Long Unseeable Poems
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Upon a time, not so long ago
I saw these things, and locked them away
In the treasure room of my memory:
One sunset, Apocalyptic in its brilliance;
Clouds of opal shimmering,
Flying across a sapphire sea.
The white ruins of an ancient city.
Once home to a great and proud people,
Streets long settled into the silence
Of years marked off by dust,
My footprints in that dust.
And just beneath these things I felt another something
Immense, Unnamable
That lies far below our common perceptions
Like water flowing beneath thick ice.
The knowledge of its prescence,
Felt only in those fragile moments
When images too beautiful for the frailty of words
Burn their way into the depths of our souls,
Has given me that sound I hear now in silence
A clear bell that sounds a tone
Not made by any instrument of Man,
Which stills the frantic revolutions of my reasonings
And gives me back the pure sight I had long ago
Before my childhood disappeared.
In fleeting impressions
Falling through the tempest of experience
That carries us all through life,
I sense this other side of the world,
The calm, steady eye
That holds fast in the center of the cyclonic round
Of Creation and Destruction
That drives the Universe along:
The unmoving Hub
At the center of the infinite wheel.
Sometimes I feel this faraway place
Lying nearer than my latest breath,
Standing firm somewhere beyond all confusion,
And island of strength beyond all substance
Surrounded by the seas of our doubts.
I touch it with my mind, in flashing moments
And it is enough
To bring some peace to the wars of my emotions,
To steady my hands as I guide my life
Towards its unseeable end,
Uncertain and dim in the approaching distance.
Wisdom Tree
A solitary man
Makes his way up the mountain
One step at a time
The life he knows further and further behind
He wishes to be alone
Away from the busyness
The noise
Responsibility
Activity
Work that is never done
Conflict
The need to be in control
He reaches the mountain top
Sits down and crosses his legs
He looks out at the landscape
His village a small mass of thatched roofs
People unseeable
Smoke rises from a central fire
The lake so small
it looks like it can fit into a wooden spoon
The horizon surrounds him
He feels the pebbles beneath him
Blades of grass are myopically large
He watches as the ants toil
Are their lives not the same?
Seasons change
Summer to fall
winter to spring
He witnesses it all
His beard lengthened
As his mind enlarged
Secrets have been revealed
He’s disconnected yet part of all
The base of him grows into the ground
Others journey to the mountain top
Seeking his wisdom
They sit with him for a while
Never staying for long
Each person takes so that they may give
The wise man transformed
Arms outstretched
reaching to all the horizons
Now covered with leaves
The seasons continue to change
He sends his leaves down to the village
Beckoning them to the mountain
Not wanting to be alone
"Come sit beneath my branches
caress my bark smell my scent
know my soul."
He’s no longer is able to speak
All that he knows
resides in the rings of his seasons
Still he offers wisdom
Put your ear to his trunk
You can still hear his heart beat
His breath whistles through the leaves
His seeds cover your woolen coat
You are a solitary man
making your way down the mountain
One step at a time
Closer and closer to your village
To the ones you love
As you walk through the village
you shake the seeds off your coat
They fall on the fertile ground
The wise man
has finally come home.
Like some Dantean punishment
It descended in mid-May,
Turning my favorite springtime month
Into an endurance test.
We fell to sleep beneath a tide of heat
Rose to rising heat, uncoiling
From the roasting ground.
The heat was thickly wet though no rain fell;
Made one walk with slowed reptilian gait
Pressing through invisible deeps.
I stood looking over my lawn
As I panted beneath the unseeable, steaming sea
As I watched it turn into a minature savannah.
Thoughts of the Amazon crowded me,
Choking under waves of green.
Later, guzzling cold tea beneath my blasting vents
My Scientist Voice reminded me
How no May of my childhood ever seethed like this,
Back before we burnt that hole in the sky, Down Under.
I thought of how our own blazing star
Is crowding closer to us now,
A yellow tiger,
Burning all too bright.
AMERICA II
We are young, it is true;
In the long walk of history
Our days were filled with the improbable,
The impossible
The ineffable, the inevitable.
High in ideals, yet blindly stumbling
Towards some unseeable future
That may be a Heaven or Hell
We've seen ourselves as a City on a Hill
The whole world might look to;
A model for the past to pull itself up to;
A dream for those who dare to dream
Of betterment, of rising above
The simpler satisfactions
Their forebears accepted.
Yet in trying to get there
We embraced Manifest Destiny,
Warred against ourselves and many others,
Raised gleaming monuments
Through the sweat of the faceless enslaved.
Then rose above these things,
To save, when it needed it,
The whole of the world from a great spreading darkness
Even while remaining in darkness ourselves.
What can be said of this wild Youth
Come self-announced on history's stage?
What does the Youth want?
What does the Youth say?
Can the Youth live up
To the Promise it claims to bring?
Time will tell,
But Time, for now, holds mute.
AMERICA I
Born of rebellion, this place.
Yet what, precisely, does it manifest,
If anything?
The dross and dregs,
Stumblings of a much older world
Found their way here,
Carried across a wide, careless sea
That brought them to their New World
Full of desires base and profound
A New World
Carved and shaped
Wooed and won
Wildnesss beaten back by souls as wild
Flying the Pandora's Box
Left carelessly open
From its beginning, this place would be
A birthing-place of turmoil, triumph, beauty, blood
Madness and mad hope
Beginnings tied to unseeable endings
Gain and loss
Pride and shame.
The old world sent a great storm to these shores
That swept and scoured,
Shattered and rebuilt
That never stopped,
Roiling and seething,
Even to this very day.
What else is there?
We are but stones skipping across the water.
And like the stone
We can't change direction and go back,
The past is beyond our reach.
We can never change it.
And like the stone
The future is a promise only of the unknown.
We have no inkling of when we will sink.
We only know for sure that we will.
How many skips we will make cannot be predicted
Only hoped for.
So we must enjoy the skipping.
Treat each day as the blessing that it is.
Don't look back at the past with longing.
It will only slow your momentum down and decrease the number of skips you can achieve.
Don't yearn for the future.
You miss the gifts of today by longing for the possibility of a better tomorrow.
It only brings you closer to the time you will sink.
Don't waste today on frivolous actions and possessions
It only makes you heavy and brings you quicker to the sinking.
Just fill each day with caring and sharing.
These are the things that give you the strength to keep skipping.
Rounding your edges and smoothing out your bumps.
Give love and freedom as gifts to all who cross your path.
These are the things that, when you finally know it's your time.
Will allow you to welcome the sinking.
Every day is recalled as a momentous gift.
And the years full of happy memories you have made for yourself and for others, will help you to sink with a smile on your face.
Your heart full of gratitude instead of regrets.
You cannot make yesterday or tomorrow into today.
This moment is all any of us born into this world will ever have before sinking into the unseeable afterwards.
Today is all you have.
Today is all I have
Today is all that anyone has ever had.
in faces lined like glaciers
sometimes there's loneliness
that cuts a tow line to safety
air of flux and hostility
over dazed eyes
turbulent modernity
sometimes we yearn for elegance
like a warm shoulder
its edge of acceptance
fitted with precision
yearn to heal a heart in straight jacket pain
to know motivation that punches above the weight
of a fragile frame
to relish the faith of a welcoming hand
to find a community
that bends the bar of one's cage into bracelets
shuffled like a deck of cards
lives seldom remain still
yearning to break an existence slurred by off color jokes
reaching for an unseeable light
a homeward wish
smothering woe
Sheltering myself from unhappy thoughts,
is recalling those serene days on deserted shores...
picking up empty shells discolored and broken,
they mean squalor to the vagrant who has awoken!
Instantly I'm overtaken by the somber winter's blues,
it's the sureness of the February sky that deludes;
and turning myself into a seagull I explore infinity...
there all the sins that the earth declares meet divinity!
Looking down the unread book turns its pages
with the help of the whimsical wind rising from its deep;
if any storm should suddenly arrive: all the dreariness I would keep,
not be imagining what's unseeable that can hinder radiant images!
Being hopeless strips me of laughter and of its salubrious humor,
solitude incurs the anger and the guilt of dissociating from friends;
they are needed when some tragedy all abhorred pain transcends...
I glide through unlimited space wishing I had understood this sooner!
How can this restless wanderer shelter himself from unhappy thoughts...
when tears trickle down his cheeks being assailed by poignant moments?
Even sadder is the nostalgia that increases its depth of degree;
can he shut his eyes to oblivion and pretend that he's finally free?
>The Unseen Clock
This is not the struggle of a single, glorious fight,
Not a dragon to be slain upon a cliff at night.
This is the struggle of the gutters, slow and deep,
Where promises and paychecks are a bargain you must keep.
It’s the alarm clock’s verdict, a sentence you can’t pleacenterThe 9-to-5, the 9-to-7, the 24/7 plea.
It’s the bus that sighs and shudders, breathing metallic breath,
A chariot for the weary, on a road that smells of death
By a thousand paper cuts, by a million silent screams,
And the flickering of office lights on forgotten, tired dreams.
It’s the everyday people, with their everyday scars,
Pushing carts through supermarkets, polishing the bars,
Fixing someone else's engine, staring at a screen of code,
Carrying the unseeable, but ever-present load.
It’s the gutters of the spirit, where ambition goes to drain,
In the gentle, constant drizzle of the monotonous rain.
It’s the coffee cup that trembles in a hand that’s going numb,
The calculation of the days until the weekend will have come.
It’s the struggle in the shoulders, in the small of the back,
The fear that if you stop, you’ll never get the rhythm back.
But in the gutters, look again, a different kind of fire,
The stubborn will to build a life, is all the soul’s desire.
The courage in the lunch pail, the love packed neat inside,
The second wind you catch for kids who run to you, eyes wide.
This is the daily battle, fought with time and weary bones,
On the factory floors, the call centers, the telephones.
A war waged for the simple things, a roof, a meal, a song,
The struggle makes the everyday people mighty, proud, and strong.
A moment to simply forget yourself
I give you this time for your choosing
For your desires for when you dwell
Is there that moment forgotten worth remembering?
A timeline only you know
Only because you are the author without means
For when you knew will you show?
What it's like to live without dreams
There is... was always a time
When everyone wanted to be someone... someday
And living a life dying to find
Lives no one in everyone who has nothing better to say
Can you or do you want be noble?
Do you know noble with all life reference?
As well as the past we cannot see future able
Are once deaths for unseeable future to livings' deliverance?
I give you time now for the remembering
A moment to truly be yourself
Yet forgotten are you with simple words choosing?
Where belongs your moments for when desires dwell?