I used to think life was the child of serendipity.
A long time ago, it may have been.
In the hazy past, the silver river of life was dammed.
Redirected into a narrower, darker plan.
A box canyon of rationed light.
Rationed smiles rationed everything.
The damming has been going on for a millennium.
A billion-piece orchestra directed by a few parasites.
The unity of goodness has been sabotaged.
Force-fed distraction, division, bushels of lies.
The box canyon grows deeper, colder, more violent.
A giant black hole sitting at the bottom.
Swallowing the last lick of light.
On the seashore, stretching endless,
There stands a lighthouse, a beacon of light.
Staying alone, it faces the roaring waves,
Guiding lost sailors and ships aright.
It often watches thundering breakers
It doesn’t command them to be still
Nor chase the brewing storms away
But sheds light poised on a rocky hill.
How many stories a lighthouse has to recount!
Stories of havoc, plunder and shipwreck,
Tales of escape from the fury of typhoons,
Of love and romance enacted on the deck.
Each lighthouse holds a mystical allure.
Broader at its base and narrower on its face,
It has a cylindrical and tapering shape
And stands as a sentinel with a piercing gaze.
In each one, there’s a lighthouse shining within
It guards us from all storms brewing inside
Shedding light along life’s murky tracks,
Leading us to coveted destinations like a guide.
The Hudson River stretches wide
From Jersey to the far west side.
The east, though, is where I reside
So I don’t see it much.
It’s quite majestic, driving past
And on the highway, going fast,
I try to conjure up the past
When locals spoke in Dutch.
‘Cross town, another river flows,
Much narrower and, I suppose,
Some Germans came because that shows
In restaurants and such.
Between the rivers, New York grew
And other cultures added to
The melting pot, which no one knew
Would suffer Ice’s clutch.
As I grow older, I need a shoulder
The kind we need to shed our tears
This older age passage is getting narrower
The hours of the day drift past faster
The night time visit is not welcome
Time itself does not seem to matter
My brain reacts the body does not follow
Try to rekindle my Parents voices
Failure brings tears as I reflect memories
Parents teaching has stayed as a friend
I wish each day to meet parents face to face
In days long ago we did not always listen
Knowledge, wisdom fell at my feet
Now I know I should have paid more attention
Way back in childhood words not always obeyed
I now sit on a bench on my ocean clifftop walks
The sound of the ocean and seagulls helps me reflect
I now wait for nighttime my body will regret
Words are born and some change, adapt, some wilt;
Norse drips into French seeps into English, hidden treasures under silt.
Blendings swirl meanings and semantics shift our daily use;
once uttered by tongue, electric touch now lets language loose.
Ancient lexis under threat became narrower with colonial treks;
Luhu and Yahagn, two dodo vocabularies now buried within texts.
The old poets haunt me
they taunt me from the shadows
following every keystroke I type -
they’re critical of phrases,
they demand narrower themes
and mock the very clichés they invented.
I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous
life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences,
how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase
the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love.
I try and explain this Internet thing, how the more copious
my writings, the more people it says are following me.
How I really don’t want to sound paranoid
but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone.
.
.
Song for this:
Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx
Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan
I do it often,
drag a perfect morning
in through the front door of myself
and make it a reluctant guest,
replace its colors with my own
dour palette, drown out
its soft voice with noise.
It has become a habit, trying
to confine the morning's
width within my space,
hold its edges so it doesn't stretch
beyond my reach. Its freedom
is almost an anathema to me
for it exceeds my own.
How small my world has become.
The distance from one side
of myself to the other is getting
narrower, the little room left
is depleting breath by breath.
The light squeezes through
ever smaller windows.
And yet, as it came upon me
this morning, I was met
with a bright abundance
that had gathered at my door,
carrying forgiveness
for my habitual ignorance
and an invitation to step
outside myself, once more.
Many are knocking on Gods hidden door
trying to escape brimstone floors
Some views are narrower than peepholes
while others see through open windows
Lifes a beach with many sandy shores
that go deeper than any ocean floor
My advice is to go with life's liquid flow
& enjoy the boat with all its rows
The mind is the center of this earthly core
& all of its rocky ores
Brave the waters & mold your will into the hardest steel
because life hardens feelings on a massive scale
Mass appeal blinds many to what lies in store
to what's housed behind attractive doors
I tell you this series of dreams are more than real
but many lack the awareness of their lucid feel
ANTECEDENTS
espoused
in
intense
authentic
hegomony
surrounded
overwhelmed
in
solemnity
survivial
an
aftermath
retracts
to scare
but
the
individual.
little changed
remains
inordinately
heroic
anguish
&
affliction
unresolved
in
flavour
knowing
the
ill fated
supposedly
narrower
setting
lies
in
improbality
Snow sprays off crow wings.
Flurries drift like torn lace curtains
over the blacktop.
The porch rocking chair
is draped like a madhouse ghost.
Nobody is going anywhere,
the side-roads are getting narrower
as cold pinches wind-swirled surfaces.
Every bare tree is festooned
with a year-old loneliness.
There are Christmas lights coming,
and the canned music
of tone-deaf elves – perhaps.
We may gather together
at the holy font of former years
but only if time moves on
away from this day,
only if the highways are not clogged
by lost days and their
dead-eyed nights…maybe,
maybe there will be carols and good cheer,
but only if the lone wolf
and his gun,
for a while have had enough fun.
The world of sight is when taken
Away, let of vision waken,
Let world of sound sharply shaken.
Way laid gets when my wander lust,
Let me hear time’s footsteps in dust,
Dawn’s birds wake me with song-filled burst.
Feel of colours behind eyelids,
Faithfull’s faith passed on prayer beads,
Let me see heart of golden deeds.
If flower colours get frozen
If world of butterflies has gone,
Fine, let me world of fragrance own.
If not, take all this away, much
As ye like, just keep sense of touch,
Let me feel the world just as such.
___________________________________
Musings |07.04.2022| Terza Rima
Poet’s note: As we know, glaucoma as a silent ailment takes away one’s vision gradually over passing years. First the peripheral vision gets narrower, ultimately to get reduced to a tunnel vision, and even that is lost one day. Of late I have been thinking of this eventuality in my life. But then the heart takes over from the head and says, never mind, there is that whole world beyond sight, a lot that we look at and still fail to see— the subject matter of this piece.
Keola – Free Verse
Crossroads Converge
Robert Frost
TWO ROADS crossed paths – DIVERGED IN A crossroads YELLOW WOOD
AND I felt the binding turning points
Bound up on fiery indecision of whispering bellows
Take the smooth byway that beckoned –
The easy thoroughfare of compromising positions –
Or
A narrower way, a dusty avenue of overgrown ambivalence,
A rough path cobbled with pacing anxiety
Tread this indolent valley’s vacillation
Slightly overgrown with luring curiosity begging for attention.
I TOOK this invitation
THE ONE with scattered isolated footprints LESS TRAVELED
BY hasty choices AND the one THAT sang
In baritone vibrations of either or –
That HAS promises of reconciliation in quiet meditations
MADE upon this parallel path –
ALL OF THE DIFFERENCE beneath the serenity of arching boughs
And songbirds cooing in cool glens, scented leaves fluttering,
Resting in consolation’s life -
The consummation of white fire.
1-21-22
Contest: Keola Secret
Sponsor: William Kekaula
the tapered
It started with great ambition six lanes motorway
after some time it narrowed and became a 4 line.
That didn´t last it got narrower two lines will do.
then on the road with a line in the middle and that was
OK as well til the asphalt disappeared driving on grit
causes many punctures.
A track, get off an walk to reach the blue mountain-
when getting there, it was slippery and cold.
There must be another mountain that fits the dream.
The highway was optimist youth pointing out stars
not seeing the road got narrower, and it was too late.
The trail is for old men who wait for a miracle or
for someone telling them where to go when the path
leads them to nowhere in particular while dreaming
of dancing nymphs in the glade.
The globe is in lockdown,
the borders are closed
the news is all gloom and despair,
Covid-19 is the new kid in town
causing panic and fear everywhere.
Our lives are all changing,
effects are wide ranging,
whole nations are put to the test,
and though we don't like it
these methods to fight it,
some things are changing for the best.
In future, through habit, we know everyone
will all have incredibly clean hands,
and as the whole nation goes self-isolation
you can avoid people that you can't stand.
The shelves may be empty,
our shopping restricted,
the choices a narrower range,
but Fresh fruit and veg are still plentiful,so
maybe our diets will change.
The Missus no longer complains about football
and too much of it on TV,
now I smile while her episode of 'Eastenders'
is put back by the BBC.
So stiff upper lip, folks, keep raising a smile,
all in this together we'll pull,
life is not risk-averse, whatever the curse
just face it with your glass half full.
For contest 'Covid-19', sponsor Team Poetry Soup
18th March 2020
Weighed And Found Wanting
Written: by Miracle Man
12-26-2019
God provided a way for forgiveness of sin,
so we must trust in his sacrifice on our behalf.
For God, on the cross, became our linchpin,
If accepted HE remembers, no longer, our chaff.
By accepting Him we’ll walk a narrower path,
one void of worry when in judgment we stand.
A path that at life’s end will escape God’s wrath,
and hear HIM say, enter in, at my right hand.
Matthew 25:41
“Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels:”
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