"unchanged" poems
This desolate road seems forever long
And my worn feet will carry me through the ruin
All alone, but if you had heard my song
You might just understand why I’m doing
Maybe I’m the strongest person of us all
Maybe you’re used to me being alone
But that doesn’t mean that when I take a fall
I can survive, live on my own
Noticing someone else’s suffering is hard
Wrapped up in your troubles, with an aching heart
But if you open your eyes, you’ll see a man apart
If you can call me a man, I guess
Walking round with an unchanged expression
Ducking and keeping away from the deed
You might think it’s all to get attention
And you’re right, but that’s what I need
I knew a group of people whom my heart held dear
I loved them, and I love them still
But they weren’t there for me in my time of fear
Now I’m not gonna bend my will
How many days of quiet can I keep?
How hard will the blade into my mind seep?
How long can I hide away and weep?
Before you realise I’m not at best
So it’s time to say fare thee well
Don’t know where I’m strolling in my daze to
Just gonna follow my path down the well
See if it’s someplace new
So I’ve thought it through and through again
No pleading will make me change my head
Maybe, before, if I had a friend
But now, it’s too late to hear what I’ve said
The love I have for you will always burn
But my back’s to you, and I’ll always turn
If you haven’t figured it out, you’ll never learn
I want a hug, but I’m drowning in my sleepiness
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 3:11 AM UTC
the angel amongst us
~for Alexander, master splasher~
*flexibility is important when poetry writing in a warm tub and a long day ahead is scheduled; so willingly accept the autocorrect
for I am both an experienced poet and bath soaker and
believer in wondrous mystery and unexpected fumbles
that lead to to miracle touchdowns
~•~
the two mathematicians examine the angle, measure the degree of difference at intersection and bless it with an identity,
calling it by its name,
perhaps obtuse, perhaps right, perhaps both
two sets of eyes examine the angle,
study its ****** expression
the old man says:
see the angle on the clock formed by the big handle on the twelve and the little hand on the eight?
this is angle of eight o’clock:
time to stop the splashing and start the get-readying
for we have miles to go before the ocean can say hello!
little angel says angle no go
and slashes the water with both
hands to establish the firmness of his views
and change Einstein’s time from present to future
the angle depends on the perspective of the viewer
the old poet comprehends leaving a warm tub is a regretful thing
but he measures the degree of difference at this
intersection
of time and bath and blesses it with an identity
“time to go”
the angle of my angel is now 2 pointed arms, pointed straight up,
at the twelve o'clock,
as he stands up in fevered protest,
my arms sweep his little legs to
a point at eight o’clock,
angel, commenting on his swift flight
disputes the grandfathers physics
"no go now,
now go later^"
though the angle is unchanged
the perspective of time and space
(and traffic),
yet differs
one sees an angle,
the angel sees time
eternally folding in on itself*
that is the angle amongst us
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC
(gulp)
Couldn’t resist a minute more.
Relapse.
I again…
After six months sober...
Here.
In this pain I know all too well.
Ten years lost to this drug my veins ache for.
First breath in the morning and last thought at night, all consumed by it.
Every cell in me craves it.
That physical euphoria my body portraits.
Feels like someone has poured pure joy into every single muscle and fiber of my being.
It makes me feel so content
Every single bit of me is singing and buzzing with life and love.
It's like the ecstasy of ******* that first blissful, pleasurable pulsation of endorphins and serotonin.
This is what I feel when I first take LOVE.
And then...
And then, the honeymoon stage is over.
Fights erupt.
Never-ending debates.
Miscommunications.
Misperceptions.
No trust.
Accusations.
Lies.
“I’m done...”
…
Again, it feels like a part of my soul is leaving my body.
Again, sitting here numb.
A toxic love...
I’m addicted to,
And there’s no way around it.
It’s already deep intertwined with my veins.
Yet, no matter the toxic, tragic event that happened before, I sit here, and I want nothing more than to spend my life next to this soul.
To see his eyes unchanged as the skin around it wrinkles and grows old is what my heart will always desire— to stare at those eyes for the rest of eternity.
Dead air…
So here I’ll wait, until you decided to come into my life again and repeat this déjà vu.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:54 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder if it's even worth fixing,
The clock on my desk has been broken for too long now.
The hands have not move, have not touch.
But time hasn't stop,
And every now and then a second laughs at my clock,
A minute brushes its side,
An hour smiles at the stillness.
Years have passed and my clock has remained unchanged, unrepaired.
It is frozen in a moment of time,
Still in a bundle of memories,
Trapped in the infinity of the universe.
I wonder if it's even worth fixing a brokenness that makes you feel infinite.
I wonder if a life that could end is worth more than a death that persists.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
At seventeen I am almost grown.
Almost old enough to own a home of my own.
Yet, i remain viewed as young, naive.
Told I am too young to know what i believe.
At seventeen the world drowns me in a sea of questions it doesn't want the answers to.
At seventeen everyone thinks they know whats best for me,
"....grow up, be a part of your society."
Don't worry about happiness that's a selfish priority.
"...grow up."
But at seventeen its hard to differentiate between hopes and reality.
It's sad you can do anything you believe,
but i fear it's a lie, we've all been teased.
The proof?
On the streets.
An endless stream of people who've had their dreams seized.
I dread the thought of this stream consuming me.
Me?
Me?
At seventeen I don't know if I am me.
Or just everything that's ever been crammed down my throat into a part of my brain I cant pronounce.
At seventeen I've fallen down a rabbit hole.
The queen of hearts pounding me with every cliche ideal every adult has told me to believe.
The white rabbit screaming to me the time.
17..18..19
I just want to leave.
I am only seventeen.
But if not this rabbit hole where?
Just a new nightmare?
Filled with symbolism I should get.
Things I should know.
Seventeen is plenty of time to grow...
grow up.
But I am only seventeen.
I am only seventeen.
Am only seventeen.
Only seventeen.
Seventeen.
I am seventeen.
At seventeen the world says I am almost grown.
At seventeen I am scared to have a home of my own.
At seventeen I question everything I ever knew.
But remain unchanged.
Remain floating through life without a clue.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
The perfectionist loves to hear his voice,
He is the respected critic inside,
He is the learned one,
The educated and the educator.
A beautiful constructor,
The finishing touch
To the artist's hand.
The voice is always a partner,
He will always be there to help
The artist, comfort is taken in his ability.
The artist needn't forget,
There are many voices on the side,
Awaiting for their time to speak,
Each one has its time,
All varying in their patience and duration.
The artist sees what he hasn't before:
The voice of support; the voice of love; the voice of decision; and the voice of passion.
There is always time to contemplate his flaws
And he wants to reassure himself:
Perfection is not a demand, but a quest,
One of beauty and one of joy.
Perfection is the beauty in imperfection.
The pursuit of achievement is one to relish, it is not to be rushed or
Ceased, it is a running walk, a walking run, a sitting stand, a moving still.
It is every step he has made.
The artist looks behind and sees
His effort, he is proud to have experienced
His triumphs and his trauma
The voice of comfort will be there all the way,
She is a gentle quieter spirit that deserves as much an ear.
When all voices have calmed and subsided,
Her tenderness remains.
I remind the artist of his friends,
I remind him that the critical voice is the voice of nature,
The physical laws unchanged.
He is the driving force to stasis and movement in the age worry and indecision.
"Do not be overwhelmed" I say to the artist,
You are one of many.
You are with friends.
The voice of change encourages the artist to evolve and to smile,
The voice of happiness allows peaceful living and awareness.
The tiger belongs to nature,
not to be feared, but to be respected
and understood.
Do not despair, do not relinquish hope,
Hope is the shining beacon in a world of anguish.
Hope is the angel shining her torch ever so bright.
Hope is the window that allows pain and suffering to see the light of day ,
Hope allows oneness.
The artist moves his brush: an effortless stroke,
A flicker of joy,
A tear in his eye.
He once was old,
Now is young.
He learns to enjoy
The work he has done,
He can now enjoy the work he does,
He is enjoying the work he is doing.
He enjoys his life.
The state of mind, it is a fickle hatchling.
Able to be pursued and persuaded,
also able to be liberated.
The artist is free,
His thoughts can pass,
His fear will subside,
His body can move,
His heart will follow
And the mind will allow.
Spirit be set free,
Bird do fly,
Artist do paint,
You,
You are.
Peace within oneself is peace with others.
The artist is brave, he is a soul that stands tall in the face of adversity,
He is a sleepless enigma in his room at night,
He is the passionate one,
The artist and his love affair with the critic outshines his charisma,
The love for the sophisticated darkness,
His love for the melodrama,
His quest for knowledge,
Perhaps the only knowledge is
Ignorance.
Blissful unawareness.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
Forest inquires:
How do you decide, choose your design, find its guise,
give it a face, surrender to the poem's own
vanity,
and choose the poem's alignment?
an answer forms:
this alignment idea,
you think it simple,
everybody understands
what your inquiry means
alignment - the appropriate relative position
we live in relative position to each other, our poems too, for they are but written synapses of our close captioned interactions, seemingly random, but assuredly not, as we invest in ourselves, seeking the mysterious appropriate answer
from the Theory of Poetic Relativity
i love your question; hold it to my nostrils,
smell the coffee aroma wake up blast inherent;
kiss its robust childlike cheeks for the simple soulfulness essential arousal;
for you see sir you have found
the appropriate position that relates us, our mindful words;
answer no good, wholly insufficient?
perfect.
as i close this quick cooked to perfection laboratory solution, take note
the earth has moved
our hearts have beaten a measly thousand times
time and space have appropriated our prior
relativity
when you return years hence this poem's shape will perforce have moved. for words are weathered flux constant and yet inherently unchanged except for the part of us that changes with every re-reading
and what was
right before has left and the center has moved again
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
Upon the shores of Malachite
Next to the cobalt seas
Under molten silver slivers of moonbeams
That shatter on the crystal icing
Covering the diamonded waterfall
By the golden sand . . .
Gather the Unicorns
Of Neptune , Uranus , and Pluto and beyond
Playfully cavorting between
Steel seas and emeralded mountains
On the frozen sands of time unchanged
For a thousand Earth's comings
But it's just a dream
A lunacy , a nothingness in the night
All my Unicorns have taken to flight
And were never there
Or were they ?
All the frozen seas . . .
Are now warm Florida Keys
Under a full August moon
And all the mountains . . .
Are impossible fears
That have faded into prairies
Swelling like seas
And there are no proof prints
In the sands of time
Of a far away race
Frozen in time
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
A WOMAN IS CRYING
In the next room
a woman is crying
a moon
perches upon an hotel sign
unmoved
as a new millennium
dawns
as bright as neon
the woman
still crying
her unknown
despair
shifting silently
from one century to another
human grief
unchanged
from age
to age.
A woman is crying.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
This day is like the pouring rain, heavy falling and hard to swallow.
Dark as the memory of an old embrace,
Cold and mellow, like the cousin of a summer day.
Yet within this rain we are unchanged, just not the same.
I see the water as it cascades,
And floods the streets, to wipe the dogged dirt away.
It’s in my ears, it's on my mind, like a booming sigh.
The raindrops on the soggy ground.
Flooded I am washed away, but not far enough to leave this town.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
The iron drips from my fingers.
The man gives out a yell.
The child launches, she launches at me.
Sadly her launch had failed.
I chuckled at her, with no pity.
Her frightened face, what a laugh.
The person she’s crying for isn't worth dying for.
After all,
he was a bad man.
It’s funny, so funny, funny the fact.
The fact, she thought if she grabbed my neck then,
maybe, just maybe, maybe I’d die.
I laughed again and finally, I gave out a sigh.
“Poor child,” I said my voice left unchanged.
“You misunderstood. I shouldn't be ashamed.
Your idol has done so many bad things,
now he’ll pay for his sins of adultery,
in a place which this blind man cannot see.
She fell to the ground befalling her tears.
This was the end of her happy years.
What? Did she think it was a fairy tale life?
Reality is sharp, just like a knife.
I laughed at the fact I took his life,
with just one swing of my most dull scythe.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
I live, I die, I burn, I drown
I endure at once chill and cold
Life is at once too soft and too hard
I have sore troubles mingled with joys
Suddenly I laugh and at the same time cry
And in pleasure many a grief endure
My happiness wanes and yet it lasts unchanged
All at once I dry up and grow green
Thus I suffer love's inconstancies
And when I think the pain is most intense
Without thinking, it is gone again.
Then when I feel my joys certain
And my hour of greatest delight arrived
I find my pain beginning all over once again.
4.2k
If you asked me now
To my face
What I would have wished for
Since before birth
While I was still in the womb
To have, and carry
With me to the extinguishing
Of my numbered days
My answer would be such
And I would spit it
Into your face, your throat
And your eyes
So that it burned like hellfire
Into your stomach
I would need you to know
But more importantly remember
Like a scar
On the back of your hand
And a thought piercing your mind
It would be nothing foolish
Though futile nonetheless
I would not ask for a life without pain
Or the riches of the streets
That I awake the dust from
It would be just this
Spare me
Spare me the hopelessness
Let me not even taste it
Like metal in my mouth
And smoke from a dying fire
In my breath
Spare me the hopelessness
The mental end of the rope
The end of the line
The no more track,
We have already come to far
You can turn back
But for what
But
For what
And for who
And why
Just
Spare me the hopelessness
This life tried to take me by the horns
The world tried to lead me by a leash
And I choked
Choked out
On misery and despair
And I lay naked on the ice
With my nails scratching into the frozen ground
Trying to dig my own grave
Still trying to light my existence like a match
Just to feel
Feel something
And have it over take me
But still be unchanged
To taste
But not be consumed
I wanted to live
To wade in the water
To pour my love out
Like a river over the cliffs
And dash myself
With the waterfalls
Over the rocks
Again and again
And again
I would meet you in the stars
And we could dance with the sun
Coaxing her into a rising
To drench the horizon with her light
And the fill the earth with promise
And if you asked me
What would you take from the rest of the world
I would be silent
Fold my hands
Like a prayer in my lap
But my mind she would run
To the back of my teeth
And my voice she would catch
In the hollow of my neck
And what I wouldn't say is that, "I would take,
Take it all,
Ever bit of hope
From east and west and beyond the seas."
Because to fall into this
The tunnel with no light at the end
Is a death
I cannot live out
So spare me
Spare me the hopelessness
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 3:13 PM UTC
There’s a time and season for every reason
no cookie bakes itself
cherries don’t burst on their own
cherries don’t burst ************
a bottle doesn’t empty itself to full/fill
breaking clocks is a wonderful way to **** time
ironic glory hole of blood and glass
running out of test tubes, the ***** too tight
**** reason!
INVEST!
Admiration is the state furthest away from understanding
pawns don’t need details
******** with teeth make ******** meaningful
smashing the cow softens it, …digest it well
meaning is derived from screening STD g string
of a starry eyed ******** that drowns in a sea of ******
obtuse and absolute are the only submissions
failure to comprehend results in ***********
cuckolds worth….
IMPROVE!
Lexicon laxative
this antipathy won’t last
stimulate thinking with cankerous drinking
***** ***** need no season or reason
to drown ****** who never show
the tears of heaven that understood
misled admiration and adolescent aberration
that silently candle deplorable fornication
time stays unchanged
counting doesn’t prove progress in this game
falling short… half beat hesitation
ITERATE!
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought
stood frozen, drawn immense and clear,
stiff and idle as I was there;
and we remained unchanged together
for a year, a minute, an hour.
Suddenly there was a motion,
as startling, there, to every sense
as an explosion. Then it dropped
to insistent, cautious creeping
in the region of the heart,
prodding me from desperate sleep.
I raised my head. A slight young ****
had pushed up through the heart and its
green head was nodding on the breast.
(All this was in the dark.)
It grew an inch like a blade of grass;
next, one leaf shot out of its side
a twisting, waving flag, and then
two leaves moved like a semaphore.
The stem grew thick. The nervous roots
reached to each side; the graceful head
changed its position mysteriously,
since there was neither sun nor moon
to catch its young attention.
The rooted heart began to change
(not beat) and then it split apart
and from it broke a flood of water.
Two rivers glanced off from the sides,
one to the right, one to the left,
two rushing, half-clear streams,
(the ribs made of them two cascades)
which assuredly, smooth as glass,
went off through the fine black grains of earth.
The **** was almost swept away;
it struggled with its leaves,
lifting them fringed with heavy drops.
A few drops fell upon my face
and in my eyes, so I could see
(or, in that black place, thought I saw)
that each drop contained a light,
a small, illuminated scene;
the weed-deflected stream was made
itself of racing images.
(As if a river should carry all
the scenes that it had once reflected
shut in its waters, and not floating
on momentary surfaces.)
The **** stood in the severed heart.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
It lifted its head all dripping wet
(with my own thoughts?)
and answered then: "I grow," it said,
"but to divide your heart again."
3.8k
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw,
It calmly repeats those words of awe,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;
His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed;
O precious hours! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time!
Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow;
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
“Ah! when shall they all meet again?”
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
Never here, forever there,
Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear,—
Forever there, but never here!
The horologe of Eternity
Sayeth this incessantly,—
“Forever—never!
Never—forever!”
3.6k
3.14 is the value of pi
Semicircle is the shape of a smile
8 is the symbol for infinity
Welcome to quantumly formed poetry.
Expressing my thoughts through cryptic theory
End of reversed evolutionary
It might not be self-explanatory
JUST Keeping It Short and Simple, M, E.
C, L, O, U, D, plus the square of three
is all that I feel when you are with Mi
Fa, So, La, Ti, Do, Re... or I mean me
Like M, A, G, I see... my world on thee.
You are my earth that is a twisted heart
I dream to be the he beside that art
Giving his best to be a romantic
Intimating through the fields of physics.
My love for you is three-dimensional
Taller and longer than diagonals
As deep as abyss, like cosmos so wide
but unbound by space and unchanged by time.
A fire started by a Maxwell's demon
Burning and shining from here to the moon
A flame so lunar and so lunatic
breaking the laws of thermodynamics.
Faring the distance at the speed of light
Lining the night skies like a meteorite
Traversing the widths of the hyperspace
Or cross a black hole just to see your face.
Escape with luck from a magnetic flux
Be right thrice a day with a broken clock
Above all that, there's just one thing I want:
To spend my last breath by holding your hand.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
I remember that day,
That faithful day.
The day I fell in love with you.
Right under that cherry tree,
The petals falling on our heads,
That day I looked into your eyes.
That faithful day brought about many moments of sorrow.
Some people chose to move on from us,
Like petals floating away with the wispy gusts of wind.
Those who chose to stay
And support us,
They are truly special.
Like rare flowers only found in the Spring.
But even if no one was left,
I would never leave you.
For we are a flower that never dies,
A tree that is never felled,
An unending embrace.
So even if there are no petals left on the sakura trees,
And all the flowers have been plucked,
We will still stay,
Our love unchanged.
Throughout the harsh winter
And the drought of summer,
We will never die.
When tests of strength are sprung upon us by the gods of the Earth,
We will stand firmly,
Implanted in the soft soil.
In the field of battle you are the sword,
Strong and courageous,
And I will be the shield,
Protecting you with the strength of my spirit and at your weakest points,
Even if blood were to rain from the sky,
And the tall, creamy pillars of this world were to crumble and fall to the ground.
Together, we are one with everything on this Earth.
We hail to no one but ourselves,
And we respect ourselves and the land around us just like any flower would.
But what the average onlooker doesn’t know,
Is that we are no ordinary flower.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 2:49 AM UTC
For Eric
Still as likely to call
you on your faulty reasoning
To add philosophical asides
to any conversation
To create something from
other things: words,
succulents, driftwood,
found objects, and
arcane bits of wisdom
To dig up treasures where ever
and when ever possible
To delight in uniqueness of character
and a choice turn of phrase
To both insist and demur,
challenge and encourage,
to penetrate and repent
(on rare occasions)
To surprise with a soft word,
a kind gesture,
a wisp of sentiment,
and a steadfast dedication to
lasting friendship.
Permanence is an illusion--
he would argue--
But some things, like the
arrow of time, remain unchanged.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC
I cradle the thought of my soul deferring from my body, as if death were a newborn to be adored. as my efforts towards nurturing this ideal reach expiration, a broad emptiness conquers my internal being; and I fear I will drift through time unchanged. hear me, propellers are necessary in the water and legs on land- but I'm no ship, and I have ropes tying my born given feet to my hands.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
could someone please tell me
of the moons intentions
and of their affair
with Jupiter's rings
when lo and behold
Io has a fire in her belly
snowy volcanic fields
burning ice in her spring
Europa stands by
displaying cold shoulders
with oceans below
life she does bring
brother Ganymede
pulls it together
dark are his regions
light his terrain
beaten and battered
Callisto the stepchild
unchanged in its matter
and the song that it sings
is this all true
of Jupiter's moons
and of their intentions
could someone tell me
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
We still call the homeplace mom's
Calendar in the kitchen unchanged
Two years past
The old clock ticking
Branches tapping against a window
Iron Mountain through frozen rain
Like a silverback
White along the spine
Cold and silent
Strong against another winter.
r ~ 2/2/15
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
I shall go away
To the brown hills, the quiet ones,
The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,
Sun-fired and drowsy!
My horse snuffs delicately
At the strange wind;
He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs ***** the dust.
The road winds, straightens,
Slashes a marsh,
Shoulders out a bridge,
Then --
Again the hills.
Unchanged, innumerable,
Bowing huge, round backs;
Holding secret, immense converse:
In gusty voices,
Fruitful, fecund, toiling
Like yoked black oxen.
The clouds pass like great, slow thoughts
And vanish
In the intense blue.
My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.
A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.
The immensity, the spaces,
Are like the spaces
Between star and star.
The hills sleep.
If I put my hand on one,
I would feel the vast heave of its breath.
I would start away before it awakened
And shook the world from its shoulders.
A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.
The hills open
To show a slope of poppies,
Ardent, noble, heroic,
A flare, a great flame of orange;
Giving sleepy, brittle scent
That stings the lungs.
A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,
answering Beauty's voice . . .
The horse whinnies. I dismount
And tie him to the grey worn fence.
I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;
And climb the rounded breast,
That flows like a sea-wave.
The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from
the flagellating glare.
I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.
My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,
it is like the body of another.
The air blazes. The air is diamond.
Small noises move among the grass . . .
Blackly,
A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane
Seeking the star-road,
Seeking the end . . .
But there is no end.
Here, in this light, there is no end. . .
3.1k
Rocks
Unmoving
Strong
Sometimes misplaced
But never forgotten
Showered with warm summer rain
Covered with beautiful red autumn leaves
Coated in the soft light snow of winter
And drowned in the muddy floods of spring
The rock is unchanged
Stubborn
And strong
The rock is as old as time
And as time passes around it
Nature dies
Trees fall with great cracks and booms
Animals die with old age
But not rock
Rock still remains
Nothing will ever be
As solid as rock
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC