Category Archives: Existential
Thankful twigs, children of the blight:
Used as kindling from Camelot to Brooklyn, with ancestry in branches of Majestic Elms—
Extinct in the flames of purification they crackled and glowed in memories
Of the beautiful Main streets with bustling thoroughfares.
—when they, in regal tradition, stole the whole show.
Some interesting research digging around on the subject (for whatever, when it popped up in my mind) about the Elm tree… and perhaps I was looking for something about our future? Understanding and approaching it with history’s humility
No matter where I have been, in my heart I have always heard “welcome son!” And, I am as sure as my sisters have heard addressed— personally to them. The question that accompanies such a greeting is; where exactly are we? That we are being received and welcomed? And, of course, how our etiquette suddenly begins and our exit should end.
Rain falls hard on thorns
Roses soon to bloom perk up
Both will co-exist
Whoa, Silver! Here comes the black stallion to welcome the Pinto.
I sit here by the firelight of life, feeling old, tired, and worn out.
I sit proud with a peaceful heart after battles lost and won—
I notice the imprint of my shield, above the fireplace,
Nicked and gashed in gallant memory as history touts.
It has been sold. Two weeks ago. For bread, vegetables, lettuce, meat,
I am neither happy nor angry
Nor am I hungry.
The chief looking down upon the sand
Seeing marble and glass
Wishes me reflection
The fisherman looking above it all
Seeing everything equal
Wishes me balance
The Prophet caught up on a tree
Seeing all trespasses
Wishes me forgiveness
The ring that continues to encircle me
Sees nothing— it is seamless
Wishes me Love.
The bell begs every moment to ring or gong
Wishes me to listen awakened
The level bubble needs no explanation.
The silver spoon
Spilling gibberish, drool, and cream
In this morning’s Lobster Bisque
Screamed at him for not
Eating Cheerios in 1% milk
With silverware, or even
A plastic spoon.
(None would have to be polished
Rubbed by servants
And served, to feed
Your fat reflecting face).
“We are both, growing worthless
In history” fading as it dripped
and slurped from
[Many scenes of consciousness with eight characters; One narrator, a Table of six Judges, (three Cyclops, three Angels) and one defendant.]
I Will Have The Last Word
In equal seats at the round table, each with a voice on the scale of justice,
Sat three Cyclops in disguise; wearing sunglass monocle and
Red tinted bald head rubber caps.
On the opposite side, three Angels sat with pleated wings of sea-gull feathers,
Waiting to argue for him but feeling queasy and unable.
All speaking in unison, “You have only a few words before the ultimate gavel
Echoes you, to a sentence of silence.”
“Do you understand? You only have a few words”,
Repeated one of them, Under their breath
With a voice of compassion.
Everything that was bad or good,
Smiles and cries, and all those moments in-between,
Became reams of litigation suspended in litter.
Bound for this uncomfortable meeting,
I showed up wearing only a t-shirt,
Unshaven and a few items in a half empty paper bag.
I took my seat on a steel-gray folding chair
Without the cushion of a good history;
Braced with the events that allowed this chance, to convene.
Then, they began to strip-mine my life, looking and digging
Into the ground of my relatives, mentioning buried outlaws;
Ancestors still connected to my bones.
All my errors descended into a million pieces of recycled confetti.
They dismissed every excuse to free me.
They found nothing of value, stating, they were unable to release me.
They discounted everything I had borrowed,
Insisting on their uselessness when I returned them.
I shouted above my ignorance:
“Dance, dance, dance you Cyclops, around my mistakes.
Fuel your caldron with distasteful acknowledgement,
Envy the situation that is not present.
And you! Preen your Angel feathers without dissent
With the oil of penance.”
Peering across the table, with silver cups in front of everyone
Except in front of him, he noticed in the center of the table,
A scarred brown plastic tray, sat one tin cup.
He grabbed it, banging the empty cup for their same drink
Insisting for a better portion and perhaps
forget this nightmare and let him go.
Let him go home.
“What is it now, that everything is drunk?” Spoke one Angel.
“What is it now that you can savor?” Said one Cyclops,
Sipping his cup, on the opposite side of the table.
They all replied, in a confident anthem:
“We are all of the same dust. We are unbound, released from gravity
Without offense. Unlike you, sitting, fidgeting, now bound guilty
From this agenda, this torture
I squealed, I rat-ed out and rolled on my ego.
Confessing to be, in mind, an accomplice without heart.
I pleaded “mercy” to the table exclaiming, “guilty!”
I swooned, I almost fainted. I felt the floor roll beneath me
Like silt in a receding tide.
Standing, grasping what became actually visible.
I kicked my chair from the table, sent it flying behind me.
I swept my space clean.
An empty cup pinged to the floor spilling fear where it belonged.
The echo, stretched, crawling unsuccessfully to find the exit door.
Who am I now, as I try to rise above this table,
Trying to escape the infinite loop that leaves the measure of me to others?
Where swearing and praying becomes a side bar for approval or complaint.
They sit across from each other, saying the same things in redundancy;
Syllable after syllable, arriving at the same conclusion, using different words.
He quietly sat down across wingless angels and puffy black-eyed Cyclops.
Humbly took his assigned seat at a long aluminum rectangular table,
In the State, prison dining hall.
He placed his scarred brown plastic tray carrying a milk carton
And his scooped up meal.
Today is his first day; his first spoon towards a year and a day.
(One thousand and ninety-seven left).
Saturday night: he eats folded white bread dipped in beans
Savoring the franks. He will probably eat smelt on Fridays.
I see the end recoiling back, hiding in this cosmic dust
Of breath and conscience death, .Each moment for me is mine
Within a circle without chairs of decision or indecision,
Where forgiveness, atonement and contentment has to begin.
“I am not afraid.”
Those were his last words
Before the gavel burst into unconsciousness.
Dried flowers in winter’s light— brightened by an antique jar.
Flowers picked in the fall, after waiting all summer, to bloom—
Jar dug up, on the other side
of the “tell tale” opening in the stonewall;
an old, late 18-hundreds’s dump, left there —
Many lifetimes’ ago.
I go about my seasonal chores,
I Watch you— waiting for you to fade.
You never do.
My soul curls up in intimacy on the frosted windowsill
Embracing the jar of age; having kept its beauty
and displaying with pride, its content.
Teach me your resilience, your beauty
From your past, to the presence.
I find hope’s secret smile
In your colors of dried flowers
in winter’s reflection held in my antique jar.
(Helping me understand all the promises, winter carries.
From it’s off Spring, to this coming year’s honeymoon…to its encore.
Shorter days and longer nights cannot sustain its post
Against the emergence of summer— and longer days.
Unannounced by frost melting into dew
the first wave of spring—
Then, trumpeted through picnics and summer parades—
And, the last wave leaves,
with colorful banners exiting through Fall.)
I sketch this last season’ thoughts— dried flowers
reflecting winter’s delight— smiling this evening,
Looking forward to another beautiful tomorrow;
As reflected in an Antique jar.
I go about.
I Watch you— waiting for you to fade.
You never do.
Until I put you out where we first left
And clean the jar again, in late May.
Charcoal and colored pencil sketch by R.K. Garon