Now that you’re gone

Our tears were always at hand
Trapped behind the iron curtains of our resistance
As we laughed through wine and good spirits
We never found a lasting contentment
The resentment of time waving its scythe over our heads
Waiting for you to keep rising
Upon this road we tread into the distance without a sense of dread

We always laughed and sang
Until our blood ran a fiery red
And our eyes filled with tears as they closed in elation
The blind leading the blind
Hand in hand into joyous jubilation

You were never one to ration your “good”
Or afraid to savor moments
Living as if each day was your last
And the last days
Cherished memories of the distant past free from bad omen

You trudged through the miseries
until your bones hollowed with haunt
And the faint voices begging you to give up and give in
were more than a far off taunt

We still live today
without your breaths still fresh upon our flesh
Your memories are close
And your hand is still warm
But our hearts are now torn
Worn upon our sleeve as we grieve and mourn that you are now gone

Free as I’ve ever been

Days have passed in haste. I feel emptiness within, content but cold as the wind slashing across my face in winter’s grip. What will today bring that yesterday has not already prepared me for? Will the heavens accept me with open arms and the sun shine its warm and welcoming rays across my bodily being? Will I surpass and surmount my own expectations to finer phases of fulfillment?

The sounds of the slow grind of feet through the gravel walkways of winter roads fills my ears. My soul is no longer heavy. The weight has lifted to nothingness, and today I am free as ever. The ground crunches beneath my feet, my thoughts drifting along with the air, no longer pressed for resolve, no longer prodding me for answers and resolution. I am as free as lights across an open skyline.

I shuffle quickly through mud and rock to smoother terrain. It is here, upon moss pillows and isolated clouds, that the world will unravel in all its beauty. It is here where meanings will surface, and satisfaction will run synonymous with life.

When we are together

Under the blue skylight
Beneath the raindrops pattering across our roof
Within a valley surrounded by the forest
We are never far from our truth

Shut the windows to sounds and let’s open our eyes to our spaces
Make wishes upon stars
Name them for who we are
And move to where we live as a collage of our blended faces

Outer space is just a blank canvas
for me to paint you in our darkest hours
The traces of light you deliver
Sliver across my palette and shine
When we are together
Close and near
my dear, you are a heavenly time

Rhyme cycle VI

The salvation of savages ravaged is merely to sign away their fortunes on dotted lines.
To give away, to see off, to be off in all regards, poked and barbed and cordoned off into little human jars of bright minds. Scarred as ever but charred and cooked to perfection for their warm and sunny weather. They wash up upon their own shores by scores and droves in the name of life’s sacred treasure.

Indigenous, preposterous, monstrous, omnipresent like the tusk of the extinct rhinoceros. The poly amorous tentacles of oppressors reach far and wide, with no one to blame for a game so servile and snide. Polish their hide with the finest of soaps, the cleanest of water, the freshest of tastes. Civilize their eyes, and remember to place the napkins in your neck before you dig into their plates. Life is just great, so fine, so dandy. Your armored boats carry nothing but candy to their sweet and salted shores with resources galore from your prepared tools so handy. Pry away from fools their jewels and turn their names pronounceable. Regimes are always to be denounced and conspiracies surmountable upon the sleeping savages unaccountable.
For greater good, blood spilled in the name of lumber and wood, for papers with names of presidents and martyrs, for trading, tending and barter and everything forefathers and traditions ever stood.
Book a trip around the world and charter a region in their names, in hopes that casinos override the dead, that eagles rise above heads, and bird eye views are simply drones equipped with the latest technology and infrared.
A problem cannot be solved with a problem we created, but remember we are adorned not hated, and we can all just get along as long as we are not the one mistreated and ill fated. I play race cards handpicked from the shards of terror, like you play in the lap of your own system and think you’re that much more clever. I’d rather sever ties with my body for an out of body experience. Remember that we’re all equally guilty but we’re always safe as along as we’re not the source of the world’s ways and deviance.

Some types

There are some men
who do as they’re told
both young and old
but consider themselves bold

There are some men
who do what they want
through torture and taunt
to have something to flaunt

There are some men who whisper
hushed and silent
in defiance of violence
docile and smiling

There are some men who fight
who show off their might
who punch and bite
and don’t take kindly to life

Some men, they never snap
some men, they never take crap
some don’t give a damn
others ponder and plan

Some live for the day
others do what they may
some throw it all away
and don’t care what others say

Which kind of man are you?
Before it’s all done and through
Before your blue veins turn black
and the shades of your worn skin turn blue

Are you a man of the moment?
Or one of plans and pursuits?
Are you a fine mix of both?
Do you balance your accounts with your truths?

Apologies they cannot afford

The million “sorrys” raining from the sky
like pamphlets
and lifeless petals
stick to us like dirt behind the ears
clawing at ankles
wanting nothing more than so desperately to be heard
a million times over
in the chorus of earth’s invisible belly

Sorry, Sorry, Sorry
forever and ever more
until we choke upon apologies
and digest indifference to the word

The apologies we never really received
for our capillaries scathing in eternal unsatisfied hunger
Nothing more than a perpetual whisper on their lips
for the passing pitiful notion of our human existence

A million moments of silence cannot kill our void
A million “sorrys” can never fill our hearts again
Standing and sorting through day and night
in futile search
but covered in endless apologies

Living and breathing

Today I write without the hints of bitterness. The sun rises from the shadows behind me, sweetening the start to the week and the mundane grey covers of winter mornings. As sharp as the frost lining the fortified windows, I write with hope, with passion, and with intent conjured from the guts of perennial perseverance. There is so little time in this world to work, to create magic, to fulfil dreams and destinies, to pursue goals and ambitions, but it must all be done before the bells toll and we are bid farewell into the long night.

I breathe in the fresh morning air, clean like flowing spring water, and step through the small puddles outside on a morning stroll. The sunshine is not for sale, bartered for the darkest of days in portions enough to briefly satisfy the starving soul. Am I lonely but determined like the pursuit of ambition, where some hold onto their reserves while others leave it all out for the moment to capture? Is there a difference between existing and living? Between just being and breathing? As alive as the shadows of trees within  forests on a summer’s day, the warmth still dormant in the heart of winter’s walkway, sifting through mud and muck to uncover the pearl of human essence. The power of life, when all is doused in the downfalls of predictable gloom and a familiar deluge, threatens to pull me under while the walls close in.

Life can be rain, sometimes replenishing, sometimes refreshing, but also enough to put out the fire in our heart and the heat in our wayward steps. We plan to live, to breathe, to savor and satisfy our needs, but often end stagnant as puddles of old rain water, refusing to dry while remaining trapped in confinement. Today, I step outside and exist. Today, I will live and breathe.

Everything we cannot touch

My tangibles are few but necessary
like sunny days in the midst of another winter
I gather decades of unseen experience
with endless years of untraceable work
stacking sick days upon my vacation weeks
like crates filled to the brim
with invisible assets
compiling a library of life

What I am left with
at the end of the day
is a book of labor lived
leaving the intricacies of reality
to imaginary accomplishments
and accumulated accolades speaking volumes
into the blindfolded darkness of imperceptible existence

Working Hands

Their fingers pulse with worldly weight
Throbbing through burdens refusing burial
Digging up soil and mud to uproot uproars from the shores of yesteryear
The gripping roots cling to earth
Pulling and ripping hands into harvests

How the labor of love, of life, livens rustling hands
Running callused caresses over objects and subjects of their cares

Consolations for mutilated fingertips are far away and few
The Constellations defining and descending magic down upon them
with softer touches
for their malignant clutches circulating blood to their fingerprints
from the tangled thumbs hovering above at higher views

What today brings

Today, I ended my day as I got out of bed
I stumbled to yesterday’s breakfast
and later, to day before’s dinner

The hands of the clock
inched backwards
with every step I took towards tomorrow

Heeding routine was no task at all
and the novelty of today
gasped it’s last breath as I woke up this Fall

I pedalled backward on my bicycle to work
but looked ahead the entire day
With hopes of the upcoming
no longer in sight as I walked the other way

When tomorrow I awake again
to yesterdays of the future
I am no longer bound by minutes and hours
and all their accompanying features

But one day the rains will follow time
back into the clouds
I will look upon the past
and realize what it has now allowed