The Truthlands are chartless and vast.
I crave understanding.
I’ve tripped through time on jagged lines
in search of mind-expanding.
I’m like a dog in hot pursuit,
both seeking to sink teeth,
and terrified that I’ll be tossed
and die ground underneath.
I’m chasing down a map to Truth,
but it’s the search I seek.
I’m not discouraged that my chance
is little more than bleak.
[In truth, I’m proud to have had such
a winning losing streak.]
when time died
we were frozen
— blocks of inaction
no one would ever know
no light traveled to eyes
no vibrating air entered ears
no bioelectricity zipped down neurons
no cells broke down and died
no memories were formed
no tick-tock of clocks
no clip-clop of hooves
nothing moved or witnessed
everything did nothing
&
never was everywhere
the day time died
I
rocks tumble
as crashing waves erode
the cliff wall
II
at land’s end,
surf punishes the earth —
rocks forgive
III
looking out
to the endless sky
all ‘s unbounded
IV
a bird perched
upon a cliff doesn’t
mull mortality
Throw torrents — bending them with wind gusts, sending water spattering against the glass as if propelled by a preternatural hand.
The earth tells by its tone that it’s waterlogged. Saturated soil turns away droplets like an overbooked hotel during festival days — which is to say — not as quickly as new arrivals can pack themselves into the metaphorical lobby.
Water piles up, seeking to soak into the sheltering fundament, but held back by the mass of those rain-blobs that fell first.
Meanwhile, in a hotel [real, not metaphorical] a crowd piles in to test the veracity of the “No Vacancy” neon burning as brightly as the nasty night will allow. One man, head raised skyward, is screaming taunts at the foul weather like a motor lodge King Lear. The others would roll eyes and mock the man’s lunacy, but they are busy silently screaming into their souls.
Ramanagara Hill
Land where granite domes bubble up,
blistering the forest.
Callousing its broad swath of green
with an ashen gray nest.
I know your echo from the land
where I once took my rest,
in those long gone days before I
set off on life’s grand quest.
Stone Mountain
In 2002, I took a stroll in the marketplace and discovered I couldn’t get out. I was never lost, but neither could I escape the market. When I got home, I found that the market had spread into my home — into my very bedroom. Later, I realized that it had even dropped into my pocket, and I was carrying it with me everyplace I went. I caught a flight, thinking that — even if it caught up with me upon arrival — I’d have a few hours of precious freedom. No such luck. There, in the seat pocket.
I’ve resolved to die in the marketplace, a consumed consumer. At least the flowers will be near at hand.
I’ve ridden the rails
spooked by horn wails,
yet still rode.
I’ve hiked hills and dales
caught in rains and gales,
but still strode.
I’ve watched wind fill sails,
holding pail to bail —
will still flowed.
The morning sun has broken through the trees.
Its yellow light is dancing on the tent.
The fly is flapping gently in the breeze.
Some droplets rolling down — oh, did it freeze?
The night is gone; I know not where it went,
but morning sun has broken through the trees.
My sleeping bag stayed ninety-eight degrees.
The earth and trees are still, and stand content,
only the fly flaps gently in the breeze.
I must get up; I have a day to seize,
but sleeping bag and chill have got me pent,
though morning sun has broken through the trees.
I force myself up onto hands and knees.
some birds are chirping, but the beasts seem spent —
hush, but the flapping gently on the breeze.
That stillness and sunshine put me at ease —
no time to mourn or sing the night’s lament.
The morning sun has broken through the trees;
my tent is flapping gently in the breeze.
The temple bell clangs long and loud.
It calls them all from far and near.
How’ll they come remains so unclear.
Could be in ones — could be in crowds.
They’d straggle in with their heads bowed —
feigning piety to hide their fear.
That temple bell clangs long and loud
to call them all from far and near.
Some seem so proud, but most are cowed,
their darting eyes first peek, then peer.
They hope to find the one that’s dear
before the Scout picks what he’s allowed.
That temple bell clanged long and loud.
I stare into a rushing stream.
For me, time flows as in a dream.
But the stream knows only one flow —
its tune an endless allegro.
Lord willing -n- the creek don’t run dry.
