As Children

Beaches

Rugged and rocky,
Surf spray misting,
Ghosting
Along the mountain cliff.

We trotted,
Goats,
Sure of our footing,
Never doubting the placement of our steps,
Laughing, chasing the sunlight
Across the sky.

We sang the birdsong as
Cool water embraced us.

We became ocean creatures then,
Languid and graceful.

Sunlight and salt-smell,
The wet sand soaped us,
Scraped us raw and dirty.
But we emerged

Refreshed,
Scattering among the tide pools,
Climbing water logged,
Petrified,
Trunks

Of what once were trees,
Now rock worn smooth,
Preserved by one hundred years of
Changing waters.

Sometimes we found shards
Of china,

Edges softly rounded,
Milky exterior cleverly revealing
The fine lines of kiln fire,
Dainty spiderwebs.

There on that shore
We transformed,
Became Kings and Queen,

Built our lands, drawing
Lines into the sand, negotiating
Peace treaties that ended when
My mother called us for lunch.

Primordial Crucible

Your blood no longer flows in my veins.

It has long since been dried up,
Been emptied from me,
Taken from my flesh and used,
Becoming ink and tears splattered upon
Blank canvas, and left there for years,
Seeping down into time's weave,
Crusting away until it cannot be removed.
It cannot be washed away.

But there is a difference in me now.

My drained flesh is now formed of earth,
My spirit clearer than fresh mountain air,
My will, a blazing, consuming fire,
And water is my new blood,
The dreaming tides that sweep the sleepers
Along the banks of the river's shore,
Past the weeping willows that reach out,
Tangling their arms together,
Waiting breathlessly for the end of time's beginning.

There I will dance amid the mountaintops,
Snow glistening beneath me,
My spirit flying high and free,
My will reflected in every campfire that burns
In the forests below.

It Comes in Stages

When we were children
We would lay out on the grass,
The sky wheeling far above us,
Feeling the motion of the earth,
Imagining
We would be launched into the stars.

We sat in your backyard as teenagers,
Listening to the wind howl through the broken trees.
I heard the mournful call of ghosts,
While you attempted to draw out their silhouettes
From the branches stenciled into the sky.

We stand now, adults, feet firmly planted,
Our faces turned towards the ground,
Measuring distances, time and relationships,
Calling it all vanity,
Vanity.

Universe Creation

Stars are gone
As the gods,
Pale shades of
What once was,
The has-beens
Of the cosmos,
Their legacies etched
Forever into the
Fabric of space,
But struck from
The tapestries of
Time and sky,
Burned into ash
From the morning
Sun's light upon
Break of dawn,
Blind eyes strain
Past the veil
Hanging, lying there
Upon our faces,
Hands too small,
Grasping at its
Mysteries, to feel
The icy chill
Of its touch.
The mind, however
Is more powerful
Than any god,
Wilder than any
Space or universe.
For within, we
Create our own.

Better to Be

Born of a vacuum
Encapsulated by sound,
Coiled springs ready
To bolt, to run, to fight.
Lightest touch able to
Devastate with its fragility.
Too numb to care,
Lay the soul bare.
Countless sightless stares
Pile up, a cacophany of
Mounting horror and fear
As Death draws near,
Pulling all into her
Inevitable embrace.
But the mortal coil
Shivers and quakes,
Unable to comprehend
Silence's truths,
The beauty of nothing
And peace found in
Emptiness.

For to be blank
Is unusual.
Most consider it better
To be filled, fat with
Heavy weighted words,
Ideals and beliefs able
To drown those who carry them.

But it is better to be the blank page.
It has so many possibilities.

Minus the Self

Fill these cracked glass bottles.
Pour there earth and blood,
Water them with tears and sweat,
Watching city civilizations
Bloom into stone and gold,
Iron, steel, smoke, and ash.
Feed them famine, pain and pleasure.

For there lie the bones of mortals past,
Their lives too fast for us to follow,
The individual, forgotten.
Swept into the sky and air
Torn by winds that twist,
Shredding all in their path.

The flesh, the temple stripped bare of its lies,
The disguise worn by the immortal soul
Wastes away, shriveled. Rots, decomposing.
Futility of vanity while yet still alive
Reconciles old age to wisdom
Where there is sometimes none to be found.

So I'll carve my name into the sand,
Scream it to the raging winds,
Fill the oceans with my ink, my blood,
And the forests with my songs,
Though none will recall them
Save the birds.

Gears of Society

So many reels of time,
Spinning, sandy, nursery rhymes,
Evading every line
And stroke of
Fate as it is written,
Words of hate
And happenstance,
Lack of clarity and
Conceited concern
Cause careful
Calculations,
Placing each person
With persuasions
And power. Empty
Words ringing hollow
Among those who
Follow blindly their
Leaders, masters of
Deception, silver tongued,
Honeyed words dripping
With their beliefs,
Planting seeds of
Destruction in ideas
Of peace and love,
Chaotic consumption
Induced by neruotic
Reproduction of
Falsehoods and lies
Perpetuated by
Propaganda.

Awful constructions of
Society, time, place,
Parental influence
(Or the lack thereof),
So many variables
Are involve in the
Creation of monsters,
Of those so broken
They feel they cannot
Exist on their own,
Depending on the
System that warped
Them, shaped them,
Subsumed their souls
Into it's vast engines,
The machinery that
Grinds and toils,
Tilling the fertile
Soil of young minds,
Better to pour them
Into the molds laid
Out upon the worlds
Printing press.

But there are those
Who see these wrongs,
Fight to set them right,
To banish the creators
Of chaos and disorder
From sight, Enabling
Others to see the
Light that shines
Within them, to let
Them take flight,
Give their souls
Wings, teach them
How to sing so
Beautifully, to bring
Others into their own
Might so that they
May open their eyes
And see the damage
Wrought by the
Instructions and
Presumptions
Of society.

Dead and Forgotten

This empty vessel, 
Wandering restless,
Longs for resolution,
Craves absolution. 
It will not be found. 
It will not be bound.

Pouring selfish secrets
Among the rank and file,
Can't explain it all away, 
Nor try to reconcile. 
Fill me up with words.
Fill me with your mind.

The blank canvas,
Drawn and stretched
Across skeletal frames,
Reveals nothing of it's love,
It's loss, or greatest shame.
Color me with sound.
Place me in the ground.

Sinking beneath remembrances
Of generations breathing in the 
Sorrows of countless untold stories
Left to rot by the wayside.
Don't follow me down. 
Leave me here to drown.

The unbridgeable gap in 
Communication is at most, six feet.
Beyond that is far too deep and cold
To lie alone amid the stone.
Let me rest in my grave
Until the end of days.

Willing Steps

It pierces.

The wound left in passing
Becoming smooth and cold,
The heady scent of iron,
Copper-toned rust,
Simmering there
Upon opened chest.

Complex simplicity,
Nature yet unknown,
A single note, a word,
A fear, unbroken silence.
Fleeting thoughts
Dance away
From the minds net
As the unknowable
Is known.

To step willingly
Is a strange thing.
Heralded by a mix of courage,
Wild desperation and
Utter blindness.
Eyes remain shuttered
When facing the void.
There is nothing there to see.

To long for silence
So deep and pervasive
That one begins to
Cease, the mind
Quails, frightened
At its own insistence.
Actions not our own
Are then uniquely ours.

Last Call

Devoid of life and longing,
Bittersweet pain amid
Haunting representations
Of past lives and lovers.
The vital spark lost forever,
Vanished from bright orbs
Where once light entered.
Now closed eternally,
Trapping, keeping the
Sheltered light cradled
Within my hands,
Delicate and frail,
Stuttering and flickering
To the pulse of the heart
Beating wildly in my arms,
So easily crushed, destroyed,
Forgotten.
A thousand voices
Cry out as one,
Dusty, dry, and cracked,
Falls silent,
Silently.

Doorways of Life

She stood by the door, waiting.
The river whispering her name,
Its' secret songs promising
Tea parties and fantasies of the future
If she could but get there.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Her date now far too late to pick her up,
She smoothed her prom dress, a nervous habit.
Knots twist themselves in her stomach.
She cries when he does not show.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Lingering amid childhood knick-knacks,
Relics of her past. She smiles,
Calls it all a bunch of trash.
Fantasies of childhood never come true.

She stood by the door, waiting.
The church bell now ringing,
Processional march playing,
Her future husband waiting to meet her.
She steels herself for what's ahead.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Her daughter sleeping soundly,
She hums a soft lullaby,
Not wanting to wake her.
The quiet of the night envelops them.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Watching her daughter play make-believe,
Talk to friends that only she can see,
Have tea parties under willow trees
That dance amid the flowing river.

She stood by the door, waiting.
As her daughter's nervous date
Awkwardly gives her a hug hello,
Stammers out a compliment,
She finds herself wreathed in smiles.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Lingering there among things left behind,
Relics of her daughter's childhood,
Carefully packed into boxes.
She knows she will cherish them.

She stood by the door, waiting.
Her daughter standing tall and proud,
Resplendent in her wedding gown,
Full of smiles and happiness,
She wishes her the best.

She stands at the door, waiting.
For what, she doesn't know.
Her body now well worn with time,
Mind still curious and in control.
She opens the door and steps through.