Woke up with children in my mind, wrote two new,
then stumbled on this...
I give this poem to an orchestra leader I know, who understands better than most, that conducting and being surrounded by many, is oft the loneliest task and who knows best the meaning of
"finally, all synchronized in time and space, on a single continuum, within, without and through."

Thanksgiving Day 2011

Through
the picture window,
watching
restless generations,
multitudinous compilations,
children's backyard runnings,
all about, hide n' seek,
uncoordinated coordination,
well calculated randomness,
perfection in its
discombobulation

Within
my bloodstream,
chemical changes,
blow thru my veins,
direction home,
like leaves,
on a November weekend,
windswept from a thousand directions,
endless energy, noise, and commotion,
results of internal tremblings,
the side effects of satisfactions,
in ways I could only dream of...

Without
knowing, nonetheless,
the knowledge rests within,
footage of future days of
quietude and satisfaction,
recalling earlier simplicities,
records recorded somehow
before it happens,
records recorded now and then,
but only for
future consumption.

Harmonies of times,
well deserved,
to be future spent,
now, finally, all synchronized
in time and space,
on a single continuum,
within, without and through.

They say that Einstein erred,
time cannot outrace gravity,
therefore it cannot be
that I have seen the future.
Yet, I know with
unerring certainty,
these truths
posses the gravity,
that thanks,
I have and
will again,
gave,
and will give

The remainders,
the children,
the net of our gains and losses,
within them,
        my thanks lives,
without them,
        I am lessened,
through them,
        I am whole,

Why are there more buildings than trees
In the city that's promising dreams?
Why are there more cars than
Parking spaces
What's all the rush?

Why are there more boats than fish
On the island of eternal bliss?
Can't even hear my thoughts
From all the noises;
I Feel overwhelmed.

There are pockets of green,
A desert preserved,
Only one single tree where I've ever heard birds
They sing in the morning at 8,
But I'm starting to think it's too late

I see mountains rising
And buildings above them,
I see clouds slowing passing
As cars outrace them,
All the light pollution
Has the sky turned brown;
At night
In the centre of life
I feel drowned

More loose Ends

The dusty, ***** floor needs sweeping.
How hard am I willing to work?

I’m like a running back trying to move forward,
but my way is all blocked by big defensemen.

Will I keep my eyes open and moving?
Will I keep my body turned up field?
Will I keep my legs a-churning?
Will I run and pick my way,
through the maze that lies before me,
dodging the opposition, and gaining their turf?

Or:
Will I be a loner and run from everyone,
trying to make an end run all by myself,
and getting flattened by a swarming defense
that bridges me no gap?

What do I really want?
Do I really want Christ?
or
Do I want all the distractions of the world?

It seems I want them both.
Yet the Psalms say
there are only two ways
that a man may choose,
either God or the world.

So can I look into my own face and eyes
with enough seriousness
to cut through
all that is in me that is not true?

I could weep,
for I have been at this quest for as long as I can remember
and it’s always two steps forward and two steps back.

Yet here I am standing again,
ready to take the handoff from the quarterback
and try to outrace the opponents.

Lord please give me the faith and perseverance
to keep standing in here
in the backfield ready to run,
ready to always and ever keep trying again
regardless of past results
and unknown futures.

let me fruition this now
with emphasis. There will be noise
disavowed, and only the full metal of silence
would indict the plenary moon.

       whatever you say, it shall will
itself to the ground, obvious of its
decay long overdue. This time, precision
of aches outrace light – only this night,
and in some other nights when there is
only the blue glare of your face in the
nauseating vertigo of words intimated.

     now, in the barenaked room,
everything will enter as if the first time,
the last ones too – all at once so suddenly short
and handsome with abeyance.

   you were out into the world and I won’t
flinch nor blame. Soon when capable,
all of this will whittle into one fine laughter
pivotal towards the wary sides of mercy.

soon nothing, as changes
were inimical, silence will champion our
places, remembering you in the unclothed
sunlight of the South when we faced North,
watching boats wade in speeds of your freedom,
   in the boulevard where at one point in time,
     I have left you spaces to occupy,
   only mine errors found.

Well traveled leather binding a vault of lost ideas.
Haphazard graffiti
dripping ink down the page.
Crumbled sentences and half-finished
thoughts
backdrop the soft scratch of the pen
trying to outrace time

Years, composed as fragments,
have no place
outside the white walls where they were born
Only the architect remembers

and still he is mortal

Skimming down the road,
Fingers embraced by the passing wind,
Trying to race to the western promises.

Passing into lands previously untravelled,
Towards the glow emenating from those golden opportunities,
Almost as if taking flight towards the stark blue horizon.

Not long to go,
Just a push and a plunge,
A great fall to the left on the map.

In search of a better future,
As great plains are traversed,
The beacon of answers to great questions lay ahead.

Skimming down the road,
Fingers embraced by the passing wind,
Trying to outrace the eastern storm.

Lessons in the trunk,
A case of tenacity in the passenger seat,
Goals hogging the back seat.

The wind tussling hair as it passes,
A gentle greeting as the countryside opens up,
The air clearer with every mile.

Everything seeming sharper,
Like a previously unknown haze being pulled from the eyes,
Colors vibrant and new.

Skimming down the road,
Fingers embraced by the passing wind,
Chasing the setting sun and running from the night.

Death is a future that all people share,
Be it sudden or slow, it simply won’t care,
It has many forms, it has many ways,
As a shadow it follows for all of our days.

Some people fear it, some they embrace it,
One thing is certain; they’ll never outrace it,
As sure as there’s birth, there will always be death,
The reaper waits patiently, until our last breath.

Our birth is a miracle, but is death the end?
On your religious belief, will this answer depend?
A belief in a faith does not make you wrong,
For deep in your heart does this answer belong.

To loved ones we leave, grief comes along swift,
But mourn not our passing; our life was a gift,
The times that we shared, the good and the bad,
Thinking of us, should not leave you sad.

Life is not living if you simply exist,
Take life in your hands and give it a twist,
It’s your actions and deeds that define who you are,
Just remember that death, watches on from afar.

© Cinco Espiritus Creation

While I sat beside my bedroom window
rested my shaking hands on the walking stick which has become the only companion I have left

I looked out to have a clearer view of what the world has become,
the remains of my childhood days and a mixture of civilization

I closed my eyes shut and took a long deep breath
memories from the past rushing in, each trying to outrace the other in my head
Then the voices in my head resurface, growing louder with each passing minutes

Memories and voices I have repressed for so long,
pushing them deep down each time they try to surface
but today I let them have their way,
I opened the lid I placed on them
I guess it's time to pay a visit to the past
No more hide and seek game for today.

Let the memories guide me as I do
Let the voices accompany me, haunt me and make a mockery of me
Let them walk me through yesteryear, take me through each phase of life
From birth, childhood, teenage, youth and adulthood
Let them remind me

Of the pains I endured
Of the costly mistakes, I made
Of the consequences and prices, I paid
Of the helping hands, I turned down
Of the loving heart, I misjudged and hurt
Of the betrayals I experienced
Of the opportunities, I missed and grabbed
Of the lives, I injured and inspired
Of the reckless life, I lived

And bring me back to where I am now
As I wait for death and count the days left
when I'll be reunited with those who have gone ahead of me.