When it's going smoothly and purring along
like a Maserati on a silky autobahn.
I'd like to live a long life, like a bristlecone pine.
Bathe in the moonbeams of infinity
throttle down the Rolex of Father Time...
When life's slings rocks at the center of the soul.
I want life to be brief as a mud puddle protozoan.
Just take a few sips of bad water-then die within seconds.
Instead, these wings beat somewhere between,
I think it's not for me to decide when it's my time...
Or is it?
Of ancient shrines
Of Ancient shrines rise Prometheus
where buttressed walls crumble in the minds eye
we take our dance of cosmic chance
Colder shades then open seas in praise of life we seek
we leave it to microbial dust and enrich the mind
in symbolic rhyme
Where beauty walks a shadows edge dissolved in empty space
back to the garden of nature an age of innocence is born
like wounded faun we’ve weathered storm and awaken the
minds of men
Supernova vortexes evolve in double helix spirals of the solar wind
from protozoan revolutions
we are stardust once again
and universes are we
where up is down and in is out and all of us set free
Silences
Down the halls, walking among the walls
of silence, mine and Of, and wonder?,
should I speak in words of thunder,
shatter the empty spaces of either,
or quietly refrain and do neither,
display nothing of what lies behind
those empty spaces - by kind?
Winds so silent, scream, on their way
down the hallways of my brain,
tearing to shreds, what is left
of the curtains that hide emotions.
Hide from those seekers of the soul,
who might care to know
what it is that protects the weakened spirit.
A spirit that waits for a sound so soft,
so pure, so innocent, it enlightens,
lightens the beating heart so heavy
with sadness, creating depressions
that are but gigantic holes
in the life of what is left
of a living being.
An organism - reaching beyond,
beyond it's single celled existence,
beyond it;s sterile, four cornered room -
am I, reaching out, trying to be more then
the nucleus of a protozoan, I am becoming,
more then the vapours of Saint Elmo's fire,
reaching out for warmth, passion, compassion.
B. J. "A" 2
December 24th 2010
I hail Catharsis.
Where are you, friend?
Tell me where to go.
Give the path that hath
some sort of answer.
You know while
I do not and
maybe never will.
This world is Big.
I am a protozoan.
I abuse you, Catharsis.
You turn me on
When my engine is cold
Purr for me so I can follow
your beat or at least
some grandiose rhythm.
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