The world stands like a frozen waterfall, a river paralyzed, impossibly. And silence replaces its rushing call. In stillness, it spurns gabbling audibly. How can a cataract become so hush, its business being unceasing motion, spending its days, constantly in a rush, dispatching raindrops back to the ocean? Yet, now it's a tower - still as a stone - that looms like it's never known transience. Its icy curtain, hard as a shinbone, offers a wholly different ambience. I can see its beauty, but am still sad, thinking the falls should be beyond the fads.
The burbling sounds did clarify my mind. Somehow, the flowing stream was one with me, and sitting down just at the riverbend, I felt more flowing rhythm than I could see. Some part of me was whisked in search of sea, though my body sat at the muddy edge. I know not how a part of me could flee -- just pure potential, being on a ledge. I lost the river like one loses blood. It's there, but [unseen] becomes all and none. Each is swept along swiftly by a scud, but seem so still when you and it are one. The mystic moment comes then flits away, and I am left with nothing fine to say.
The march of time is chopping at the world like rugged heels that hack the rocky ground. It feels as though the Earth, it has been hurled, and as it was, sped spinning round-and-round. A nauseating ride, it is of late, and only getting faster by the day. I have no time for dates with my own fate, and have given up praying for delays. I'm hit by pounding waves of happenstance, and random acts of near haphazardness. I lose some hours adrift in blurry trance. I'll schedule later dates to feel distress. Yes, even though I know that date won't come, I'll play the game as if I won't succumb.
We are always eight minutes to midnight,
saved only by that blazing fire, the sun.
Everything dark is thrown into its light,
exposed at speeds that cannot be outrun.
Its warmth still radiates on darkest night.
When covers have been pulled up to the cheek,
its heat still lingers, staving off frostbite,
and trickling drops under the frozen creek.
When sands are burning under tender feet,
and sweat is dripping from one’s flesh and hair,
and even when we curse the brutal heat,
we still prefer that you remain right there.
You’ve got just five billion years left to fire,
I hope someone’ll be sad when you expire.
I snatch a coat from hook on my way out.
The gusting winds are rattling the panes.
The sad line of tracks, when I wheel about,
suggests I’ve made little by way of gains.
The cabin keeps me ever near at hand.
I walk and walk and yet it won’t recede.
The slog is slow as if I’m in quicksand;
I lean to snap my chains, and so be freed.
But chains I cannot see, I cannot break.
My sisyphean lean does me no good.
And through the air there falls just one snowflake,
but there’d be more before I reach the Wood.
The cabin wants me back; I hear it call.
I buckle at the knees. So goes my fall.
In our town, soundless sounds abound.
The right are wrong; the sighted, blind.
The king is fired, and peasants crowned.
The waters plowed; the sky is mined.
The pauper ‘s taxed; the righteous fined.
Arsonists fight fire with more fire.
Notebooks are vertically lined.
Sellers hand money to buyers.
Only the town nudist is attired.
Workers fill holes yet to be dug.
Things are made after they’ve expired.
Patients prescribe the doctors’ drugs.
If your right is left and up is down,
you’re perfect for our Turvy Town.
A raptor climbs: it spirals higher and higher,
and what a chunk of world it must now see.
What’s it like to be that vanishing flyer?
Does it feel fear, or does it glide with glee?
It fears like one who knows not what could be.
Like Icarus, it’s naïve of the Fall?
It must know (but not care,) to be that free!
There’s not a chance its flapping wings will stall,
and still less that it will be downed by squalls.
I envy hawks, but could not live their life —
to test air that couldn’t fill my lungs at all
and climb to heights, yet not know any strife.
Oh climb, my Raptor, ride upon thin air,
and when you reach the earth, I’ll meet you there.
The winter skies are drifting slowly in,
and soon the snow will begin to amass —
the powder settling so scant and thin,
accruing between blades of withered grass.
How many times will skies sputter, thusly
without it piling up or drifting deep?
Just coating soil like the world went dusty —
not snow one shovels but the kind one sweeps.
A child’s and an adult’s prayers differ.
While grown-ups are content to prolong Fall,
kids wish that winter will get here quicker —
but all wish Christmas snow will come to call.
“And when will snow liven our bleak doorstep?”
A question I once asked, but now forget.
In ancient days, men followed monsters home,
and knocked on doors to netherworld chambers —
went kicking over the beast’s garden gnomes,
went barging around back like close neighbors.
Who chases monsters now-a-days, I ask?
Now, people let their demons come to them.
We’re too much prisoners to time on task,
and trips to the barber or the ATM.
And have our demons gone so far away?
Or have they vanished as we’d always hoped?
Or someone else is closer to the fray?
But have you seen them die on days they moped?
To meet or greet the demon at whose door?
It’s a question unknown in days of yore.
In this land of tropical green,
there is one tree timed to north lands.
Its leaves turn red from deepest green,
and fall as if to season’s plans.
They fall not by mere ones or twos,
but in wild, fluttering masses.
Inside, it gives one the bronzy blues
to starkly feel the year’s passage.
To see sunny-side branches nude,
and know the numbered days still left
for ever-redder multitudes
who suffer time’s — and wind’s — great theft.
No land is so foreign to me
that I can’t see home in a tree.