my body is a map
lines and dashes leading to the treasure
that lies in my chest
not a chest of wood and brass, bolted together and sealed with a secret..
but more of an empty cavity where the ultimate gold is finding a heart
that beats with such fire and passion that even the roughest and toughest of outlaws
secretly hope they do not have to come across such a prize
for what do you do with love?
Sometimes i wish life could be easier:
i wish that i could live in a cabin in the moutons of Austria,
where snow blocks all the roads,
and the only company i have are deer and birds maybe the odd bear,
i wish for peace and tranquility,
for a time where everything just stops moving so fast.
i wish for a place where even the most mundane jobs take hours,
like chopping wood for the stove,
hunting for food,
foraging for sweet berries,
making everything yourself,
i wish for a time where i can just be at rest and not worry about coming back to this life that i live.
It usually goes something like this:
"Hey, where were you this morning?"
Wide awake and far too anxious
to think about socializing.
"Oh", [sheepishly] "I was sleeping."
"Yeah, what are up this weekend?"
Thinking about you,
I really like you, sighs
[exasperated sigh] "I'm working,
Really busy at the moment"
I'm just not able
for it right now, have
to give it a miss. [measured reply]
"Yeah, I might be around"
The thing about lying is you inevitably
do it without thinking, use it to cover
up what you are really thinking about.
Of course you're only lying to yourself.
The castle in the smoke
like a reptile foraging
in the city
the blue-colored flame
awaiting the servants
the colors of sounds
all over shadiness
the scarecrow with a hat
the wand of a magician
the ancient bed
and the love
locked in the sarcophagus.
the intricate cerebral architecture
and arboreal locomotion
our remote ancestors canopy living
primates with an advanced repertoire
descending from the canopy
and into the grasslands
into the electronic global village
thinking, striving, breathing
in that foraging phase on the grassland
we caught a scent on the air
look where we are now.
full of masks
a sack of
spills into view,
all of it lacking
of human communion
a phantom floating
From air I have crept
making an entrance
to the roots
Over time, I am hardened
in the cold Om thrill
up freezing oar,
growing over a jewelry box
of mineral instincts
for the silica
as it enters me, a cool bath of fingers,
forming thousands of years out of me
We live to search the world for happiness
Never finding it in time,we lose ourselves.
We would die to find contentment.
Foraging like the animals,picking ever stick off the ground seeking the solicitude of someone or something.
In the morning, I gather my thoughts of yesterday
Like the foraging chipmunk, collecting acorns
And stuffing them miserly in my jowls
The past is sustenance for a somnolent soul
As age condemns my faculties
I pull, from my once copious jowl
A jewel of sorts
A garnet set in fool’s gold
My memory is manufactured
Assembled and disassembled
No longer what was or is or will be
But was and is and never has been
I confine my thoughts to winter
Where barren fields and sterile trees
Offer less to recollect
And empty my jaws of these useless reminiscences