Crossing The Line

Boston_-_Crosswalk_(cropped_2)

boston_crosswalk


Instinctually we choose to respond

as the heart might certain suggest,

though perhaps a practicality

draws upon a decisive measure.

 

We search the source,

find the accuracy in a stat,

insist upon certain prior

knowledge, presumably …

 

Yet there is also emotion

that piece of reality sometimes

forgotten, overshadowed,

set aside as a possibility.

 

All avenues seem accessible,

accurate, accountable, adoring,

always the human condition

presents as a family heirloom.

 

In every capacity of our lives

we are given license to know,

to react, to express

a need to seek relevance.

 

Today when we glance outside,

the world looks easy,

trees reacting to the breeze,

traffic always purposeful.

 

The cars on the street modern,

roads meant to civilize

a way of life

seems impenatrable.

 

Yet the violence is out there,

on everyone’s mind,

we are thinking about

somewhere beyond this.

 

Could be right next door,

I used to live in a flat

accessible to my entire world

within a block of my purpose.

 

Likely miles away and beyond

the reach of our compassion,

though we are told, we know,

we cannot escape the reality.

 

it is in the lines, the sort of

choices we make to care about,

show compassion, or that fear,

recognize risk reflects humanity

 

When we do choose to cross,

seems everyone is or is not …

walk inside my sordid lot,

perhaps your gain is my loss.


photograph – Wikipedia

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Different Moments

Recently, there were two,

lives we might call the same,

yet probably, more obviously,

vastly different lives,

worlds apart,

yet their outcomes,

well, we can probably imagine,

the same.

 

The meaning of which,

hard to explain,

yet, we want to know,

we ask the questions,

sitting together alone in our lives,

wondering just why,

when is this the time, when others

might still wander aimless

wondering only

about their next hour,

perhaps tomorrow,

even possibly a year ahead,

yet, these two …

 

Oh, to walk inside the mind of the dead,

to understand the next level,

be able to comprehend,

not likely to mend,

accept the truth yet I would

recommend,

the answer might be less

an epiphany,

more a sad reality,

but the question remains,

we all wonder about it together,

we wander the same streams,

the winding current of our lives.

 

The one, a musician,

his time came when the pain,

over came his emotions,

and later his family in the grieving period,

had to speak to the response

of his audience,

you and me,

the ones that miss him less then

they might ever possibly comprehend.

 

Yet the same,

the reality of the game,

out of our hands,

we just show up to

exclaim.

 

The other the choice is their own,

forget the others nearby,

find the solution today,

yet, that is the confusion,

we all would like to know,

now,

just why,

what fortune brought upon such pain,

and how can we all possibly

living,

not imagine its misfortune,

his misguided

solution.

 

We all do seem to have or hold or imagine,

these our different moments,

yet for me, they sometimes seem the very same.

While Digging

With a mental spade in hand,

I broke ground in a volatile land.

 

It is the sort of tale we often forget,

when suddenly life simply won’t relent.

 

I crossed over into a forgotten meadow,

only to find I’d still carried a shadow.

 

There is a reality in knowing the right word

to help move beyond what we might think absurd.

 

It is a choice,

to dig.

 

While the atmosphere around us seems trite,

there is a powerful settling in dirt contrite.

 

Seems the space may no longer feel quite clean,

once the reality of our lives become serene.

 

Oh stop again,

for the dig.

 

Seems the further inside the realm of disdain,

less easily is the worker’s ability to complain.

 

Seams in the environmental cause will display

while every last item of loss has fallen his way.

 

Though the earth has a forever sort of fallen ground

gives credence to the prison in which we are bound.

 

We cannot ever escape the tone of the suddenly frail,

its competency so built upon retelling a scorching tale.

 

Instead we dig, we do try to compel a story,

written by ourselves to discover just what glory

 

lies in the dig,

where uncovered,

 

we fall victim to knowing time is a circle, a place

whereby all of our insecurities likely keep pace,

 

while digging,

in search of a likely capsule.

 

The ground itself in however it may swell,

always uneven, one might never retell.

 

Good Morning Words

Fresh air is invigorating minds

Eyes slow shadowy idyllic dream scape

Sweet good morning shed an overnight cape

Rise in beauty of life the sun reminds

~

Energy respond in positive current

In mirror negativity loom near

Always a knock, anticipate a fear

Human condition delivers assent.

~

We chose alone a state of mind today

Yes, there is listening, a sure fanfare

In evidence our nature seek a dare

A manner of speaking supports our day.

~

Good morning to beauty, good morning you

Sunshine light our lives, ignite the sky blue.

Outside This Day

river

Outside the whistling has begun,

reminds him of a time,

tying lures and gathering sun,

waiting by a river’s lime,

hours of leisure to scan the water

to watch the rise in spring

while society in all of its bother

cannot disrupt this life’s sing.

Yet, when we are constant remind

mirror spacious waters in sight

a forest of life will cross our mind

a singular branch has blight.

Our moral lives may present at length

To know sweet goodness has strength

This Child Again

tear

This child again

listens to the echo,

keeps calling,

speaking in quiet tones,

when once, the world was large,

now no one really knows.

~

This child again,

on sunny mornings,

at the crack of a new day,

would venture out,

seek new horizon,

fresh spruce and damp soil.

~

This child again,

when death came calling,

would feel the confusion,

recognize a brief derision

yet, early on would move again,

to a sweeter notion in life.

~

This child again,

would claim a spot,

in the playground line,

seek out an identity

with friend and foe,

who test their mettle.

~

This child again,

might ask for less

when in a world

their dream shatters

only to find a need

to live a little better.

~

This child again,

cried on the curbside,

while just beyond their reach,

could pain and grief appear,

only through a lens

of narrowly drawn mind.

~

This chid again,

suddenly aged,

became the child’s father,

or mother, wherever

time began the song

of reflection in our soul.

~

This child again,

does recognize patience,

while navigating a world,

that soon left behind,

some natural innocence,

a rite of resilience.

~

This child again pines.

All Else Fails

That’s when the cup,

we often debate about it,

poured in, spilled out.

When all else …

we come to realize –

oh wait,

I do.

I am the one,

the individual, that person, this living being,

the one to make the change.

When all else –

becomes a reality,

then it is then,

when I have to go forward,

saying only these things,

speaking just the words that fit,

understanding,

acknowledging there is this inherent

need to succeed.

Such a powerful phenomena,

far better than the ruse,

of living in failure.

I believe, do you?

What about today?

Let’s think about the next time,

we wonder about the finish line,

it never really ends though,

we just continue,

fighting the good and common

role, roll with it, mastery,

is knowing failure is never defined,

nor be it accolades for accomplishment,

because when the sun rises in the morning,

there is far more ahead.