicted or extraneous traumatic experiences such as myriad forms of assault and losing or cutting off people or things in our lives, can be severely felt as a type of phantom pain. This, of course is a universal aspect of the human condition.
Feb 2017 · 2.8k
Our tidal orphan has but
Reflected light to offer
As does a monolithic orphanage
With cold harsh policies
Being furtively undermined
By beautifully wise children.

           --Daniel Irwin Tucker
We, the children of
The United Intellectual States of HP
Feb 2017 · 1.0k
From the Eternal Source
And you and I are still
Young enough to really live.
We are simply melding
Into another season of emotion.
?The years are just beginning
?To gray what they have claimed
?And have been allowed to claim.
The wind blows away what it can--
What cannot be tied down.

??Keep whispering
Your soul into my soul.?
Keep primal scream tears          
?Falling into my primal soul.

??Keep filling up the empty spaces.?
Keep creating empty spaces.?

Tearing down the vacant walls.?
Building up new walls.?

Opening locked doors.?
Locking others in turn
As we forever transform together
?Under the aegis of the Immortal

??As I grow like the roots
Of the banyan tree?

Hanging down with the branches
Helping to provide shelter
?As I slowly grow closer
To the sweet earth?
In silent anticipation.
Finally touching her.?
Slowly penetrating her.
?Gently pushing deeper
?Until we are of one purpose
Deeply rooted by the banks
Of the Eternal Zoe River
That descended from heaven
And flows through
Human spirit transformed.?

Life-giving water running slow
And deep the source of your whisper--
True essence in deepest longings

??Flowing into my source
Pockets of holy energy overflowing
?Slowed down to a trickle at times ?
Going full circle and
                                     Back and forth
?From out of reach channels.

??That something deep beyond the
                                 Starry masses.?

That something some call love.
That something some call God.?

That something flowing & living
                                  In you and me.

                --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Feb 2017 · 2.7k
The Day My Father Died
I sat by his bedside the day my father died.
The cancer that had riddled his body and soul
Now had complete control.

He fought kicking and screaming
The night the men in white came to take him
On his final journey
Like a great wildebeest
Struggling to get up on its front legs after being taken
Down by young lions. The way so many had said he
Probably would since he fought his way tooth & nail
Throughout his life from the very beginning.

That night I sat on a chair at the foot of his bed
Staring out the huge ceiling to floor window
Of the medical centre
At the many worlds hidden beneath thousands of straight
Stationary lights in-between fluid winding rows of
Transient lights and thought how the light of This window
Is just one of many thousands. At that moment it seemed
More like just one tiny speck in the vast star fields
Worlds above this city of light.

My father had spent most of his life just a short
Six-mile drive from here, under the scattered lights of His

He turned to me and asked,
“That’s a big city. Where are we?"

Dementia had claimed his mind ten or more years earlier. It
Slowly wound its way around his brain like a cocky Snake
?Handler being choked by a boa constrictor unawares.
It seemed like it all caught up to his body.
But it was good to see much of the bitterness
And bad blood between us dissipated over the past decade.
On that night compassion ruled the day.

I could not say it then
But it has been many years
Where it seems compassion has forged with objectivity.

In a lucid moment he looked around the hospital room
Bewildered as if he were a little boy who just woke up
From a bad dream and asked,
“How did this ever happen?"

If only I could have told him.
Sometimes the truth cannot be spoken or heard.
All I could do then was sit by his bed
Lean in close to his ear
And sing softly his favourite hymns. 

By morning his lifeless
Dilapidated body lay in the fetal position.
His once ravenous mouth now forever frozen
Looked like a knothole in a twisted cedar tree.
All I can do now is hang my head and think
Of how weak and frail we humans truly are.

Like compassion forged with objectivity,
Weakness and frailty forges with fleeting moments of Strength.
We forge heroes out of these moments to tower above
The pedestals the former is made of
To somehow minimize the pain of this often denied truth.

               --Daniel Irwin Tucker
My wife & I put our life on hold & travelled to the U.S. to help my mother take care of my dying father. She wanted to keep him in the comfort of his own home. We were there for five months.
Feb 2017 · 1.5k
And the wind will blow...
and the wind will blow
and you will drift
guided by chance
and an unseen Navigator  
like a ship on a raging sea
or a butterfly caught in the wind

just don't close your eyes

the light may be
too bright or too dim
the crumbling ruins
may fall hard
beside and inside you

but don't be found
holding tightly to the cocoon
when the metamorphosis
has long been completed.

          --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Feb 2017 · 1.4k
Wasteland Triumphant
Lying waste the beauty of ancient sites
Where wisdom laments its ancient demise.
The human spirit had once taken flight
Out of dark mists and out of disguise.
Paradise found just beyond their reach.
Friendship feigned as in unwitting Troy.
Pygmalion's ideal crumbled within the breech
Pure knowledge strangled by treacherous ploy.
Yet wisdom still beckons beneath this frost
Rumblings felt faintly in purer souls.?
Vowed in blood to regain paradise lost . . .
Worlds sacrificed for one small foothold.
Beauty from ashes of ancient sites
In spirit in heart once again taking flight.
Kinda something to help bring a little  ancient light to our present plight.

Looks & reads almost like a sonnet,  but was never meant to be one. I just like the rhythm & flow.
Feb 2017 · 3.3k
One of Few Bridges Back
When my dark clouds rise

And dirt clods fly and I try

In sheer panic to replace

Rotten fruit with dull wax fruit

And wilted blossoms with

Plastic flowers and she thinks we

Will be on yet another short-lived

But cold cycle of tightrope and

Eggshell walking . . .

She comes home

With bags filled with

Apples green & red

Peppers yellow & green & red

Grapes green & purple

Plums yellow & purplish-red

Strawberries, peaches, tomatoes

Bananas & Greek salads.

This usually inspires me to make

For this setting a centrepiece of a

Vase filled with a variety of fresh

Picked wildflowers which brings

Her more joy than two dozen

Of the overrated overachiever rose.

At times this seems like

One of  few bridges back

To a healthy & colourful world.  

            --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Oh no! the roller coaster of love...not again! This crazy little thing called love...
Jan 2017 · 1.0k
Mr. Robling's Time
I once laid in my bed content
With mama’s prayers tucked in
Listening to trains far off across
River trestles on rails stretched
To places I could only dream of.

Beginner’s luck the magic strong.
Reality and dreams synonymous.
Early the seeds of wanderlust

Talents forged of
Large cardboard boxes and
Old trunks in the attic
The good bad and ugly
And of games with friends
In woods and streets.
Old Mr. Robling’s eyes looked
Beyond . . .
Child’s play would end

That day eventually came in linear
Time but much longer to this
Wandering mind
That thought beyond the grade
School desk when my adolescent
Peer’s noses were buried deep.

Wander and travel lust left this boy
Rootless and restless when time
Came to stop chasing mirages of
Greener pastures.

He then looked up and saw
His little one’s grown up
With a somewhat similar
Bittersweet taste of chasing
Elusive islands of emerald green
Seen as lush vivid images
On their built-in larger-than-life
Neural G.P.S. screens
Programmed to ****** the
Wanderer into the delusion that
They can take extended or even
Permanent excursions far from
The Great Gray Banal Sea.

Not very long ago this ageless
Boy was forced into settling for
Stark reality. But he is slowly
Growing a bit more comfortable
In his own skin.

The grass is still a bit green
But parts are a bit dry
Patchy and crabgrass ridden.

At least it fashionably matches his
Soul . . . poetic justice for trading
Most of your life for the elusive

I still cling tight to my childhood  
In my own non-linear time of
One hundred years ago.

A far younger but worn-out and
Tired mind spirit and body
Defines age as value was once
Measured by quality not

And as those running the track
And roaming free over thousands
Of acres of wide-open plains
As opposed to those put out to pasture
Or waiting in line


                  --Daniel Irwin Tucker
The long & winding road in linear & non-linear time.
Jan 2017 · 830
Waiting for a Muse
Waiting for a muse to whisper
Into the partially deaf ear of my soul
Exhuming arcane truths from the source
Distilled through the ephemeral mind
Shadowy vestiges reflected in spirit
Fluid spirit flowing through pen
The ineffable spoken in sacred tongue
Ink revealing more than mind dictates.

                   --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Jan 2017 · 1.1k
Idols of Flesh
There were idols in days of old
Made of wood stone silver & gold
They had a mouth eyes & ears
But they could not speak see or hear.

And there were also idols of flesh
Filled with God's own breath
The same images we worship today
Creating physical & spiritual decay.

These idols of flesh we're exalting
These idols of flesh we wallow in
These idols of flesh we're consuming
Will consume our mind & our spirit.

Taking away what we can't live without
Replacing inner peace with fear & doubt
Precious time spent covering up our tracks
Looking ahead but still looking back.

Burning on the ancient altar of lust
Occasionally saying we've had enough
Sheepishly returning to the altar again
Learning to live with the scars & the pain.

They are flesh & blood just like me & you
Filled with emptiness when the act is through.

                            --Daniel Irwin Tucker
please don't get all adamant...i'm not jumping on the moralizing judgemental bandwagon...
Jan 2017 · 1.1k
Survivor & Casualty
Trying to be a few rays of light
And a shade from blinding light.
Trying to be a part of the solution
Though it's easy to unwittingly
Contribute to the pollution.
By the sheer fact of being human
We can at times and by turns
And at the same time be
Culprit and victim
Survivor and casualty.

          --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Jan 2017 · 832
Song of Despair
"The worst things:
To lie in bed and sleep not.
To want for one who comes not.
To try to please and please not."
                 -- Egyptian Proverb

It fades in and   fades             out
The     meandering    song of despair.
     Fading what  once     caused
The frequencies to harmonize.
Random patterns   desperately

Her  moods   weave    in           counter
To my intense     focus in   the refrain.
        Our symbiotic   gazing across the room
At the  rhythmic  blue   light  Illuminating
Denials elusive      fingertip touch
Fading into yet another    impossible dream.

The notes are still     laid out on
The well-weathered pages.
The movements    still moving    gracefully
On a near anti-climactic      stage.

All that is   needed   are the instruments
And patrons of means to employ
A symphony    suffering long
On a soulless      listless     frequency  band
Made only to vibrate complete
But is now   caught    in   this      jumbled loop
In a now    out-        of-        sync  universe

                  -­-Daniel Irwin Tucker
Sounds disparaging, but there is a ray of just have dig for it a bit.
Jan 2017 · 1.5k
Human Coil Unravelling
When it seems as though
The human coil is unravelling
And we have peaked
Our R.EM of creativity
And we seem awash
In half-baked positive negativity
And the whole world seems
To be drowning in self-induced sleep
While even the watcher's
Seem to have both eyes closed. . .

Turn this thing around
And open bloodshot eyes.
Stop your own unravelling
And delve deeper into creativity.
Strengthen the bonds
Of your own exclusive sphere.
Allow your peaceful world to dawn
Though the outside world drowns
In its own exclusive pool of fears.  

     --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Salvaging what we can in devastating storms of life.
When the mountain
  I am afraid to climb
The ropes and tackles
  Are in abundance.

In perfect shape
 My body and mind
Not a weak link
 In the expedition.

But when the mountain
  I dare to climb
The ropes and
 Tackles are tangled.

In ill shape
 My body and mind.
Weakness as a
  Spell does bind.

Hopes and dreams
  Of tireless youth
Spend fast in
 The spiritually aged.

Strength  the glittering
 Cloak of youth
Fades in weakening
  Jaded resolve.

But in me all common
  Traits dissolve.
The bucking steed
  Will ne’er be tamed.

Pigeon-holed  the
 Misfortune of other souls
Has not been allowed
 By my rebellion.

But this resolve is
  Not without price--
The foothills of youth
  Are far removed

By erosion caused by
 Unstable belief systems
Washed away into
  Ambiguities Sea.

A distant mountain
  I sometimes see--
Distance  the deceiver
 Of proportion.

Challenged at the foot
 Of the formidable sight
Halfway climbing 
 Only to slip and fall.

Does this mountain
 Need to be climbed?
Do youthful dreams
  Need to be fulfilled?

When these dreams
 Are all you ever had
You wake up falling
  Or climbing higher.

Driven by dreams
 And gifts and talents
That rage like a river
  In the driest desert

Calling home
 What must come home.
Holding on to what
 Must be fulfilled.

Obstacles that have
  Become landmarks
Seem to fade
  Into obscurity

Like threats that
 Always remain empty.
Laughing at what
 Used to bring tears.

I remain standing
 Through all these trials
Not unscathed 
 And a bit weather beaten

Halfway up another
 Formidable mountain
Making up for lost time
 From a major fall.

     --Daniel Irwin Tucker
When you can't get around the mountain...
Jan 2017 · 2.2k
So Still She Lies, Sleeping
So still she lies
A cold room
Cold thoughts.  
Under cover of cotton and linen.        

A cold lonely wind
Cries outside
Longing to find solace
In the warmth of our home
But finding only that it devourers
By its own devices
What it so desperately desires.

Pain in my brow
Forged with hers.
Sharing breaks
Up the pain--
Comfort of depression's transitory end.

Why do you hurt the ones you love
When you want only peace?
A lover of the land?
Must plough the earth for yield
Break the ground in fury
To prepare it for seed.

This pain awaits our company
Like a bottle to the drunkard          
Or a needle to the ******.

Comfort is pain
Pain is comfort

In this violent serenity
As the calm peaceful sea
?Can in one moment  
Turn into a tumultuous gale.

Is love for the using
Can a person justify
Putting lines of age on the face
And gray hairs on the head
Of the one they love?

So many carry this burden.
Love shares common ground--
Seasons for ploughing and planting
And harvest,
The season of closure.?

So still she lies beside me.?
A cold room
Warmer thoughts.?
Under cover of cotton and linen.

Under cover of compassion
And understanding.

         --Daniel Irwin Tucker
You gotta keep working at it through the years.
Listening as the
Sea hears the moon--
                           Cascading flow or
Pulling away--
                               Melded in
                            Tortured ecstasy.
                             A thousand words
For every birds
                                Eye picture--
My body giving
                                 In to my mind.
My soul somewhere
Silent worlds
                               Of unseen eyes and  
Inward  probing.

                               This neurotic moon
Swaying visceral waters.  
                                 Deeper currents not
Complying  as yet in
                                   This cosmic
                                   Light & matter      
Darkness & void
                      Affecting only the surface--
Pulling back
                          Only waves.
Pushing them back
                                 To the ever-changing
                             When affecting
Only the surface  
                                   It appears to
Be dull monotony
                             At the beck and call of the
Moon's every whim...
And other orbs play
                           Their part with her.

But infinitely deeper
                            Dramatic ebb and flow
Cannot be witnessed
                           By the seagull's gaze.
The thoughts of the soul
                                Are faint or nil
In the patterns of
Our bodies
                         Listening to this galactic
Dialogue seethe
                            In stagnant waters
When the mind like the
                             Moon is all she hears
Or whatever brings
                                In a stronger signal.

We have taken her away
                            Kept her estranged as
Mutated cells eating away
                                  Conformed to the
Image of an empty shell
                                  Of a neutral network
Caught in a degenerative loop--
                                    A dense
Gravitational pull slowly
                                Leading her along
Into the vortex of the
                                        Absence of light.

Yet something our minds
                               Cannot understand as
Yet is developing
                          Out of sight-mind   after
The imploding of her
                                  Beautiful mass.
                             The burning-out of
Countless worlds.
Even the farthest reach
                                   Of the poetic eye--
A genesis beyond Eden
                                      Attempting with
Greater resolve to
                            Orchestrate the divine
Purpose of the
                              Primeval garden
                            And tuned to higher
******* harmony
                                           The new
Birth of soul leading
                                        Body & mind--
Her voice
                   Being the gravitational orb
Swaying visceral
                     Waters and deeper currents
Complying this
                                 Time around.

                    --Daniel Irwin Tucker
Feel the ebb and flow.

— The End —