when the words don’t matter

IMG_0220.jpg

Sitting by the shoreline,

the water fairly calm,

a sharp breeze enough to

suggest only the time of year.

 

watching seagulls swift past

the eery history of the mast

wondering just when waters

would ever tell me a secret.

 

I could listen for hours

while the sun began to dance

along soft waves of yesterday

sounds around me airily fast.

 

the birds, their legacy staid

by waning summer’s crying lead

in the autumn of these days,

the ones reminding time away.

 

I listen to Bob Dylan, a surreal croon

speaking of wanting ways

wishing time would forever sway,

‘Blood on the Tracks’ seems to say …

 

Inside this visual macabre

Our surreal horizon rob.

Advertisements

If We Were To Know

Would we be the same

if wherever we go

vastly different claims

would question ego.

 

I sat on a hill one day

imagining my life

wondering time away

wandering in strife

 

So many of us each time

we think we figured it out

we walk again in line

acting we know all about.

 

If we could be where we are

if you and me and everyone

were to know just bizarre

our attitude weighs a ton

 

I wandered off the hill

again wanting only peace

some sort of quiet release

wanting everything to be still.

A Weekend Gone

It isn’t that there is anything wrong,

simply, the realization of a weekend gone,

the days ahead all toil to be sure

inside this mechanical dream we assure.

 

While yesterday seemed quite away

when suddenly here we are today to stay,

oh it isn’t that the wrongs are right

more the reality of our time in spite.

 

I wanted to remember you this time

with a bit of a calculated rhyme

yet the days well hours turned to nigh

it was in a sudden fit of overwhelming cry.

 

A weekend gone, one might want a redo

yet it is important to understand we do

have opportunity always just ahead

to recreate, to reaffirm, to be virtue lead.

 

A weekend gone, and summertime as well

we have tapped into another state of tell

when suddenly our lives have much matter

for the presence of another is a next ladder.

 

We walk, we talk, we have similar paths ahead

yet inside a dream we still might be easily lead.

Choosing the Listener

I wonder if it is so easy to recognize

the sweet recall of one time being heard,

when it could be felt,

when word might resonate,

walking along a creek,

listening, the water gurgling forward,

a purpose, a design, an always,

and me,

the quiet remedy to a vacant stare

watching, wondering, hoping,

waiting really

for some reason to pop out of the water

look me in the eye,

suggest the body of life

is the constant flow,

that no matter how far we trail our lives

there is always going to be a need

to continue seeking reason

we stay afloat,

watch the channels change,

the soil erupt from a pressure beyond

themselves,

only a part of the whole.

First Glance

Eyes open

still in mourning

a soft reminder

precious

in the quiet of a breeze

rustling leaves

the next stage

a would be journey lay ahead.

What follows

will be stark extreme

immediate loss

in sensory perception

for some a routine

cycle of life

while others we know

traverse a newer universe

one shares in

solemn

Mortality