If, Again

If

once we

were partners

though shadowed

intimate decisions

drove us apart, our lives

seemingly drawn

in more necessary direction,

would it be possible

to find purpose

in knowing …

again.

 

If

the world

were able to

walk in the shoes

of those they despise

would it be possible then

for each of our lives

to become valid

to such a

degree

we might understand

love,

again.

 

If

the world

were a perfect sphere

and all the polar opposites

began to better listen and hear

each other rather than negate

their contributions,

could we maybe

become

whole

again.

 

If when

the sun were to set

we might all still look inside

each other’s lives could

we finally recognize

the similariites

and love

again.

 

If … again

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

The Water’s Edge

I’ve often stood here,

Seeing the glass,

Mystique

Is nature’s remedy

 

A soft whispering cacophony

Waves sing forever,

In the trees they are listening,

Chanting,

Living in sweet serenity

 

Oh to know the mystery

What lies ahead

Is in the arms of a cradled soul

So distant yet near

We are all inside memory.

 

A shadowy horizon

The eye is lost in fantasy

The beauty of time

I’ve often stood here

Fighting Ignorance

This word popped into my lexicon

today, while basking

in the setting sun,

I wondered aloud about

what it is we seem to focus

upon while all around

our familiar ground,

the ignorance of life

seems drawn to

interfere with

a

quiet reality.

 

Sweet ignorance

the bliss of our lives

suddenly has feet

begins its walk again,

when a man,

a seeming professional

screams a rant at his own fear

in order to make a point,

that was already denied

fifty years ago,

when the time for

ignorance

seemed waning

rather than gaining.

 

We do sometimes choose to ignore

that purveyor of our deepest passion.

The Passing, of a Day

When begins insurmountable

task,

the waking anxiety,

a desire to burrow

rather than the music of the day.

 

We all seemingly rise to

a pattern

so familiar, oddly routine,

sometimes forgetting

simple beauty.

 

Our lives caught up in the now,

my mother used to say,

he’s a now

person referring to life,

whenever my depression would fail me.

 

Inside the passing

of hours

a remarkable dream,

perhaps a positive

an outcome of smiles.

 

Inside the passing of a day,

so much magic

allows the human condition

to love,

to understand, to breathe, to live.

Passing Cars, Traveling Lives

When I was a little boy,

leaving nose prints on the picture

window,

in the rain, the streaks I’d follow

a free hand, fingertips,

tracing this world in some design.

 

When I was a little boy,

I’d watch the travelers

all of them pointed in some

direction,

a quiet neighborhood,

I’d often know the cars,

know they were watching me,

nose prints on a rainy day.

 

When I was just yesterday,

I wondered about time,

if it were ever really the same,

or if with practice,

would our lives intersect,

like the cars milling by,

the neighborhood

would only speak,

if shouts were ever heard.

 

While I wonder quiet about time,

I watch and hope for every time

the rains fall the glass of windows still

remind me of my childhood, if I will.

I Am Affected

I am affected by maybe one, perhaps two,

often it might be you,

the state of mind I carry through my day,

coordinates with how I feel, how I say,

I’m doing

just okay,

and then the hours creep on by

until later in my own quiet solace,

I realize the two, maybe one,

maybe it is you,

I’m still reeling over trying to segue

into a world without the influence

of a demon,

of a skeleton,

of all that is built upon shame and addiction,

on the throes of our own sacrifice,

I’m affected,

by the simple notion of hurting someone

beyond myself,

based upon some silly luxury of

self abasement,

the notion of realizing just how human

our frailty in life,

has become,

has warranted some rediculous

attention upon the here and now,

even though just a second

ago,

just minutes before the letters even hit

the tablet,

the idea of a beautiful evening,

startlit with sweet mystique

seemed to matter more than any one

judgment created by the simple

anxiety of a singular

emotion.

Some Times While Waiting

Easily we might understand the loss of time,

when we did hope there would be some remind

of a sweeter revenue

in the gifts of our humankind.

 

So often is it true when we wake

from a lesson learned,

an anxious melody of circumstance,

and gathering our senses seem surreal.

 

Walking along the avenue, we notice

a person lost inside their own reality,

yet to the onlooker,

for deep within we know not their serenity.

 

Cast a shadow upon this my truth,

while the world around me does

restore me some time to when in my youth,

I knew only love, only peace … in my youth.

Depression Is A Reality

A frozen state of mind,

clear headed

yet,

stone-walled by fear.

 

When they speak of racing thoughts,

it seems fruitless

trying to slow down that progression,

instead the eyes close.

 

While the strength of depression

wreaks havoc upon vulnerability

the body waits,

an eventual light goes on.

 

Symptomatic to asking

reality to step aside,

while in the moment the struggle

remains the only …

 

So, we fight,

our bodies eventually

find a way

to step off the merry-go-round.

 

As simple as that might seem,

the revolution will never careen.

When Voices Speak

So much easier is the quiet,

the peace of reflection without

an internal buzz of prophecy,

the constant of the mind.

 

I woke today to realize my prom

decades beyond this my reality,

yet tonight, students who walk,

they talk, they all believe the same.

 

We are not that far apart from ourselves

when reflection allows our lives

to know the same, to believe

Janis with ‘At Seventeen’ prophetic.

 

Tonight, celebrations do occur,

perhaps rites of passage that frighten

the moms and dads and older

siblings, having known before.

 

Yet tonight there is also the human

condition, remains home, perhaps

isolated, lonely wondering,

listening to sad songs.

 

Whichever choice, option,

desire or passion,

whomever responds to this

our quiet, our silent voice.

 

We might wish for love

to embrace every aspect of

child and friend and adult

and companion … human.