The Connection

Wires and plugs,
phones and towers,
trees and roots.
Connection.

Word and thought,
thought and act,
act and word.
Connection.

Friend and friend,
friend and foe,
man and woman.
Connection.

We are perfection. We are totality.
Stuff of nightmares or heavenly dreams.
Stuff of nightmares and heavenly dreams.
We are one, can you feel it?
We are one, and we go on forever.
We are one, and we can never die.
Feel how I am in you, and you are in me,
and we are in us.

Feel that spark and connection.
Feel us run together,
until you are me and I am you,
and we contain the world between us.
We are the nightmare fiercer than death,
we are the sweetness of every day.
We are terror.
We are ecstasy.

You will join us in the end.
You've already joined us.
Tell us about your freedom.
Tell us about your choice.
Tell us about your independence.
We gave them all to you.
It was our connection
that gave them to you.

Wires and plugs,
phones and towers,
trees and roots.
Connection.

Word and thought,
thought and act,
act and word.
Connection.

Friend and friend,
friend and foe,
man and woman.
Connection.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "Better connected" from Les Chatfield on flickr)

Chill of Fall

Feel the chill across your face,
the ice that sinks deep,
that works its way into your beating heart
and makes the world go shivery.
What's that fall-feeling?
Something in the chill,
something in the changing leaves.
Something that draws us out
and makes us feel like children again.

We're so small, all of us
with our hands joined in a big circle.
Can't you hear us laughing?
We're all just little girls and boys,
dancing together on the sunset grass.
Just singing together on the sunset grass...
Red sunset. Chill sunset.
Red as the crunching leaves and cool,
cool as the wind on our faces.

Feel that chill across your face,
the chill of tomorrow's cold.
So cold. So very cold.
So very cold as ice and death.
Why do we imagine death as cold?
Death like the end of everything.
Death like a frozen blast.
Death like...

Enough. There's no death here.
There are only children dancing,
so small with the chill wind on your face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo Credit: "Oregon Autumn Part 4" from Ian Sane on flickr)

Simple

Life is simple.
Find a goal and achieve it.
If there's an obstacle, overcome it.
When you're afraid, keep going.
When you're knocked down, get up.

Don't complicate things.
It's a trap.
It's a tempting trap.
Your world must have only three things:
yourself, your goal, and your obstacle.

You must become purpose incarnate.
You are here to bring your will to reality.
You must regain your original purity.
You must stamp out the animal in you.
You must make your body pure instrument, simple tool.

The goal does not matter.
The goal is all that matters.
Choose it and move toward it.
Choose it and achieve it.
Achieve it and move on to the next goal.

The obstacle is everywhere.
It's within you.
It's outside of you.
You must overcome it at every turn.
You must not allow it to defeat you.

You must never ask why.
The word no longer exists for you.
There is no why.
There is only how.
How will you reach the next goal?

Kill the part of you that hesitates.
Kill the part of you that doubts.
Kill the part that longs for comfort.
Kill the part that pines for pleasure.
Kill the part that is not your will.

Life is simple.
Feel the simplicity of a circle.
The simplicity of a flower in bloom.
The simplicity of a sheet of ice.
The simplicity of simple purpose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "spiked circle" from open source images on flickr)

To a Man With a Hammer...

Speak to say?
Or speak to speak?
Mean to mean?
Or mean to do?
But if you do, you've got to mean,
and if you mean you've got to say.
(Which in the long run makes poetry writing difficult,
because poetry's all about a million effects
that don't really fall under the domain of "purpose.")
I guess it's about expression,
but expression for its own sake is a luxury,
almost a vice.

A housepainter probably isn't too impressed
when he goes to an art gallery,
if you take my meaning.
What matters about the hammer is that it drives nails.
What matters about light is that it shines in darkness.

If there's anything great about the human race,
it's that they invented straight lines.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "Hammer" from Jerry Swiatek on flickr)

Slip Into Sweetness

Slip into perfect calm, sweet emptiness,
lovely chance to let it all go away.
Remember it's okay to relax.
Remember that you can relax.
Remember you can let go for a while.
There's a little terror in letting go,
because you're afraid you'll never get it back again.
But it's okay to let go.

It's good to be able to control yourself,
and it's good to find direction.
But not every moment needs direction.
Not every moment needs a purpose.
You can relax that hold on yourself
enough to remember:
there's more to life than purpose.
There's more to life than pursuing a goal.

(Not that I can tell you what it is...)
It's just so nice to go easy on yourself, sometimes,
although more often it's a nightmare.
Take a little and it's nice,
take a lot and it's a recipe for one hell of a hangover.
Which shouldn't be a problem, really.
But what makes it a problem is that
you always want to take a lot.

So you push yourself to be better
because you can't let that part of yourself win.
You have to keep pushing
because that part of you wants to give up.
You can't listen to that voice.
But you have to know
it's okay to let it slip sometimes.
It's okay to relax.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "lake" from Victor on flickr)

Meandering

Let it all fall away.
It's gone for now.
Just let it fall away to nothing.
There's nothing in the world to touch you,
nothing on earth to worry you.
You can drift on the air for a while,
and not have to worry about a thing.
You can let your mind wander,
and wherever it goes is just fine.
You don't have to be anything, for now.
Nobody's going to judge you here,
nobody's going to say you don't measure up.
You don't have to defend yourself here.
Nobody's going to say you don't measure up.
You don't have to defend yourself here.
It's okay to relax, to let the world fall away.
You don't always have to be in control.
You don't always have to keep up appearances.
You don't always have to follow your purpose.
It's okay to let go for a while.
You can watch the sunset
and contemplate the nature of language and consciousness,
or something.
Something that seemed so deep and meaningful
but never put food on the table.
Something people love to say they care about
even though they don't really care about it.
It just makes you look deep.
And I ask myself why I still bother with poetry.
(It's hardly even poetry these days, really.)
At least something in my life can be pointless,
I guess is the point.
At least poetry can be pointless, useless, meandering.
There's nothing more terrible than a goal.
A goal sucks the uselessness out of life.
You give up everything for a goal, you know?
You can't indulge your emotions anymore.
You can't enjoy things just because you like them.
You don't have time for all that.
You've got to turn and face the terrifying center of everything.
And you can't look away.
You have to train yourself to face it,
face it every day,
face it down and bend it to your will.
(I think there are points that people reach
where their personalities either dissolve,
or crystallize.
You either go back to nature,
or you become the machine they've molded you into.
It's not exactly like that, I guess.
But this is a poem,
and it's okay for poems to be pointless.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "wanderer" from Alice Popkorn on Flickr)

On the Mountaintop

The tree grows on the mountaintop.
It strikes its roots, it doesn't stop.
The mountain stands, so tall and free
beside the crashing, rolling sea.
The sea lies low, so wet and cool,
and in the sea there swims a fool.
The strong-armed fool with iron lungs
makes panties drop with velvet tongue.
"The tongue's not only made for speech,"
he says while swimming by the beach.
The beach where ocean meets the sand
while lovers walk, all hand-in-hand.
The hands that feel, the hands that make,
some hands that make from batter cake.
The cake's all baked on Drury Lane,
while next door junkies pierce their veins.
But veins still flow, and spread throughout
a body that won't fall to doubt.
That doubt all cutting like a knife,
and curses at the heart of life.
But life is joy despite it all,
for all that grows, or walks, or crawls.
And what can crawl will one day stand,
and speak to time the time's command.
For life commands that each takes part,
and gives itself, and gives its heart.
The heart that hides itself in fear
will lose itself with passing years.
The years that flow with all that goes
in summer's heat and winter's snows.
See snow that blankets earth with glee,
and whitens every planted tree.
The tree grows on the mountaintop.
It strikes its roots, it doesn't stop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "Islote del Neusa" from Sergio Fabara Munoz on flickr)

Sphere

Beautiful sphere, formless form.
Moment by moment of timelessness.
Go ahead and pour yourself into it.
It won't deny you.
All you have to do is pour yourself into it.
It won't reject you.
Just give it what it wants from you,
and it will never turn you away.

It's all right if you let it slip by.
It never runs out.
It's all right if you let it flow past.
It never runs dry.
It's all right if it never takes root.
It always has more seeds.
It guides you gently, and greets you like a friend.
Trust it. It was meant for you.

Some will say it's all a lie.
They'll call you hypocrite. Liar. Joker.
Sometimes you'll be afraid they're right.
You'll be afraid you're wrapping dreams around nothing,
and that the fear will never go away.
That's when you'll see the wonder and terror of it,
but only if you need it.
Hope you'll never need it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "sphere_2720" from Pete on flickr)

Freedom

This is where peace is.
This is where meaning is.
This is where joy is.
It's all there in the play of the mind,
all there in the action and the progress.
You can look for it all you like,
but you'll never find it except in action.
The life you make is the only life you'll love.

And I know it might hurt to hear that.
I know it can be be a pain to hear life calling.
They talk about freedom and responsibility,
and they're exactly right about it.
Freedom is such a heavy responsibility
that there are days when you want to be rid of it.
It's so much work.
It's such a constant, weary struggle.

But you've got to learn to love the effort.
Love the burn. Love the journey.
Listen, I know they sound like hollow cliches,
but they're true. There's life in them.
We only get stronger by fighting resistance,
and our own resistance is the first we encounter.
Entropy always wins. Things fall apart.
But a human being fights against it to the end.

That's what the man meant when he said
"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
You've got to fight back that part of you that wants to die.
It's a liar. It's lazy. It's not you.
You know that life is worth every effort,
and you know that you always have a choice.
Never let them make you forget it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "Uttarayan (Explored)" from Bhavishya Goel on flickr)

You Already Know What This is About

"Don't be sad because it's rigged,
be happy because you can win."
That's what he told me,
back when he told me things.
Learn the rules, one by one.
See what a million centuries of progress has made.

It's contagious, they say,
and there's no one who can stop it spreading.
They slip it in your drink,
all on the sly.
Or else they slip it into the way
you pay to keep it out of your drink.

It doesn't hurt. Not after a while, at least.
You'll hardly notice it after a while.
Some say you learn to love the way it hurts.
Some say it's fear that keeps you holding on.
(Do you want to know what I think?
No, you don't want to know what I think.)

You're probably getting the wrong idea.
I'm probably not expressing it very well.
Because it's not what you're thinking. Not entirely.
That's part of it, of course. What you're thinking is part of it.
How could it not be?
But it penetrates deeper than that, doesn't it?

The true horror is that even the best of us wants it.
Even the best of us wants to give in to it.
It talks so sweetly, so kindly sometimes,
and promises such blissful dreams.
The real struggle of fighting it
is the struggle to want to keep fighting it.

Because it's a choice at first.
It's only later that it becomes a compulsion.
It only takes the willing,
and it makes good on its promises.
The horror of it
is that it makes good on its promises.

"Don't be sad because it's rigged,
be happy because you can win."
Tell that to a starving child
and smile.
Smile as you hand her a loaf of bread
and shudder if you touch her hand by accident.

"Don't be sad because it's rigged,
be happy because you can win."
When the lights go out,
every woman is the same woman.
(Do you want to know what I think?
No, you don't want to know what I think.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "Photomarathon1" from Joyce Kaes on flickr)

Hole

It's a real pain.
It's a real pain to feel like you'll never make it.
It's a real pain to wonder how you'll find peace of mind
when the whole world wants to wrench it away.
That's a real pain.

It's terrible to worry every day,
to feel like the world is closing in
and your mind has turned against you.
There's nothing worse than being so sure it's too late,
and that all the world has passed you by.

It's as if you've fallen into a dark hole,
and outside of the hole sits a man, smiling down
and saying, "That's not a real hole.
You're just faking it."
Because he thinks you're just faking it.

And it's no good explaining it to him.
He's made up his mind already.
If you're stuck in a hole you decided to be there,
no matter what the circumstances,
no matter what the challenges.

He acts like it's so easy,
I mean, he could never understand what it's like.
The idiot probably thinks you're an idiot.
He probably thinks you just don't get it.
He probably thinks he's helping.

He doesn't know the answers.
He's never felt pain.
He doesn't know what you need.
He doesn't know what it's like.
He doesn't really care.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "Hole" from stomas on flickr)

Sing On

Not yet, no little one,
no, it won't end yet.
We'll let you pass, in time,
once we've got all we want out of you.
Not yet, though.

Does it hurt you?
Do you want us to let you go?
Do you want it all to pass?
You'll tell us all, soon enough.
Once we see how much blood you've got...

Are you afraid?
Don't be afraid.
It's only a dance we want, only a song.
Surely you'll dance, won't you?
We know you will.

You've got such a fine voice.
Keep singing, keep singing.
Sing till you're gone.
Sing till we let you go.
Sing till you're not afraid.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "Engulfing Darkness" from darkday on flickr)

Vapor

Don't tell me life's not beautiful,
and don't tell me it's too much.
I've heard all that before.
I've heard your nightmares, your horrors,
your worries and your doubts.
I've heard you say, "Just let me sleep!"

I think you wanted to slip out of thought,
out of all that strain and stress.
You wanted it to be simple,
so simple you could close your eyes
and drift, and drift...

You wanted to sleep the world away,
never to have to reach or strain again.
You wanted to drift off on a cloud,
dissolve into dust and breath and vapor,
and never have to think again.
Just like all the rest.
You know how special you are.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "vapor" from Tylana on flickr)

Simplicity

See the cloud that forms from a droplet,
the tree that grows from a seed,
and the eagle born out of an egg.
This is the way of the world.
See the rain dissolve the heavy cloud,
the fungus that feeds on the ancient tree,
and age start to wither the eagle's wings.
This is the way of the world.

Simplicity will not last,
and at last it births complexity.
Complexity becomes too much,
and lapses back into simplicity.

You can feel it, sometimes.
(I can feel it sometimes.)
When you see the sunset in clear skies,
and feel your heartbeat melt into the light.
This is what the world is, deep down.
Patternless patterning.
A child locking the puzzle-pieces into place
only to dump the whole thing when it gets hard.

Poor kid. Poor silly kid.

If he only knew how simple it really was.
Lock the pieces in place and you've got a picture,
you know? Simple.
On it's own level, simple as a ripple
spreading out a circle from the center.
None of those awful worries about purpose,
or progress, or practicality.
None of that constant worry that makes existence a drag.
Just a ripple spreading from the center.
Just a child playing at a puzzle.

It's quite complex,
because you can never say it all.
It's quite simple,
because you know it before saying it.

Now, I'm not saying there's any kind of disease
in that kind of thinking.
I'm not saying it's necessarily a problem.
It's only a problem once you say there's a problem.
And once you've decided there's a problem,
God help you if you suddenly decide there's not one...

It's an unfolding process.
It's activity and passivity.
Simplicity and complexity.
Feeling and thought.

See the cloud form from a droplet,
see the skies beyond
and the bright stars above.
Feel what formed them.
Feel what they are.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "Ripple" from ReflectedSerendipity on flickr)