Yesterday’s future
tomorrow today
subsuming transcendence
in all that we say
Perpetually present
the time to recall
all life in this moment
whose instant befalls
Begin a new ending
to whirl in the wind
the clock a reminder
its hour hand spins
Memory’s treasure
the fuel to inspire
each log a new effigy
—raised from the fire
(Dreamsleep: May, 2023)
A stream flows by the ancient oak, a steadfast soul remains,
A heart of the forest, a living log, a cover that still sustains.
The redwood of old growth, a verdant menagerie,
Simple in its English name, yet rich in its legacy.
My lowly view,
Navigating slippery slopes, salamanders in their hue.
They dart in and out of holes, in the clay they seek Refuge,oid debris, their world they won't subdue.
The forest boasts of many kinds, each with its unique feature,
The young maintain their heritage, with the plantation as their teacher.
Expecting watchful eyes, some wear their feelings on their face,
Their composure reveals their thoughts, their feelings they can't erase.
In nature's design, many depend on the old oak's shape,
Each creature with a purpose, none existing out of place.
Some salamanders are short, thick-headed and round,
Living and dying inside the wooden cavity they've found.
Others, with huge heads, delve deeper inside,
Breathing in the oak's heritage, rooted and never denied.
And as she watches from afar, she can't denie that those large
Head's can't get inside of what she feels inside.
One who fashions idols sees no profit:
Poor, deaf and dumb, in blindness brought to shame.
Let them assemble; now the pieces fit?
When fools convene, the outcome is the same.
The craftsman forges iron with tools and strength;
Soon tired, parched and hungry, he falls faint.
The wood, he shapes with planes and cuts to length.
Gods these? The conjured images are quaint!
A fallen log, a wooden irony:
With half, he cooks, with half he warms his bod,
The rest he worships! "Nothing, lord but thee!"
He prays, cries out, "Deliver me, my god!"
Where is the wisdom? Can you not discern?
Deluded hearts that pray to gods they burn!
(from Isaiah 44)
the pair stood together by a warm hearth
strong andirons of wrought steel
shared log, a charred remnant
(7/30/2020 – ‘00 Destination 53 DMS)
I see two lovers kissing, one face missing,
a barking dog, a fallen log, a wheel cog,
a brandy glass, balloons like someone's ****
change shape when all things come to pass.
Pilgrim's progress, perspective roads, spotty toads,
a fencing match, someone smoking a pipe,
those lovers again but you're not my type,
a glass table which someone forgot to wipe.
Candy floss, pink and white, pressed together,
waiting, getting ready for stormy weather;
the sun burst thro' making golden rainbows,
leaving openings like teeth and turned-up toes.
An angel appeared to close all of the doors,
and said: 'What's mine can also be truly yours.'
when money is low
this is way to go
buy something that dips
soda and chips
are something that roll
like log a hogdog
do it in a office bunch
A
QUICK LUNCH
Lost I am, I know
A piece of wreck,
yet to strike the shore.
Meanwhile, beaten , n lashed,
For eons since the cruise crashed.
but, yaara mere there is,
in bein 'even' a piece o wreckage,
a certain bliss
Afar, far from d flockin fleet
Driftin, unsure o what d next sec u'l greet
miles n miles, pass beneath my feet
n onward, simply onward, n ne'er to retreat
Rovin across barren treacherous plains
Oblivious to all d sick sea's stains
D voyage uncharted, d waves unframed
N d wreckage, it moves, unruffled, untamed.
Whirlpools, n hailstorms, n torrents rave past,
Makin me, markin me, scarrin me to d last
Unbeseeched,
unsought,
alone,
adrift,
Life for a lone log, is as gay as swift
All mine, d endless lamps that shine upon
the unruly waves, d whole horizon
Pausin to applaud, pausin to offer
To some rudderless lone log, a li'l succour
N movin, keep movin, on n away
The sea is too wanton, too wanton to stay
Driftin away, driftin alone
Until at last.......... Dry Land, n PEACE THEREUPON.
yaara mere- a passionate local usage, signifyin, o buddy o mine.