Sunsets Will Remain

jamaica

While monsters in our midst,

shed sallow contraband upon our mind,

when gathering upon the storm,

seeking shelter beyond the norm,

there is that constant we might recall,

a certain Grace in common language.

for everyone is given cause to learn,

in struggle, sunsets will remain.

 

We fight the crazies by instinct we know,

the candor of survival a goal,

and yet, in the time of forgotten peace,

how quickly do our souls begin to ache,

searching aimless in a cloud of foil,

unsure of ourselves, little left to convince,

the pattern of response becomes reaction,

yet, quite apparently, sunsets will remain.

 

Inside the pretty fashion of calm design,

there instills a certain measure of sanity,

our pulse is drawn within the scope

of humankind, the solace being so kind.

Until the fabric begins to wear, shadows tear

away at the still life photograph of sweet bliss.

We cannot always find a way to piece together

our broken spirit. Yet, sunsets will remain.

 

In the morning, the offer of delight is an energy

we celebrate harmony knowing sunsets will remain.

Summer Daze Alone

A familiar air,

cloudless sky,

Listen to the sounds of a backyard,

tree trimmers, grass cutters, BBQ-ing neighbors,

listen to the children with innocent screams nearby.

 

He would understand,

their natural allegiance to the land

around them being an open playground,

his own did the same,

decades earlier,

on similar days,

a cloudless sky,

the sounds of summer daze.

 

Yet there is a familiar air,

perhaps we call it the resistance,

we felt it when twelve years old looking out the picture window,

a light rain, yet friends gathering,

and him,

staying inside,

pretending to not exist,

though experiencing all of the psychological trauma,

that associates our lives with the living.

 

He would find himself in that place again,

today,

while the world outside embraced the summer skies,

his mind in a fog,

wondering about time, wondering where,

curious just why he falls into this mental cavern of

indecision,

it is the time he remembers as a boy,

wondering in the moment,

not knowing beyond the day,

yet now, in the quiet midnight,

the same question remains.

 

 

When Yesterday

When we start to think about

our yesterdays,

we get scared, well some, me, suppose

the words need only be self-directed,

if validity

is the goal of my game.

 

I contemplate my day before notions,

those of consequence and reward,

I try to recall the best, when especially drawn

into the abyss of the mess.

 

A hundred years ago, my embellishment

landed me in places I couldn’t defend,

only wished I had found a way to mend

the indifference,

self-righteous patterns of wanting everything,

my way, my game, my gamble, my favorite

addiction.

 

I lost at every step, remembering when leaving

fearing skid row might be my home address

in six weeks or less,

less the confidence, less the support,

lest I drag my ass out of the gutter and realize

there is a life ahead.

 

However, there is always the readiness,

not choice by personal desire,

but the savior whomever that might be in our lives,

the one and only,

Grace,

the epitome of letting go,

realizing we cannot, and will never need to do this on our own,

alone.

 

Yet today, I do think about my yesterdays,

and wonder if I might ever step away,

to enjoy the beauty of this,

namaste.

 

Lost Generation

In Shadows

images

Where my reality lives, I sometimes never know,

depends upon the breathing,

a slight rasp might mean finding an edge,

a smooth inhale is the sign of reaching an end.

I do know though,

when I glance to my side,

in a sunlit morning, I can see myself,

that part of me no one might ever understand,

yet it contains me,

all of me beyond the physical attributes,

that sometime do define who I am.

 

I like to hide from him,

as much as possible because the possibilities are endless

when I go about thinking all the mistakes he contains,

when the brilliance of my mind let’s loose,

and there is no where to turn except to jump in,

wait it out until sunset, at least then I might disappear.

 

I wish there might be the occasion when in a fleeting moment of forgetfulness,

he could gesture an implied consent,

a suggestive attribute of worthiness,

yet instead,

he lingers, waiting, watching, knowing,

what it is I might be wondering.

 

* photo found on Pinterest

Depression Seldom Defines

There is a part of me remains inclined

to let the world imagine me undefined.

That’s originality

or our quest toward individuality.

What’s my reality,

I’ll tell you only if you listen to me,

but there’s the struggle,

the obstacle between knowing and telling,

is the inherent nature of a sadness

overcomes our own desire to rid the madness.

 

While embarrassment can often expose

the true nature of the demons we hold,

our lives always remind ourselves that human nature

in all of its evidential plan to feature

mystique and an inherent chance to change,

still mocks the true reality of our game.

If we could wake to splendor every breaking sun

what would cause the need to wonder of our pain

if it became a surreal memory

rather than the constant reminder a soft cry might bring.

 

If we could know when to rely upon a need

might then our lives become less overshadowed

by a society suggests we always understand

rather than accepting confusion as a demand.

We are subjects of appraisal,

in the moment,

when while alone in our mind we do travel,

there are always a set of eyes nearby,

to ponder, to wonder, to initiate our own sense of

quiet surrender.

 

Oh to be that muse of everyone in their daily ongoings,

to know the key to survival in a storm would be our knowings.

Searching In Manhattan

Though it is that place I wish to be,

I’m lost inside my own travesty.

As well I seek solace amongst masses

hide within a world of classes.

 

Such is imagery of teeming lives

caught inside streaming archives.

Where alone a face in the crowd

somehow is always allowed.

 

I once read a master speak satire

He’d suggested how he might retire.

A brilliant life so seemed is the giver

they fished him out of the East river.

 

Even while hidden among archetype

our lives matter far beyond those type

who caress the mystique of scrutiny,

always a cry out loud for security.

 

I would if the streets would allow release

On Bleecker street, begin to find my peace.

Eleven Years

One year,

still seek solace,

though the smiles

all around the centerpiece

seem more welcoming,

more genuine,

who’s the real one now,

everyone laughs.

Year five,

more celebration,

no longer dragged away,

suggested change,

a new day,

let go of previous pains,

set forth with a personal gain,

slowly.

Year ten,

a gracious reality,

this is probably begun to work,

the effort a daily focus

layered upon good will,

a desire to stay

happy.

Eleven years,

still the same,

grateful.