Poem: The Choice

Impulsive,

following the first thought,

the first desire,

the first pleasure.

 

Confused,

thinking that is what you are thinking,

that is what you want,

that is what you need.

 

Man being god,

he like the all-knowing sits above and watches,

observes the animals going about their business,

animals that are full of thought, desires, and pleasures,

who are constantly acting on impulses,

but He watches and observes,

You watch and observe,

the real you isn’t the first to act.

 

Breathing in heavenly air,

shrouded in stillness,

clear sight, clear mind,

choosing what you act upon,

the choice is godlike,

the choice is man,

the choice is you.

 

Poem: Reflect On The Self

Eyes only for the bad leaves a darkened heart,

seeing, watching, consuming all that is wrong.

Eyes only for the good leave an ignorant heart,

overlooking, bypassing, ignoring the realities of life.

 

To neither be dark or ignorant,

to neither be cynical or idealistic,

rather, be aware of the self which is all of that and more,

through awareness, decency follows.

 

Eyes turned inwards,

peering into the shadowy pockets within as orbs of light shine and dim,

eyes outwards looking into the mirror,

the reflection shows all of mankind,

the shadow and light within mirrors all of mankind.

 

Consume enough hate and you’ll become hateful,

consume enough fear and you’ll become fearful,

consume enough goodness and you’ll become good,

consume enough knowledge and you’ll become intelligent.

 

Reflect on the difference and you’ll become different,

reflect on the similarities and you’ll become similar,

reflect on yourself and you’ll be one with mankind.

 

 

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: 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.

 

Poem: The Swingset

The swingset swings in its lonesome

the creaking of the metal chains

the gentle push from the evening air

the absent sound of laughter

echoes in the mind

watching the empty seat

from an empty home

filled with emptiness.

 

Once it wasn’t like that

once it was like spring

the emergence of flowers

the child-like giggle

the warmth of the sun

the touch of my little girl, pulling me outside, towards the swingset

no creaking

rather “papa”, “papa”.

 

That once wasn’t long ago,

but in the middle of winter,

underneath the pile of snow as more flakes come down the eternally gray skies

the feeling of spring is so far removed

barely comprehensible that such a thing existed

but the thoughts still linger on that distant memory

on that spring day

when the swing didn’t creak

when the child laughed

and it filled the emptiness inside of me

now she’s gone, spring’s gone, the laugh is gone

yet I’m here

without hope

with thoughts only for what which isn’t here

and what is here is the lonely swing

groaning, moaning, crying.