we teeter on the balance
of the scales of life
our soul saccades between polarity
right from wrong
left from right
observing an examination
of nature versus divinity
the weight of intention burdens the act
absence of regret is the conception of arrogance
obsession with opportunity is request for heedlessness
Sometimes, in the mornings,
The morning crows don’t sing—
Perched and preaching by a loblolly.
Breathe in this metanoia,
We all live for it.
And if the morning crows never reverenced,
Sitting at my doorstep,
Waiting for my feet to touch pavement,
I might’ve deemed you worthy of abasement.
But the morning crows chant my indiscretions,
To the man in the moon,
Too far to touch, too distant to see—
So I cannot tell him
Of my worries.
Fill up this cup with your americano—
It’s been so long since I’ve tasted of it.
The morning crows fear I will be different
When the sun sets
And daybreak ends.
So I hide in my sleigh bed,
Too frightened to tell you
That I am revolutionizing myself.
The morning crows now mourn the loss of youth.
As I settle down to become holy,
They sing my death—
Heedlessness,
Widening your eyes,
Sharpening your grin.
When I wane once more,
The morning crows will say,
They told me so.
Perched and preaching by a loblolly,
I am reclaimed, rosy-eyed.
Breathe in this metanoia.
We all live for it—
The inclination for heedlessness is a blessing.
Every point will, without a doubt, be invigorating.
With another blast of matured positive thinking.
To retrace our steps, civilization is slowly blurring.
Freedom projects exceptional, desolate lighting.
The power to ignore is a beautiful endowment of embracing.
Written: August 25, 2021
Tribute To The Memory Of John Keats
Child of the storm-swift Hermes, lithe and strong
To Trojan tumult, had the gods thus willed,
They gave thee one short year of riper song
And more melodious than ever filled
The heart of youth; they gave thee power to build
A noble altar for thy offering
Amid the heedlessness that had long chilled
True poesy, true souls that fain would sing.
And thou, from depths of silent agony,
Hast left unto the world such rich bequest
Of love's own loveliness that thy last rest
Becometh as the soul's own sanctuary
To all that long have learnt of thee to wear
Sun-raiment in the shadowy House of Care.
R.J. Lindley
Sept. 9th 1975
betroth yourselves
to old houses of Charlottenburg
let yourselves be mollycoddled
by the petrified rain king
buy yourselves a shiny armour
of a former seraphim
call yourselves bourgeois,
dear ambassadors of art
prosy playwriters
live futile lives
full of futile effort
we are the revenants of heedlessness
the masses of plastic limpidness
and cubists that paint no more
like vortex and vertigo
we're abstract in a colour gamut
but I only like to whisper
among the lilies of rusty minefields
replacing the city with simplicity
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