Life

If you took each man and women, and lined them up next to their graves
And asked them then, what would they say?

Well, for most they’ll probably take to denying and crying
Saying why have you brought me here, and when can we leave?

And you’ll see for most then, they’ll take to escaping
And denying to answer, anything of value.

Still others will look at their grave
And take to looking at it in dismay

They’ll take to thinking
But never enough to find an answer

So they too will eventually falter
and return to their ways.

Some men perhaps will take to crying
And to these I think, there’s more Truth left than not

For perhaps they see something that is worth crying
Or else they’ve thought just now, that time is what’s dying.

But we are mortal, weak humans whom roam this Earth
And we cannot bear to stand when we’d rather be hurt

Stagnant to the last, painful to every grasp
But still we will not move, else we start causing our own pain.

But what is pain to a man who is already dead?
And what is grief to a man who’s laid to rest?

Ample time has been allotted to each and every one.
And to figure out a way to spend is required of all living beings.

So stare at your grave to contemplate madness
But then look at your present and think not of what’s after

Just take the feeling that comes from the grave
And pour your heart into doing what’s opposite of that place.

Then maybe some men and women will have nothing to say
But will simply turn, and start walking away.

Road to Heaven

They say the road to hell is covered in oil
That way when you reach the gates of heaven they can set it on fire.

They’ll burn your soul just before you open the gates,
and see inside for yourself what there was to taste.

And then you’ll be reborn on Earth
and left to suffering and pain in whichever form.

But it’s always the same form:

It’s the pain and suffering of seeing heaven’s gate
being led up each stair step by step
being told that though you were destined for hell
but Heaven hath given you a second chance

And what joy would have been given to this man or woman
and what relief would have overwhelmed their spirit
and what compassion would have arose
from perhaps even the most decrepit soul.

But justice has overwhelmed mercy
and you know how the story goes…

Upon touching those pearly gates
the road to heaven is set on fire, along with your soul.

So back to Earth you go
Perhaps never knowing this…

But every hour you feel
that somehow you’ve done something wrong, especially, to have deserved this.

The River

Wherever the mind wanders,
like water it takes the easiest path.

But just because a river flows
doesn’t mean it’s the shortest, best, or truest path.

When we see a river…
or waterfall, stream, or flowing water
we know we can’t move the water with our hands.

We must dig a path, create a space, or provide a cup
somehow indirectly, we provide a place for the water to go
and very naturally it continues to flow.

But a man must work for many hours to dig a space for a lake
Or create a trench where a river can grow
And just like our thoughts
our attempts at re-directing it can always go terribly slow.

But hour by hour, day by day
with continual effort the river begins to create a fork in the road
until finally the day will come
when one riverbed dries up and the other one flows.

So it is often that I have seen people try
to escape the labyrinth river of their thoughts:
those images of shattered windows and burning houses
or shooting people and murdering spouses
jumping out in front of cars…

or death by a million small lashes
weeping, misery, cold-alone in a barren room
shouting, yelling, anger, at the grievances of the world
outrage contempt, jealousy in the fragile heart
and empty, walking, tired, through the concrete Earth…

when it would be easier instead
to simply redirect and build
a new maze and line it with flowers
just dig a path
create a space
and work the hours that will let a new river grow.

And so it seems that many of us have these thoughts
and to each of us a choice to make
of what thoughts we’d like to change…
for the lonely man who strikes a smile when he walks alone
for the saddest orphan who loves all others despite his remorse
for the unappreciated mother who bears her family’s pain
for the saints that continue on when the world won’t change…

when anger, rage, and all-consuming fire fills their minds
or wicked, terrible, murderous thoughts towards others fire
when love and faith are too far gone
and being normal is all you want
when every moment death reminds
that everyone you love will be killed off soon
when things could take a better turn
but reality says that’s just absurd…

it’s here I see these kindred souls
who let not their thoughts stop them from their hard work
it’s they that choose to follow faith
and continue on despite the worst of days
though weary and beat and awful thoughts remain
a solemn decree to work alone each day
to dig a path, create a space
for their thoughts await a shining day
when love and grace is the river they’ve made.

Do Words Have Meaning?

I always thought,
through time and day
that one day words
would mean something.

But as I walked
around the streets
I began to feel
A kind remorse.

A man would say, “how was your day”?
And to the other, well “it’s great” they’d say.
So then I thought, that’s lovely
That most days people say, that life is great.

But when I left
and headed home
I laid down on
my bed and heard

that just upstairs a commotion came
that sounded like, two roommates saying
from one feminine voice, “My life is great.”
and from one masculine voice, “Go to hell.”

A door was slammed
And then I heard
A sad whimpering
And that was it.

So then I thought
how could it be
that life is great
but one must cry?

The next few days
as I walked the streets
I began to eye
The people
carefully.

I heard their words
But I also looked at their face
And when I did
I saw this instead

“How was your day,”
A slight frown today.
And “It’s great,”
Looking up and away.

Wow I thought! This is really the key
Could it be, that people say
the opposite
Of what they intend?

So I went home and went upstairs to my neighbor’s door
As I needed to ask him what his face looked like yesterday when he slammed the door.

I gave it a knock and she opened the door.
Her face was poor, her eyes darting and puffy
And so I thought, I’ll cheer her up!
Gave her a great big smile and said “GO TO HELL!”

But I was surprised to find that she did not respond in smiles
And only slammed the door, and left it at that.

But then I thought, Ah, it makes sense to me now.
For on reflecting on what I heard yesterday
I remembered her crying after he said “GO TO HELL.”
But if today I was smiling, and yesterday he was frowning
Then perhaps words had no meaning at all,
And actions were the only thing, that mattered at all?

—-

Pt. 2 incoming later…

Gestalt

Walked into river
River much too cold

Cold is bad
made me think to want warmth.

Fire is warm
then hand get closer

Hot is bad
made me think no good at all.

Met a good man
he gave many gifts (wine and food)

Gifts are good
made me think to do the same.

I gave gifts (wine and food)
people angry, say I try to please too much

Gifts are bad
I will not give as much.

Good and evil
both the same

Will you dare, to make this claim?

Mother’s Bones

For two or four nights I walked alone
And in my walking I carried my mother’s bones.
She had passed away centuries ago,
But in our day and age
These were some lovely bones

I walked across mountains
But never seas
I trampled over vegetation
But never good mead

And where there was good rest, I asked for it
And the people they always, complimented my good bones.

Yes! I proclaimed, these were the finest bones a man has ever seen
Porcelain in quality, just a lovely sight for
Me.

But two nights past and I felt that I had come a long way
I dropped my mother’s bones and left for some other day.

The Cold

To all I can see
I am unclean
bathing in waters
I shall never leave

Let the cold waters
run through my soul
and find fire within
does it douse it out — no.

Moving on fire
walking on ice
The simplest bridge
towards passion and vice

Told me your hour
was still yet to come
what have we done
but squandered our lonely —
bear with the pain I see, the ocean waves will never cease
And here I know what’s in my soul
It’s nothing I will ever be

So broken and shattered
I’m waiting for you
So making it past me
Is something I knew

And what’s more for me, the evening of death
And where do we stand in loneliness.