Tag Archives: Philosophy

Listeners, readers, finders of lost thoughts

There is always a place set for you at the table of humanity. Here we feast with all – the music makers, sword wielders, word smiths, lovers and politicians – the dreamers, dealers, doubters, passionate doers and delayers – the seekers of truth, liars, queens, princes, and paupers – the young, youthful, the old, frail and frightened – the mourners, merry makers, joy keepers and neglectors. Here we feast with all and it is up to us to find the conversations which delight us, eat and drink of the wisdom which most fills us, and toss the bones of our fears or freedom to the beasts of our past.

So, listeners, readers, finders of lost thoughts – spell weavers, singers, and painters of possibilities – be well to hear the things which give you joy and dampen out the clamoring mess with your songs.

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My rise to the fall

My rise to the fall,
the whisper of willowed words waving
in a wind yet blowing,
the calm clarity of surface
dreaming reflections
realities not understood in currents unseen,
lingering on scents mystifying
mice men with miniature mandolins,
playing sweet songs of melodies, I
can’t remember because my former
self forgot to leave a memo to the message
I was suppose to entertain, restrain, and refrain,
across horizons of blue ink and white salted skin;
an impossible poem unwritten.

Dare to be the person

Dare to be the person you are – and do not linger on thoughts of who others should be. Their journey is a million miles from you, even if their feet fall within your shadow.

Lift your head to the sky you envision, fill the world with your words. Some will share your story, others will merely nod in understanding, some will never hear your voice at all – but do not linger on what others should hear.

Their journey is a million miles from you, even if their smiles are within your frame of mind.

Salt in the wound

I grow furious
with the perpetuation
of the negation
of my gender,
through handmedown
stories created to
subject
neglect
find defect
in everything

I am

by hands
un-bled by the moon
nor birthed memory from womb
but have painted every ”
good thing done
in the shadowed
story
of babel’s fruit.

I am

neither weak
nor the cause
of your ill fortune

We, neither male nor female
neither old nor young
rich nor poor
straight nor gay
creed or none,
are the masters of our souls.

Master peace and find peace.  Master self and others will see your truth.

Master hatred and find only hate.

Rest here

When your road leads too long into the distance

when the sun sets and shadows take the path

when stars hide, and moon dives behind clouds of

storms, anticipating,

Rest here, by my hearth

by the flames of kith and kin -ship.

Do not let weary doubt o’er take you

for in this moment we will rejoice in how far you have come

and tomorrow set out

together.

Each one

Each one a slightly different shade

lays out side by side

neither aware nor hindred in their purpose

to be trampled beneath hoof and shoe

wheel and spoke

nor tread and sole,

but serve out their days in the company

of earth, weed and vermin

a testiment to direction

and leading others to purposes

they can not be privy to.

Cobblestones.

Lead Balloon

There . it  . sat

unyielding, unswerving in

its definance against the air;

my balloon.

I painted it red

I, gathered up its edges where

the rope gingerly hangs on

I, blew, I threw, I even kicked

it a few times…

but still

it goes nowhere;

my balloon.

The people passing by are

starting to stare.

The boy on the see saw

the girl on the swing

even the mothers who usually

say nothing to me

are now intensely investigating

me;

my balloon.

I thought it’d be grand,

a design

to prevent storms from taking it

winds from breaking it

birds from popping it,

to make the world

see differently,

to convince the  inconvincible

of my genius.

Every detail painstakingly thought

every solution and method

from wood to corrugated box

but lead just seemed the most

malleable and freeing.

Ancients used it in curses and

blessings, why even now it

protects from all kinds of il- ‘adiations

our scientific curiosities run us into,

so why not from other

‘nations of curiosities albeit

feathered and tempestuous in origin?

But, alas, here it sits, unwilling and un-obliging,

unwavering obtuse in its weightless

determination to not float, this

dripping in red acrylic and cotton;

my balloon.

{{Thank you to sonofwalt at dadpoet.wordpress.com/ .  I think I am going to do a few more of these Cliche’ poems. 🙂  }}

Cold Floor…

Cold floor

bitter dream

I sit

lingering frustration of

words remaining sealed

in cages

mounts fierce echoes in

silence.

Hands long to move

like old ink across new paper

to the ticking of thought

and fascination of favor

but for days

the sun and moon have greeted

a blank slated mind

unable to untangle

and bring forth even a prayer

to honor the blessing of breath,

no only

silence.

Eyes scanned the testament of nature

searched blade and throng of

fowl floating in storm billowed cloud,

approached and reproached

the edges of nothing for a glimpse of

Gods

a muse

a spark given

if even out of pity

deafening silence within.

but I have come back with

silence.

and languish

here in this

space

the canvas

blank

the

lined horizon of possibilities

clean

and the audience of

futures beyond me

remain

silent.