Being Real

Certainly, life is a challenge,

wake up to a peaceful sunlit morning,

compelled to go back to dreams,

life is waiting with a plundering notion,

at least,

that’s what a voice tells me,

when trying to ascertain,

getting a grip, get a grip, get a grasp,

we all do grapple with a sweet ideal,

when not met, forgotten,

when we seem oblivious to the plan,

whose plan, The Man,

yeah, the Man seems to drive our …

I woke up an hour later,

wondering how I had fallen into,

fallen off, fell forward, free for all,

landing in whatever state of mind I might choose.

If Life Were A Simple Pattern

I remember when a child,

my sister would design her own clothes,

simple patterns,

stitch marks and wardrobes,

mail-order catalogues,

in a few weeks, there

she would be,

she would wear her finest fashions,

all designed in very simple,

yet lovely, remarkably lovely,

simple pattern …

Perhaps there is somewhere in this world,

the design is linear, less abstract,

and we might all fall into line,

cross the threshold together,

or is it the other way around,

do we wish,

would we rather,

the design,  the mold, the expectation,

be altered, broken or thrown.

Perhaps we may,

we might, we could imagine a different

outcome to the same pattern.

If life were (is) a logical sequence,

a simple pattern, if you will,

might you consider,

if it were up to (them)

we might all be a little less anxious

to know we can still believe in the concept,

if life were a simple pattern.

In The Silent Cafe

This body sits alone in silent recall,

the voices, the activity, the monstrous sound

of espresso being ground,

for the hurried and swaggered consumer.

 

They are all bound

for some adventure, perhaps a honey-do

list,

bending forward, and falling backward,

their tastes are measured by those around,

and one solo black coffee

seems far less profound.

 

I will take it though,

and find my corner nearby,

to locate the faces and the expressions

of the many lives

will occupy this favorite bistro’s lines.

 

Rally faith upon the barista,

who holds a smile today,

might groan later in the backroom,

yet the power they surfeit,

they haven’t really a clue,

until one day,

in the back corner,

they might see whose actions

are delightfully true.

 

Today they are certainly coffee shop blues,

where tomorrow’s energy convey fresh clues.

 

Sitting in my Armchair

I was remembering a time,

when I was younger,

a quiet, reflective, young,

boy.

I think the same feelings existed

way back then,

when,

I would wonder about

whatever might be ahead.

There were different

sets of friends.

Or at least we felt different,

wait …

 

Time delivers chapters

to our daily lives,

when once this chair

felt sturdier,

the painted varnish glistened,

in the sunporch,

with books laid about,

some would call them

strewn,

alongside periodicals and

the evening Telegraph

I suppose.

 

It hasn’t really changed too much,

the same stains will remain forever,

its justifiable reason,

told so many times over to whomever

might listen,

though we do occasionally recall,

back then,

well,

they did,

listen.

The Absurdity of Time

Oh yes,

did you hear about the time …

how often can we,

separate one moment from another,

stretch away from

that time,

to now quickly embrace,

today,

or was it yesterday,

felt better than before,

gave credence to wanting more,

until last night,

when it all hit home,

the shadows, the memories, the crack in the ceiling,

all again seemed to enlarge their

purpose,

in reminding us all about,

that one …

Wherever it is we decide to land,

to suggest this is enough,

to perhaps realize,

no wait a second,

get it,

together there must be a further reason,

to want to define, decide, design,

the accentuate nature of our lives.

Or are we really that able to describe,

in any setting,

the actual reason,

just why,

just when it is we have found,

reached, centered our own

personal

concept of nirvana.

Until then maybe again is when

we pretend there is more time ahead.

Living With Anxiety

How many are out there, when the sky turns gray,

where does the heart remain,

the fear in our mind,

in the quiet of an angry world,

how do we all come to terms with that reality,

the personality of peace.

 

We all seek that solace,

no matter the denial, beyond the circumstance

suggests we can belong inside this melting lava of judgment,

seems everyone does want some time to cool off,

and yet,

we plod on,

build the walls around ourselves,

that will prevent the leak,

that could envelop our soul to such a dire degree,

it no longer matters if we believe in freedom,

that kite has flown,

yes it is a pretty sight,

so tangible as the sky does drift its matter into eternal waste.

 

Would we really call it disposable justice

to recognize we might all feel it.

There on the horizon, we wake to look at the sky,

if a storm looms, we immediately recognize

the nature of our lives is out of our control,

and yet,

we fight that truth with every fiber in our body,

and then,

there is always the truth, when suddenly

we become lost in the translation of our it is,

we might even breathe another gasp,

instead we pretend we are beyond this mortality.

My First Experience With Survival

It was the summer of 72,

just beyond the previous winter,

I would stay home,

amongst my school friends,

chums, the guys I hung with

all school year.

 

Yet I didn’t know them,

because the 12 summers before,

when I began to remember,

around the age of four,

I’d spent elsewhere

in a different world,

a time zone whose style

didn’t match up

with the hometown crowd.

 

It was there I lost him,

imagine the imbalance in my mind,

a good friend

labeled my survivor guilt one time,

and I haven’t been able

to look past that ever since.

She gave a freedom

to realize life has reasons

and they’re not always mine.

 

So it is then that I reflect upon,

when today, I can barely breathe at all.