Seeking perfect moments: in times of bliss, in times of pain, in times of sanity, and when insane a divine meal, a fine strong gin, the kindest virtue, a dark age sin falling into never, coming out the other side, landing on one's skates in the smoothest glide falling but not crashing, running but not gasping, finding but not keeping, fingers interclasping, and wishing for nothing more.
Plunging into darkness, there is no other way. In the tomb-like silence, the mind begins to stray. To roam, to roam, to roam, or does it simply sink; with neither light nor eyes, one might just be hoodwinked.
It doesn't need wide open spaces. It doesn't need direct sunlight. No bark-wide chasm through the tombstone -- Gardner, leave that tree alone. Hey, Gardner, leave that tree alone! All in all, it's just another fig in the wall. All in all, we're just a bunch of figs in the wall.
My war days are long past. I'm not quick to beat drums. I've neither king nor caste. I've seen the winter come. Fearful norms have no hold. The law has lost its sway. I've broken from the mold, and turned a roving stray. Crazy sages / role models: those freed from conventions, who can't stand for twaddle, and shun all pretensions.
The forest looks painted with dabs of bright color, a pointillist mural of the leaves' last hurrah. Soon, it'll turn twiggy, and sing desolation, and invite the fog in to soften sharp lines. Then one day you'll notice leaves glowing in sunlight. Their green will be golden from warm yellow rays. The maturing forest will darken its greenness, turning to sober tones that blot out the light.
Vines crawl along the wall -- an organism in sprawl. Their leaves turn red, arterial at the ends, venous in late Fall.
How much grander must the world seem
closer to the ground,
a grass forest within the forest
with layered forest sounds?
Or would one be cut off from
the vaulted dome of sky,
and have one’s world shrink to
the limits of one’s eye?
If an ant thought it saw everything,
but only viewed a slice,
would its tiny ant mind have contracted a basic human vice?
The fallen leaves
of a sheltered tree
form a shadow
made of yellow,
a pointillist shadow
painted yellow,
‘til the wind blows
angled and low
to send that shadow
on its way -
or ‘til the leaves
turn brown and crisp…
whichever comes first.
The sun is out after
days of gray,
and no fog or cloud stands
in my way
of seeing skies of blue.
I see the lazy sway of trees across the way. And I'm lulled into trance by their languid leafy dance. And for the time I've lost there must be some unit cost. Or, perhaps, only gain. There was no angst or pain... only lost moments.
