Gratitude is Today

Rocks and stones are the Earth's bones.
Green grass lawns are

the clothing.

Vandals about
Peace is in doubt.

Each day

becomes

forboding.



They close their eyes
to imagine night skies.

For stars are draped in smog.


The speed to which, they leapt from cliffs
And disappeared into the bog.


Made of hate,
Fade of state

Expression is uncertain.

Blood on the pavement, the government's statement

hide behind the curtain


Evolution, revolution

Dissolution

born confusion.



Clarity is exception
Exception is gratitude

Gratitude is today.

Erroll played in the Band

Slack with wind
Gloom and doom were out leveraged by bloom, for still trees

leave us

with honey bees, sunflower seeds

and lifted images, beckoning peace.

The weather is temporary
and burden wavers with will.

Grandiose, as it were.
Young, elegant and ornate feet tread a sullen path upon the fair concrete.
Overlapping, eroding and deleting the footsteps of those,

who only years ago

awoke and peered out windows, to see the wind blow
from a garage,

or smokey club.

The cinematic interludes that delved and danced amongst the heart's embraces.


It was cosmic. She and him.

A smoke filled ballroom,

a drum sounding off the heart's beat...within chest, and without.

A guitar licks, like tongues flick in kisses.
When all is fog, but the sound and its blisses.

And the wind,

the wind and the whine,
and the day,

left behind.

She was golden,
he was stolen,

the moment...sifted away, like sand.

All that they had.

was the sound of Erroll,
who played in the band.

Dear Gotosh

There will always be tempests of change.

Weather and its parents - the seasons will travel in,

wear their wears. Place themselves in your environment. And sometimes you may restlessly wander upon the landscape.
The crackle of leaves rustling beneath your feet.
Fleeting squirrels bustling aimlessly.

With each sunrise, a sunset had begun.

the cycle continues...hill, slope, plateau, hill, slope, etc.


It is in the clouds that the meaning of clarity is realized, as one can not know good without bad.


Still waters breed tidal boars, if not in your today then always a tomorrow. Your best choice is to wade through the current, raincoat on back and wearing your finest Sunday shoes.

You will never know what you can come across, however permanent, however temporary.

Evil comes in all shapes and sizes, but largely are the result of bad decisions. Pause, pick each step. Your right, then your left...legs alternate between the fates. For in the wisdom of those Fates, you're right, then you're wrong.

Angels descend from the heavens providing beckoning and longing for purity in man. They swim about the abyss that is your dreams and dance across your guise in every waking moment. Most of them only want to take you with them, but are not aware of the trip required.

Dive in these pools with no inhibition, yet know the pool is shallow.

Melted ice and burnt rice only come when you don't have the time in life for the things that are important to you.


Dream life, live dreams.

Your 1 year reflection

Some nights you will awaken in stirs.

Your bleary eyed vision of the room around casts you into a vortex of imbalance, confusion and dizziness.

Aim left of center.

On the somber mornings, when cloud cover follows your shadow. It is then that it is always hardest to look forward to the day. No sunrise to watch,

unaware of the setting sun apart from the absorbing darkness.

It is this time that trees bear themselves to the world. For they shed their cloth.

And this fine linen of the earth lay in tatters.

Discoloured, drab

The search for inspiration in itself seems tiresome. Motivation seems twelve times harder to engage.

Unquestionably, it is the event that casts the inspiration which truly is the holy grail. Sometimes unattainable. It comes with the currents and rescinds like the tide. It is passion that brings inspiration about. In my time it was thrown into girls, sports and books. All of which led me apart from the other. Nothing truly united this or remained permanent. My inspiration had hung in flickers.

It could be a miraculous notion to find permanence in existential elements.

The gloomy days that I describe can take complete wind out of your sails.

Their needs to be the constant, truly unconditional inspiration that keeps you going, barrelling through life, getting better, running stronger. Don't seek this in anyone else, seek it from yourself.

Nowadays, I see how you think. I watch you search. What's inside, impacts the outside.

For everyday that nature casts its sad eye on this world, you are still whole.

There is always a parade, always a funny clown and the heavens that shine down its stars upon you, whether veiled or unveiled.

Wait for the Hook

In mere moments or seconds of rhymin'
You can spread the thighs of her eyes
and put your mind in.

Signin'
Language of words in action.
Lacked the physical attraction
but crave the interaction.

And so be passive magic.
From rigid to flacid.
Destined for tragedy
With visions of majesty.

And nothing else.

A pause.


"...staring at my hands, waiting for the slickness to surface on the palms. And peer out the window again..."

Feeling burning glances,
Crossed arm stances.

Once enchantress,
now she's danceless.
No kisses or hips to barter
For temporary exchanges

with tentative partners.

What Measure?

The Orpheus of the evening.
In truth, all songs in my head.

Feverish in many minutes, but cooled in the hereafter.

My burden is to burden those that burden the burdened.

Under what measure? What measure is most accurate?

Atop the sidewalk.
You will dwell with regulars, irregulars, incontinence, fear and loathing.
Delve away from rationale and deal with emotion.

I moonwalked aloft the many tragedies that at first were self-concocted.
The shovel was not handed to me to dig a grave.

In my glide,
my slide,
I happened upon it, picked it up and started digging.

When I bottomed out, I decided to dig to my side.

There I found you.
Like a rope you hoisted me from my pit to the wind.

Self-resurrected?

Hardly, I created you to have you save me and create the empirical methodology for such, only to give it all to the rest of the world.

By what measure will you succeed?

Well...by the same measure that possessed me to qualify and quantify the other-worldly decisions I made and continue to make.

Measure.

Measure it all.

Not by the metric of the world.

But your own, where you are in your day.


This day is mine. I am bruised, battered and ever prouder for my wounds...


and of course, this awakening.

...if only Atlantis

Splayed about the open waters
Truant boats afloat
Thought about his long lost daughter
Damsel, distress, castle, moat

Rainfall had been years abound
Within the sun's rays he drowned

Driven by only tides and currents
Wayward direction in hand's of the divine
The swells and rocking, nauseous motion
Late night, early morning, too much wine

Thirsty skin, like a desert town
Salt licked lips, his sweat trickles down

Hallucinations beg for an oasis,
Yet no birds to validate the truth
The mind plays films of heart's desires
Sandwiched by the sky and ocean, blue

Eyes glued upon the horizon,
Waiting for hints of distant islands


and silence


Be it golden,
for what the earth covets lest beholden

Paths in water, lead to woe
For paths in water will sooner close.

"If only boats could never sink
If only brine could be the drink

If only waves rocked to sleep
If only in happiness, could one weep

If only they vanquish darkness and sadness
If only it were you
...if only Atlantis"

Be it the Legend or Be it the Name

The deconstruction of the hero

Magnificence denuded.

Threads of costume

to

Threads of DNA

Leave all to be.

Whence peace was of man...

And burdens were left to beast.

Triumph was myth

And Valhalla reserved for only epic.

This despondent warrior

Shanghai'd on ship unknown.

Await horizon

Wake upon landfall.

23^rd hour, 31^st night.

Whittle down beneath the facet.

Forever there will be challenge

Forever misconstrued

Delve not for those that seek light,

But for those that need it.

Paradise is for the lonely.

For posthumous notoriety is never what it is.

To be studied,

To be dissected.

Washed ashore.

Feet tangled amidst thorns, seaweed

And malevolent odds that volunteer...

Waves with whispers 

and 

Winds with shudders

The mind, akin with the heart and the clothing that encases all from skin, inward...

Feel strewn across beachheads, reef ridges and seabeds.

It is the composition.

The assemblage of all.

To reconstruct

Find spades and axes to till the soil and chop down obstruction.

Make for land.

Sponsor the enemy with affordances

and 

Then guide them like lemmings to cliffs unknown.

When it is the dark night

And all battles have been fought.

remember

Be it the Legend

or

Be it the Name

It is the same light from whence we came.

Civil Savage

Civil Savage

Born into a wilderness of sin.
Stressed not by derelicts.

Parapets.
Pharaoh's fits.
Brazen wits

or

Dirty hits.


Contemplating upon the cob of corn.

A colonel of Kernels
All reflections...

Eternal

both

Diurnal

and

Nocturnal.



"Am I...

parody?"


Answer:

"Perhaps, if you are not your own."



From imaginist to tempest
King to Pauper

One's own is not in perception of self, but action of being.

With every reflection there is an image, but only in mirrors

and broad hallucinations.

These machinations...

of mind, self and story.

Are the burdens of pride, strength and glory.

When staring deep into your computer screen.

Monitor what is monitored

and let the rest come clean

What is your jungle but a city street,

And endless plains, when walking the beat.

Path born, path trodden.

Civil is what you are,

but the savage is not forgotten.

Evaporate

And the world has now changed.

Things that were lived for in the past are now no longer.
And there is more rhyme to reason.
Call it majesty.
Call it science.

Perhaps the inner functions of being are to procreate and invest every waking breath and every rational element towards the promotion of this life and its progress through time.

The torch is far from passed.

but

it has begun.


In each lullabye.
In each calm-induced moment.
In every sleeping breath
And every waking cry.
There are pieces that will be shared and then given.

For their is no eclipse, without a moon.
And no tide, without the waters.
No prince, without a kingdom.

And no me, without him.

What is whole, translates and permutes into another.

When I evaporate,
He will be the cloud that collects my waters.

The bark

The bark.

Dog beat.

Log seat.

Rotted beneath.

Knotted pines, like wreaths.

The heat.

The shade.

The leaves falling, like a parachute brigade.

Unsaved.

Land on carpets of moss.

Layers and layers on top of the rocks.

They say the snakes sleep to the song of the frogs.

Seated upon the logs.

Percussive noise from the barks of the dogs.

The bark.

Val

Left in shattered tatters.
Waiting to be picked up or to find some new deceitful interlude to temporarily escape into.
Barren are the todays leaving us with nothing in tomorrow's tomorrow or the day after.

Another soft breath has left this landscape and we are forced to sulk like the thirsty. Sapped of all energy, and those few tears that pour from the eyes to land upon parched lips with salt-riddled unwelcomeness are left to the wooden planks that we tread upon.

It has been the year of growth, of destruction and eventual renewal.

Cycle upon cycle, this is all perpetual...eternal.

Life is a mobius strip.

The sanctuary was silent. I turned to look for an ally, someone to share the burden that weighed heavy on my heart and mind.

To the left - no one

To the right - no one

The parting from this shore to the most travelled destination, should be a celebration.

It is rare that a life can be adorned with the generosity, kindness and patience like this one that today we sit and reflect upon.

Given my younger years, wide-eyed, unabashed and dreaming - an attentive ear.

Given my time now, humbled, quieted and grounded - a look of amusement.

Burned into the flesh of my third eye.

A relationship bears its impact when it is permanently removed from your environment. Many of us stop to wonder why we hadn't, we didn't and why not?

A spirit, a soul, so long as it stands on this plain...populates your aura, regardless of what distance is between you and it.

When it leaves this World. That's when the aura is left unpopulated by the soul's presence. It is up to the library of our memory to comfort, acquaint and refresh existence.

In this world, where there are so few to remember.

I will remember you.

...before he is sickened

...and it 's the acquanting that makes us associates.

Like leaves to the ground.

The differences of proxies and broker bets....the money is lost, but the dealer has won.

And then the question of who makes the deals has begun.

But a travesty.

The fortunes of her majesty and his presidency

are the expense of your earnings and residency.

So what if we all disappear?

and reappear in diseases and the forgotten sheets

of treatises.

A tortured pass at rememberance

Forgetfulness is our semblance.

Eclectic ever afters and apocalyptic good byes.

blamed on Sino-senselessness

and Mohammedan eyes.

And what of the leaves on the branch of the tree?

Left to the breeze from which they were seized.

Teased by the idea of being a seed.

Never delved into the depths of this earth.

To stretch upon its roots and spawn a son from its birth,

or daughter

and what of the holy water?

that is splashed upon our heads

or the crops that are grown to keep us from getting the poor fed?

Ethanol is alcohol. Brewed like brandy.

Money is not for you, but for them it is handy.

Swim in the abysmal. Addicted to this riddle. Played to the boss, first and second fiddle

Earth worn and cancer stricken.

World...

please save my son

before he's sickened.

Reckoning

All of me is uncertain.

As to...

Who you are.

Who you will be.

And who I am to guide you.

I am half the path.

A piece of the truth.

And left to you.

When I was only young,

And youth had no ego, nor temperament...

nor favour to ask.

I found you knocking on the door.

I know I will answer, but sometimes question why you would be at the door.

At the starting of the week, be it mine or yours. You will awaken to this turbulent flight of life that bears nothing more than dreams, contempt, martyrdom and appetizing tidbits of happiness.

You will be forced to question and qualify what it is you see and feel.

You will be forced to sift through the daily dealings of influence, the largest of which will be an all consuming media...

be it whatever media.

begging you to become it's passive observer.

daring you to not speak when you need to.

telling you to believe what it has made you see.

It will be troublesome. It will be heartbreaking. It will make you wonder what this is all about. Why we're all here and what good is to come of your action or inaction.

To think this will always be alright. To feel it will be just as fine. To be absrobed by it and lost in it...

And then it has become sin.

Immaculate you are not. Yet born of sin, you are neither.

Both leaves from a tree.

Sharing the soak of the storm,

Drying in the light of the sun.

Never apart but in space and time

I dedicate this to you, as I guess my way and leave branches and twigs to blaze my trail

Accept

Granite laced visions

Of Truculent Truth

Earthborn fissures

Of violent proof

The chemistry of all that is not.

And the Alchemy of all that is distraught.

A phalanx of trees,

Hedges for pawns.

Pedicured feet

on Manicured lawns.

Bury me between the river and trees.

I wish to poison the creek

with my own seed.

And lay the foundation more solid then stone.

And have my son document the road

on his own.

An occasional shiver

An expected glare

Live for all emotion

Accept what is there

From Daffodils to Dandelions

In but a slow and steady dirge.
Our sweet song of pity and lament.

Gather our hearts in stages and fragments
And pump forth the blood that is coagulated
And stagnant.

Be it time,
For sands, grains of rice and battery fueled arms only measure what eludes us

And how far we imminently remove ourselves from a moment.

If it weren't for the daffodils,
It would be the Dandelion that brings colour to the summer.

And in this summer, not a flower has been planted in this garden.

Her last march down the aisle bore her no matrimony nor communion,
But solemn prayer as her presence waxed and waned
Like the gibbous moons.

What is a tear, if it is not shed?
What is love, if a heart hasn't bled?


If it weren't for the daffodils,
Her coffin would be bare.

And to her grave...
bearing memorial

Stand the dandelions

for her care

These Patient Days of Spring

Lumbering willows

Swaying in windy weather

Yearning for the sun

Bury the swords and awaken the ploughshares.

For the flower bloom, has peeled back its crystal blanket. The one that had laid the grounds barren and left the meek to forage through the frost.

At a glance, it is the transitory trees of the deciduous variety that shed their elegance with Winter's admittance. They are after all the only species to cast away their covering and lay exposed to the cold. Only in the short warm months of our seasons, do we see them draped in their elegant robes.

The season has been humbly awaited.

These patient days of spring.