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.

Poem: Genuine Friendship

Genuine friendships are hard to come by,

too often surrounded by transparent men,

who seek for their own benefit,

who step in your steps, match your shadows, just to be liked,

the same goes for you, same as them, you are,

unable to unveil your true face,

and then you’re stuck playing a character,

as the other person falls in love with the facade,

ballroom dancing, they trying to know you,

you trying to show them what they want to see,

the space in between filled with an air of falsity,

you can taste it, they can taste it, for both know what is happening, for both have done it to others,

but we need each other,

so the waltz continues,

comrades willing to be whatever.

 

I sit alone at the edge of the universe,

vast, empty, unfulfilled,

describing it or myself,

thinking of understanding the thing that breathes in this solitude,

so it can draw slow, comfortable, knowing breaths,

rather than the foreign ones it does now,

so that a mask is never needed,

so that the next touch is genuine,

so that the next conversation dances in truth,

so that the friendship blossoms without shade to hinder it.

 

Limping,

smelling,

half-blind,

half-crazed,

the dog comes and lays down beside me,

warmth and love of yesteryears firm in its aging body,

true it is to itself,

true it is towards me,

its snores have stayed the same,

the feeling it elicits has stayed the same,

genuine is it’s friendship,

genuine is it’s love,

for it is willing to forgive,

caring only about companionship,

regardless of the flaws,

all these years, it has been teaching me how to be a friend.

Poem: The Old Rebel

Overwhelmed by choices

overwhelmed by heroes

forcefully fed the personality you should be

conforming you since birth

molded by loving hands

that were influenced by foreign touch

neither they know what to be

nor you.

 

But the rebel in the man can’t be fully silenced

at worst, you can still hear its agonizing death

at best, it guides your thoughts

makes you see the lifelessness

the cowardice

the transference of soul.

 

Giving up on the individual

the masses funnel their spirit into one being

hoping that it’ll bring relief

that it’ll make them immortal

Christ, democracy, wealth, white picket fence

whatever distracts the mind

whatever keeps the rebel quiet.

 

The old man swings by himself

the swingset for his granddaughter

the old man thinks by himself

thoughts only for his family

the old man lives by himself

family living elsewhere

the old man hears nothing but the moans,

tired grey eyes,

tortured grey eyes,

squeezing tears out of those grey eyes,

the rebel moans,

wishing he could wipe away his choices as he wipes away the tears.

 

Poem: How do you stay so still?

How we all try and understand you,

The greatest of minds man has to offer, are

At your feet,

How does your ego not inflate?

How have you stayed the same all these years?

The wisdom of philosophers,

Digging deep in you, trying

To see what you are,

The tools of the scientists,

Prodding, measuring, stealing bits

And pieces of you,

Trying to see what you’re made of,

The religious folk claim you,

Pray to you, want from you, take from you,

Yet you stay still?

Is that what Buddha understood?

How is it that all these wise men and women are deaf and blind?

Before we shackle the children,

They know and understand you,

Even in chains, your

Teachings slip through their laughter and wonderment,

Sweet life,

Sweet nature,

Sweet Gaia,

How do you stay so still when all over your robbed of your innocence?