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Ropes are an arbitrary constituent of
My often meandering campaign of self-sufficiency
Where often times I find myself wondering
If I were elected or selected for my role as the dejected
So the sudden appearance
Of this length of rope
Attached somewhere up above in obscurity
To dangle before me as innocently as a kids swing
Or as menacingly inviting as a 13 Loop hangman's noose
Timing is often the real hero
Or culprit
Of any grand production
Whether on the stage or in the simple act
Of oneself coming of age
With open eyes as I taste the lies
That had become so familiar to the script
That I never even trip
As the words would slip
Lifeless and indistinguishable
From my hapless lip
There was a time as I wandered
Around the cracked and worn down
Asphalt parking lot in my mind
Seeking a parking spot and often finding
Naught- as once again the daily spin
Had ushered in
That loud and obnoxiously redundant crowd
Of oxygen-dependent hypocrites
That look and sound and think
Just like me
That then is the point where I begin
To accept that no parking spot exists
As I make the endless loops and twists
Assuming that I can convince myself
It's just my bad luck
To be looking left- as I drove right by
What obviously I must have missed
LIE... an absolute lie !!
Right there in front of me like a flashing Neon traffic cone
So even if I close my eyes
To pretend that I don't recognize and realize
Its very existence
But I know and I saw and I heard
It all... The very second that it occurred
As the blinding flash so intense
As to make me wince
As it penetrates my fragile human eyelids
I am there
So disengaging the useless gear
Setting the brake... For my stranded
Almost abandoned
Soul's sake
Killing the ignition as a form of contrition
Open the door and take the key... As if it were a part of me
Wondering what was the reason for
Being that a crowd of me
Would actually steal anything from myself
Wait a minute...
... I've already been doing that. A lot
A whole parking lot
I cannot stay here among the throng
For very long
Reminding me of just how wrong
A man can really be
I need to walk and walk
Let my inner voice and my fragile shell
Have a long past due talk
As a way to maybe break the spell '
So with a swift backward glance
Gave to me that welcome chance....
... To see
That this was my lot in life
Where what I was leaving behind
was in fact...
Right there- right where it belonged
Parked in the very parking spot
I had been looking for
That that I had had all along all along
A crowded mind
Makes it extremely hard to find
The power in taking the lead...
By helping out
That part of yourself that sometimes goes blind
There is not an easy fix or magic tricks
Or any color wax to fill in all the nicks
No school books or rule books
No tools hidden in some obscure nooks
That the ID or the EGO somehow always overlooks
So with wide open eyes
as
I'm walking
in circles
Endless circles
So when that rope materialized
Weary to the bone I'm so dreadfully tired
As if in quicksand I were mired
And so concerned
About the way my directions had turned
I continued determinedly onward
To work out the kinks and find the weak links
Determined to identify
As I learn to rely
On my ability to accept
That
To try is to try
Only I will ever know
The depth of that turn
Or the heights of my concern
Or when
I yanked myself
Back up to the surface
The circles that I now walk
Knowing that I have not a single clue
Where or which way I'm going
No sign posts or monuments to mark the horizon
I'm noticing
That these circles
As I hold on to this rope
ARE
Getting smaller as to shorten the distance
Between the times I wallow in
The incendiary and intrusive and abusive
As the future will be
Filled with those inconclusive reasons why
Across this path over and over and over again
With increasingly diminishing respite
No loss is ever absolute if the resolute
Soul of man can accept that there's always
A plan when looking with more than just eyes
While hearing with more than just the ears
Believing what was heard is more than just word upon word
Hope is as I am now at the crossroads of hope
A sunny field of dew - tinged flowers
As that rope has led me down to simple single turns
Each time completing a circle
No slack left
But I am far far from bereft
As I am now aware of where
I am
The end of the rope
And therefore out of Hope?
Nope !!
' I at the U turn
The New Direction
The ever-expanding revelations
The lengthening and strengthening of my path
And able now to see my false trail end
So with key in hand
I reverse course and with no remorse
I'm going back to that spot
In that now empty parking lot
Marveling at that now pristine silence
So now we have a much lighter load
I turn the key put my life in gear
And get back out on the road
Oh how I love a good road trip
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
There on the wrinkled landscape
Of topographical coloration
I blast two staccato echoes
A subtle shrill arpeggio at fade out
So subtle a difference that I can't say I hear it
Though I am the director
Of that whistles orchestration
Far across the valley bottom camouflaged by pattern
They will appear somewhere among that sea of white
The receivers pop up in mirrored action
Tiny pinpoints of color among the sea of white
I don't need to be able to see them to know
The exchange of glances anticipation of coming attraction
This is what they live for.... that call to attention
As they await like teenagers or #45 for another tweet
Glancing now at each other and aware
Of that growing sense of anxiety among their charges
My hesitation stemmed from viewing all the Majesty
But I am aware from way up here of the tension below
And with the valleys steeped in ever darkening shadow
The two miles trek to the awaiting gate and the holding pen
I blow a quick quip to start Sas and Rocket to bring em in
Then as if of 1 mind they lead em home ...leading from behind
An addiction to action where by almost supernatural
Is their ability to move by nip and slip around the throng
Attentive to any wayfarers lost in transit
Encouraging less enthusiastic or lost youngster to move along
Sending the adolescents screaming in terrorized panic
As they are absorbed into the mass of slow moving wool
And only after the last one of them passes thru ...do
The pair allow themselves ...with the closing of the gate
That romp of triumphant joyfull play as they await their reward
They will receive for their day of working like a dog
That bowl of food that awaits them is secondary to the real prize
To that smile and well done pat on the head or belly scratch
From their beloved master for that is really what they live for!!!
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 1:25 AM UTC