In the records of time there is little to praise a month end for. A day's ending is marked by a night, a week's ending is marked by a day of extreme joviality and extreme spirituality (Saturday and Sunday respectively) and a year's end is marked by winter and massive celebration. All represent very distinct ends to a previous beginning. Perhaps that is where the problem lies. Can anyone really tell when a month begins and another ends. The content in between is definite (April showers. Spring time. Summer. Fall. Winter. Etc), but the product of each month fits into another category and a larger picture (usually two or three months in particular).
Months are more defined then an even in them than a beginning or an end. December has Christmas and new years, November has Thanksgiving. June has... nothing. Sleeper month! Found one. So forth. So on. Months are hollow. Like those events in our lives that are drawn into a great length or awkwardly across time. They come like whispers and end like a passing breeze. Off off and away into the annals of history without the distinction of an explosion or a sunset. It takes a critical fellow adept at nuances to catch these things. It takes a savant to write them down.
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Quickly now, we make our escape! Avast! You will never catch us!
The Confession by Sir Frank Bernard Dicksee
Give me any page of any book and make it have meaning without the black letters. Give me any painting and take away the shades, then tell me what you see. You see nothing, it means nothing. We paint in the darks and lights the portrait of our soul.
Grand Impression
The way eyes meet
in such context.
That great statement
that stately air
that potency of will
Critically poignant
are the movements.
That unwritten code among all
that no one knew existed
until
it was written
in precise composure
that very moment
And all you did was live.
Father Set the Stars Alight
Father set the stars alight
in spite of darkness coming on
And on, on throughout the night
I heard the hammer beat along.
Visage makes the work appear
A weight, a burden, a crafter's perish.
Father's gaze would have us fear
He struck off all that we boys cherish
Amidst the dross hung paper planes
and marbles and cars and sidewalk chalk:
All that we held from eight years gains
mere spatterings on the painters smock
It was time to become a man he'd said
Time to put all this nonsense behind,
but years later now dear father is dead
and we are still children, merely refined
About Me
Followers
Alex + Cory
Quickly now, we make our escape! Avast! You will never catch us!
Dim
Dim towers stretch high above.
Not dimmed by distance, fog, pollution.
Dimmed are the eyes that look, but not of
age or obstruction or constitution;
What we get when we stare at the sun,
no greater understanding of its
glory or beauty or potency for fun
for afternoons spent with us on picnics.
Just organic dark-striped horizons
until the horizons are nothing but black spots
And we fill our hearts with eyes on
this empty obsidian of cavalcade dots
Strange things
I keep seeing strange things
outside my window.
Like fairy walkways In the sky.
Or scarlet stairways to the stars.
And I know
There were different times
where such things inspired flight
or electricity
or rocket ships.
But
I start here and now
with paper planes,
double A batteries,
and helium balloons.
Who is to say
they won't reach the stars
Or soar with the greats
in some grand airway
where you don't need legs
for anything
but impression?
None
that wake and feel
the infinite morning
with our eyes
Emotional Transduction
Let me listen to your heartbeat
The sound is a nice
warm
hollow thump
Like door knocks
but the rhythm tells
much more
Brings more questions
Why is it war drums
is it butterfly wings
is it the trot of paints
through a hollow field?
Questions answered
outside
brought
inside
emotional transducer
heartbeats
Battle of the Sun
The sun has brought the battle low
Below the height the clouds will go
and from beneath his golden gaze
removes the filth of dusty haze
The tides retreat with silver feet
As they their eternal sunshine meet
and cower away from the glory of day
falling, falling in their streams of gray
The birds their merry songs do sing
after gloom's defeat they wing
high above the green of earth
that cloud's defeat has grown in mirth
The sun receives his praise with joy
His monarchal sincere employ:
These daily battles he creates
as water he precipitates
Time
Here is where things end
I don't pretend
to understand
why,
but
Time feels distant,
and I'm resistant
to let it
push
me.
I'm not entirely sure
there isn't more
behind the
clock.
the
Watch batteries die
The Sun in the sky
is exploding
too.
Oh,
Time is as mortal
as short: whole
as our own
Earthly
stay
Death
Sweet severance that you are,
So mysterious when one part
flees to that distant unseen place
Yet to my knowledge I am reminded
that this is all the matter is, with neither part
being lost
Separation most dear, most able in all beings
We look forward now as truly as we do
carry with us what is behind.
In this moment can one not say he is separated?
Quite, but only in this moment
Looking not then into a future we cannot fully see,
we use other senses to carry us through each day.
With hope and faith do we look about with our eyes
at the glorious ~now~ quite aware
that we can have both this
and sweet tomorrow.
Dream on Child
Dream on child
There is nothing to fear
And what tears you cry
will all disappear
by morning.
Dream on child
Sleep while we don't
and what nightmares tonight,
tomorrow you won't
remember.
Dream on child
Rest now while it's night
while the evening is dark
the day's dawn is bright
ignorance
Screen
Enchanting rectangle to hold
so many millions of gazes
and in different worlds
far different places
we can see clearly
Soaring now, at any moment
through the air, many sounds, voices
we need tools to listen to.
Hundreds: people like choices
to spend their minds on.
Wallets with brains are united
as rituals religiously
followed nightly to the shrine
glow brightly, prodigiously.
~We meet again, screen.~
Thoughts on a conference
World, gather round.
open ear (even just one),
iListen!
while others sleep
or fail to ~change ~ (please)
the station
What are they hearing?
Climbing mountains
trying to listen?
To get closer too;
you're speaking!
We could hear you
on the mountain...
if we wanted...
but the height
(they've tried towers)
actually.
doesn't.
help
.
We best hear sitting--
and best remember
writing--Words that
You speak through
the aged
Much more now
than words. This
becomes some sort of
WONDERFUL!
Betterment!
(Elixir!)
The entire world
could
-you CAN-
stand on mountains
...
but, these worn hands
would still
lift you higher
Secret
Yes,
Smiles are too noisy
for some.
Say too much,
hold too much
mystery
and
The man who wields them
knows too much.
Then
Shares what he knows
too easily as
-Look!-
the secret spreads.
Another
smiles.
Disconsolate
Thus are we disconsolate
that momentary sting
err we forget
still aches
within our
hearts
But lo that beaming spring
As taken within ourselves
proves most valuable
an amnesia.
With it, that balmy healing,
once more our hearts respond.
Once more we do sing of that
brilliant emotional ignorance that is
cleanliness
But with that aged wood that is
wisdom.
Who, so many summers has seen
that an equal number of winters
cannot retract any grace.
City-hermit
Sitting on the steps below;
cold concrete beneath our thighs.
The people walk with purpose, slow
with eyes that do not act like eyes
Silence as thick as mute screams-
car horns-sirens-”help us all”.
Words: thudding awkward cross-beams
from flat bed trucks they fall
Gray brick and lives spared
across pavement dark as tar;
as monumental as impaired
we city-hermits are
The Confession
The Confession by Sir Frank Bernard Dicksee
Wet Phoenix
Always start
Never finish
Like water part
Or steam diminish
When the fire
burns too bright
rather desire
to fade than fight
and start again
like some bird
to drown and then
once more be heard
somewhere else
in a distant dawn
wet crystal melts
and well is drawn.
Far Away
Sit still, child
For in moving I grow weary of you
and I would not grow weary
But you do ceaseless make me to.
So I shall send you far-away
Where other moving children play
until they find they've lost their way back home.
And then as all the children cry
I shall then sit idly by
until I again grow weary,
and claim you as my own.
Why you are the Sun
Every day you rise
Moving
Secure
distant
Engulfing
Warm.
Untouchable,
Uncontainable,
For not one to enjoy
Only all
Adventurously to new lands
-every land-
goes,
is welcomed!
but from every land retires
bored
moderate
aware
to visit again another
day
Teen
We are changing,
Ever changing,
Thinking over what we see.
Life estranging,
Rearranging
What is true and
What we'll be.
And unknowing,
Never knowing,
Planning what we can't control
Concepts growing,
Undergoing
Changes that will
Shape our soul.
But we're ready,
Oh so ready,
Rushing what we do not know.
What speaks the Wisdom
What speaks the wisdom of our mind
When Temptation brings such simple doubt,
And all our horrors we herewith find
Within ourselves and not without
What we need we cannot fathom.
We know our wants we should not gain,
Yet when all desires shouts to have them
Our will starts to wear and wane.
Deciding to make a sensuous fall
Or fight in anguish beneath the pain
Describes the eternal struggle of all:
Of sinless insanity or sinful sane
Perchance, then, choose the lesser ill,
For looking back should hold no shame
As "I am a city set on an hill,"
I have only myself to blame.
Worry Not
Worry not my heart.
Tears have never made one die.
What we do with them has.
Avoided
Another week without words,
without glances.
I send my letters into the unknown
Like notes in a bottle
On a sea.
Do they ever reach
Their destination?
Or fall like drops of water
Off the raincoat that you wear
When you don't want
to feel.
Blind
I can't use my eyes.
If I do, I lose myself in the world I see, and become as blank as a video camera, and
just as observant. The glowing screen steals my identity.
I exist when I close my eyes. In the most rampant way: I see what I am.
In utter darkness I can be what I feel, and not what different shades of light reflect me to be.
You might think it weary
Here,
You might think it weary
When filtered light
is all there is to bask in
But
What we lack in color,
lack in sunshine,
we make in moments.
Moments without eyes
Moments without ears
Moments without hearts
Moments without tongues
Moments without fingers
indeed
you might think it weary
indeed,
You might
Never bask in our reticent
light
sight
sound
feeling
word
touch
And be very weary,
Very weary indeed,
here
But,
give me one moment
without my senses
(I've too many with them)
and
I will tell you what
they cannot.
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