Poem: The Fragile Self

Fragile is the body that accompanies us,

flesh that can easily be bruised or torn,

bones which fracture and break,

organs malfunction, sometimes due to our own behavior and other times, it’s just the luck of the draw,

colds, fevers, headaches, stubbed toes, cancer, liver failure, peanut allergy, heart disease, chronic pain, bad backs, sore feet, toothaches, bullet wounds, kidney stones, arthritis,

just a list of reminders,

each thing evidence of our fragile nature.

 

The fragility doesn’t stop there, it’s not merely physical,

no, it accompanies our mental,

the mind that clings to fears of what-ifs,

the mind that clings to the afterthoughts of what could have been,

jealousy, anxiety, envy, resentment, eagerness, yearning, disappointment, adrenaline spike and dumps, endorphins rush and crash, sadness, happiness, discontent, disassociation,

the constant loop of emotions and feelings which keeping reminding man of how fragile, how childlike he is.

 

That’s all there is to it,

the reminder of how un-great man is,

daily reality check,

to keep the ego in line,

flesh, blood, bones, electrons, neurons,

just another animal,

and as Aurelius said,

man being an animal, he must get up and work.

Poem: To What Ends?

Everywhere man is in solitude,

hunched over, tired eyes, aching mind,

working the minutes away for some hopeful future.

 

To what ends?

withered bones, scattered ashes, fitted to a box,

to that end, we all slowly move,

inching on the conveyer belt,

the furnace blazes ahead,

the lucky ones feel its heat and see its light upon their skin,

perhaps they can change,

the unlucky ones go in blind, at once, right now,

the absurdity never hits them as they stand on the street corner.

 

We all meet the universal end,

the heartbeats but its life never reaches the limbs,

the limbs obey the slave mind,

which keeps the man hunched over,

for the mind is molded to obey as well,

and all there is left is to work,

as the hot blood grows cold,

as the sunsets perhaps for the last time,

working, working, working,

as if it matters at all.

Poem: New Year Again

Scratch the 19,

replace it with 20,

woke up with the same problems,

no one told them that they were meant to be left behind,

instead, what got left was life,

the unlived moments, the blurred experiences, as it all passed on by,

moments gone forever,

what is coming is the same,

life,

which is yet to be lived,

but don’t know if it will be for the same person crawled into this decade as the one who watched the last one go,

acceptance is the first step,

there is hope then,

the resolve stays the same,

the same now and the same as it will always be,

to live and to be alive,

as time goes on,

life goes on,

you will go on.

 

Poem: Nothing Lasts

Nothing lasts,

sands of time bury the greatest of achievement,

the gravestones wither and take with them the names etched into those stones,

great men and women lost in the wind,

I’ll be lost in the wind,

these fears and anxieties,

worthless thoughts of reputation and concerns of other peoples opinions,

will mean nothing when the body is hollow.

 

So what’s the point in being concerned about such things?

what’s the point in feeding the fears,

in living anxiously,

in diming one’s own shine,

in reducing suffering which then reduces pleasure,

in avoiding pain,

in suppressing one’s dreams,

in allowing the illusion filled tomorrow to dictate the actions of the present.

 

Whose Aurelius?

whose Lincoln?

whose Gandhi?

just names that are occasionally remembered, for now,

one day their names will not toll.

 

Who are you?

that you think what you do is worthy of being remembered,

think of the meaninglessness and be free,

think of the pointlessness and be free,

think of the absurdity and be free,

think of death and be free.

 

 

 

 

Poem: The Man In The Checkered Shirt

A man in a red and black checkered shirt walks back and forth in the book aisles,

the books have little bunny rabbits and little brown bears and little yellow tigers on the covers,

the man in the checkered shirt walks as if he’s holding someone’s hand in his hand.

 

He lets go of the hand and opens a book,

he flips the pages, softly,

not reading, just seeing,

the printed animals go through their ordered adventures,

neat adventures that are wrapped up in the end with a neat little bow.

 

The man in the checkered shirt puts the book back on the shelf,

a tear in his eye,

falling down the ripples of his cheek,

as his face contorts to hide the sadness,

imaginary hand in his hand once more.

 

In the neat little stories, someone always asks the right question,

someone asks if you’re okay,

but no one asks him as the man in the checkered shirt walks down the aisle,

looking for another book that might tell him what to do now,

or one that might ask him where did that laughter go that used to come with him.

Poem: Be Alive

You’re just some flesh and bones,

blood and muscles,

an animal like all others,

nothing more, nothing less,

the cosmos don’t care just as you don’t care about the ants in the wild,

the sun shines regardless and not especially for you,

the planets revolve around it, this one included,

you revolve around it and not the other way around,

here today, gone tomorrow,

your life perhaps will make the tiniest ripple,

if you’re lucky,

if you’re blessed,

one day you’ll be ashes,

the same as all that know you,

and yet,

your daily thoughts are concerned about others,

your ego trips over itself,

thinking people care how you look, what you do,

dimming your own hopes and dreams as not to attract unwanted attention,

blunting your experience of life just to fit in,

the days are numbered,

it’s all for nothing,

meaningless,

yet the handful of days you’ve got left,

you can make them worth something,

give them meaning,

through a leap of faith,

by going towards the unknown, the uncomfortable, the uncertain,

and making your life an art,

for once it’s gone, it’s all gone,

here for a second,

from nothing, back to nothing,

ashes the final form,

in between the nothingness, be alive.

 

Poem: Before It’s All Up

Passing of the day,

the sun goes down,

another grain goes under,

how much time do I have left?

 

The seconds, minutes, hours,

daily, weekly, monthly, yearly,

all of it seems to go by,

all of life seems to go by,

yesterday a child,

today a child but grown,

tomorrow, nothing,

how much time before I go back home?

 

Before it’s all gone,

before it’s all for nothing,

before I set,

I wish to live,

simple, loving, alive living,

to spend the time my way,

am I that privileged?

 

I hope I haven’t used my luck thus far,

I hope I still have some in my back pocket,

so I can fail some more,

so I can laugh some more,

so I can feel some more,

before it’s all no more.

 

Eventually, my time will be up,

luck will be up,

life will be up,

remember, remember.