Misplaced Waxes Poetic

It's turned out to be a beautiful, sunny evening. As much as I'd like to entertain you with another of my sociopolitical rants, I'd rather spend this time outside with Victor and Roxie on the end of their leashes.

So today you get a couple from the poetry archive. I wrote these two back in 2007 I think. Don't complain... as an added bonus, I looked through Sunday's Lake Calhoun photos earlier than I wanted to and selected the one above to accompany today's low-budget blog.

A MOMENT

Nothingness walks like an injured fly

on a window sill.

Time stretches when we are dying.

That slow fade is like giving up on him

despite the ingrained burning of his eyes,

looking skyward.

In space above, the nothing is incomprehensible;

it is everywhere, pulling away from you.

Yet absent your alien awareness

there is no focus in darkness.

The super-massive nothing is the primitive emotion

of the hobbling fly on the window sill;

it is powerfully closing in upon itself.

Even this tiny death is a black hole

collapsing:

in the grasping emptiness light is sucked

through space-time

and everything is spiralling inward.

Time stretches when we are dying.

Maybe death is like this morning's abrupt

awakening to the crow's scraping voice,

where our space curves like a tilted tree trunk

whose offshoot nevertheless rises vertically

to the warmth of a source light:

the dying sun.

Yet even this is beautiful,

yet difficult to admit

in my childish stumbling.

Existence is enough.

Yet this message is not learned through telling,

but only through the practice of living

through the center.

Receptive to heart-peace

we find focus in the serenity of an unfulfilled mind:

not-yearning for things which may never be.

This is the unlittering of the soul.

In our journey all is spiral; I strive for the center.

In the heart's curve I can hear her voice

disappearing and reappearing

and

I wonder

why so many songs are beautiful.

In the absence of light

we must be inured to darkness.

Where time stretches when we are dying,

the separation of consciousness ends

and falls together.

I thought her lips

pressed to mine

was still and pure

and the source

of the sun.

But it was false-reaching

in those soft moments.

ANOTHER MOMENT

the other night I

took a look back

at how my mind worked a few years ago

and I wonder when I'll stop growing

I find that so much has changed

my opinions

my priorities

my goals in life

even my loyalties

I feel like I'm shedding so much old skin

like everyday I get one step closer

to becoming the person I want to be

sometimes I think about

where I was this night maybe 10 years ago

what I was thinking

how I was thinking

and I have to laugh a little

because now I think about where I want to be

on this night

10 years from now

who will I be

and will I be happier

who is next to me

and will I think back

and wonder

what I was thinking

and how I was thinking

on this night so long ago

I know, I know... I'm no Robert Frost. Be happy I didn't post a video of me playing my guitar and singing.

See you tomorrow.