Life is slipping away with each clock tick,
no slowing down until pendulum will stop.
It’s relentless counting seems double quick,
until at last it’s become my time to drop.
Today has arrived finding me downcast,
and groping for words like some half-wit.
My happier times all snooze in my past,
but today will be what I choose to make it.
Long after midnight
in late December
woke one night in total fright
as where I was did not remember
but more importantly
couldn't see
the forest for the trees
and did not recall myself at all
or who exactly was this me
but when I could
it would feel so good
as then I'd be out of the woods
so instead of groping blind
did quite the obvious thing
which then did spring to mind
made my way across the floor
stumbling fumbling 'til I stood
before the full-length mirror
on the wall beside the door
and to behold the sight
with my sore and tired eyes
wisely switched on the light
illuminated lo there was I
in all my glory
I found myself
end of story
Planting my flag atop my sonnet’s peak
and outward gazing at the vales below,
I hear the rambling rivers, feel the faux
flow and fumble of their groping technique;
From high on up, I trace the snaky sneak
of weak words—and weaker metaphors,—slow
conclusions, mirroring the so and so…
I am compelled, my judgement thus to speak:
I declare war on free verse poetry!
Ach! scourge on rhyme, blight on rhythm,—I’ll beat
back the long-winded flood of half complete
thoughts. With respect to whom I name my foe,
if here you hear your name,—at least you’ll know:
In the formless form—I find my enemy!
I can’t rid of the bags under my eyes
The crowfeet despise, all were lies,
Conjured was an illusion of you
Throughout my groping confusion
evasive, flimsy
A-m-o-r-p-h-i-c, innuendos
I was subjected to your derision
dissing me relentlessly
deriding my appearance,
disparaging my intellect
as I stumbled and fell into the abyss
Mocking doesn’t suit my countenance
My lips desert dry, thirsty, parched
An amazon no longer beats its drum
My buoyant nature now laden with coarsened shroud
Leaving a cardboard moon deprived of its shine
Stars like candles blown out one by one
No use waiting for the rising Sun
The end of world does come,
stopped spinning neath heavy ebon clouds
Expectations unreal
All zeal gone, listless is my spirit
along with my illumination
Now you see me
unmasked in raw anguish
I d
r
o
o
p
jowls hang from endless
torment endured
like the drenched and cold, wounded hawk
taken flight, eagle-eyed, a warrioress
more determined and bold, traveling on
with unlimited range
and self-esteemed
This bird,
you
c
a
n
n
o
t c h a n g e
Groping in the darkness of mind, our presence
sinks in murky quicksands of desire, spawned by
ego, finding no peace in inanities …
deaf to soul’s whispers.
Simply shifting from head to heart, we halt the
flow of thought, whence magnetism rises, birthing
mists of bliss in heart by grace, that touched thus we …
ascend in stillness.
The path pathless, yet appears, when we so choose
without excuse, to enter God’s heart unshod,
mirrored in our own, sensed by soul in silence …
transcending earth life.
Every day,
I try my best
To achieve the impossible goal
Of teaching children
Sometimes it’s a puzzle
That I can’t solve,
Where nothing comes together,
And none of the pieces fit
Other times, it’s a dance,
Endlessly rehearsed—
Only the steps keep changing,
And the audience doesn’t care
Sometimes it's a blind search:
An endless groping in the dark
For a light switch that isn’t there,
Or doesn’t work
But then I remind myself
That teaching requires warmth,
And so I take the time to build a fire,
And wait for them to gather ‘round.
Truth cuts deeper
than the surgeon’s blade—
no clean incision,
no practiced hand stitching the wound shut.
Instead, it comes jagged,
its edge raw and rusted,
ripping through sinew and marrow,
leaving us undone,
exposed,
bleeding in the silence
of what we thought we knew.
It does not ask permission.
It does not wait for us to be ready.
Truth falls, sudden and relentless,
like a guillotine at dawn,
its shadow looming
long before the strike.
And when it lands,
what remains?
Fragments.
A hand groping for what isn’t there.
A face fractured
in shards of broken glass.
The sound of a name
we cannot speak without trembling.
The wound truth leaves
does not heal,
not in the way we hope.
It marks us, alters us.
Scar tissue forms,
thick and unyielding,
mapping what was lost,
what was torn away,
and what we still carry.
Truth does not soothe.
It offers no comfort.
It stands,
stark and unrelenting,
pressing its weight
into the hollow spaces
where lies once lived.
And yet—
within the ache of its clarity,
something begins.
Slowly. Painfully.
We rise,
not unbroken,
but whole in a way
we hadn’t known before.
Not untouched,
but real.
Light throbbing in the heart of darkness
Shakes its density and solidity
Dawn lengthening towards morning
Mops up darkness slowly
Shadows vanish
In its brightness
It rubs them off the bodies
Of men and furniture
Lion, camel, orangutan and tiger;
Light focused on cave
Clears the obscurities
Light of reason removes
The stumbling blocks of superstition
Light of knowledge conquers ignorance
Light of conscience deals with narrowness
Pushing it towards broadness and righteousness
Light broadens the narrow space of the heart
Leads it towards benevolence
Pride and prejudice, niggardliness vanish
With the white purity
Of the effulgent Divine light
The light of lights!
It hovers round us
Flashes with higher consciousness
In search of us groping in the dark
Near us comes it giving chance to embrace
Sure it is that we move pulled towards it
Let that light grace us towards fulfillment.
I think hell to be like a midnight grocery store
shelves filled with burning crucifix and pestilence.
Bloody-black water up to the necks of Half-souls.
Groping mindlessly in the dark...
searching for God in brackish hopelessness.
Flint and wooden carts colliding-
black water biters abound.
The checkout line is a turnstile
manned by faceless- dripping things
wielding holy punchers
eternally pocking your debit card soul.
while howling Next!
desire and hope
ego groping
elopes with fear
For God search to sincerely start,
let’s explore our toroidal heart,
wherefrom stirrings of love arise,
flow of nectar, that never dries.
In opposition, we have mind,
groping in darkness, like the blind,
in stark fear about the morrow,
plunging our soul in deep sorrow.
When head and heart chose to entwine
and with pulse of love both align,
we are then complete, bliss replete,
one with oneness, from head to feet.
Within heart, bliss pheromones merge,
causing thus, a magnetic surge,
transforming us as living light
and bestowing spherical sight.
("Depth Psychology Merit Badge, aka The Myth of Being", 2015, original oil)
The Myth of Yesterday
“Yesterday, today was tomorrow
and tomorrow, today will be yesterday”
So say the sages,
and so say us, groping in the dark
following the trailing sparks
of fireflies dancing in the night.
But the fact remains
it’s all a myth,
the myth of being and becoming,
the myth of yesterday and tomorrow,
the myth as a story
we tell ourselves
to make sense of it all.
A riddle wrapped in a mystery
inside an enigma
told to the blind ones
safe and sound within their cave.
(2/15/24)
The Old World collapse,
As people choose more power,
Groping in mishap.
her sore dogs are barking
tavern wench rests on wine barrel
taking a break away from groping hands
sipping a bit of wine
so she can face the next hour
Gigantic laugh from the alone drenched bough in surf
Groping I hug the bones of shark from the sea bark
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