Tag Archives: Existenlism
Fall leaves flutter and swirl —raised to dance in the arms of a Spring wind;
settling them down at the base of the trees, where they were born.
Father Winter has gone.
His summer’s mistress awaken in moist dawn, not giving a damn.
Cuddling her offspring’s with sunshine –she sang them lullabies.
Coloring them with a promising growing up, with their Father’s pride.
Innocence in the heart without harm to itself or anyone else
Can be cast into confusion and turmoil as it walks the streets of experience.
Prehistoric predators can’t help themselves —DNA continues in undeveloped self.
They eat green leaf eaters expelling them to the soil for resurrection.
—Eventually predators eat themselves; caught in a bad diet and in a false argument.
Never looking down the street’s —of the in between alleys,
—innocence, never understanding, drifts pass them, in wisdom.
I do have some literary Masters renting space in my head.
But, as the landlord, I express my thoughts —with the acceptance of their rent.
So far, they haven’t complained about how their money is spent.
The brook that never freezes
flows from my winter heart into spring.
It never ceases to bring me new and warm summer things.
I feel like having a hot dog on a stick
roasting over a Hermit Island campfire,
watching the glowing flickering flames
send sparkles above the tide—
rising beyond the moon.
As long as I am not confined to the yard or a cell or a dormitory, I suppose, I’m doing well.
I shall not seek Thee —in a stiff collar of white or colorless turbine. Or, robes of wool…covering skin dark or light over bones disguised in cloaks of Yellow, Orange, Brown, and lest not we forget Cremora White!
—You have no need to convince me of the fig leaf on my soul! I have acknowledged its presence. I will find its place in the empty void.
I shall find You —by going forward and leaving me alone.
In valley below
winter thaws upcoming spring
On Holderness Road
(Thoughts on “Being and nothingness” Jean-Paul Sartre)
In late afternoons, the winter sun slips
through a hazy kitchen window —casting a small bright light
on the wooden floor.
Some days I walk around it.
Some days I walk through it.
Some days, I never even see it!
Then —there are some days when I spot it.
I pick it up —and put it in my shirt pocket;
the one closes to my heart,
collecting warm engagements for my upcoming spring.
Owl’s nest sits high in the shadow of a branch
Wind flickers in glint moonlight through the leaves
—of the predator’s eyes.
Prey —feasting on ignorance,
feeds on “chance.”
Unaware of their “self’s” demise.
Sun light? —To either of them?
Is always an enlightened surprise.
Years have passed:
when we were young, we could tolerate physical pain,
emotional blizzards, and blinding rain.
We sought recognition, fortune, and sometimes illusions fame.
We chased stars in glittering summer nights keeping sentry for sunrise,
celebrating each dawn with a brand new name.
We could even cry, winning or losing, without forcing a fight.
We could talk, discuss, and compromise.
We recognize the beauty in unsuspected surprise.
We were always able to light a candle in the wind
Finding our way back home on sad dark nights.
We often laughed at ourselves. Believing that pennies
we flipped, fluttering to the bottom of wishing wells
We’d became Peter Pan and Wendy
never growing old. And, totally ignoring Tinkerbell,
we watch our directions flow.
Following our hearts and the work of our hands
we traveled roadways, highways, and paths;
where distance seemed far and time immeasurably fast.
We floated above concrete, soft tar, and beaches with ankle deep sand.
Even paths that were crooked and twisted in shallow water or on solid land.
We were always on each other’s map!
We frolicked in spaces that love only knows
where time, never existed;
along with places, where sadness, was only a short visit.
Eventually, I suppose, age and Peter Pan eclipses
those days, when we are young.
There is only time now:
when we are old. We sit with aches and pain.
Our clothes begin to slip or are frayed or they just don’t fit;
along with our recognition, fortune, and the reality of expected fame.
We wear sweaters and warm cotton hats on cool summer nights,
seeing only darkness as a distant fading light.
We Sleep uneasily on worn, thin but forgiving linen.
We, sometimes, forget ourselves with mixed memories,
stuttering on birthdays, which have evaporated in wishing wells.
We try to avoid being stubborn— guilt ridden for actions mistaken,
poor mathematical intelligence, slips of jealously, pride,
and recognize that we, as we knew, is we that is forgotten.
From steel to rust, from rock to gravel,
from coal to diamond
and back to dust.
The sound of muted bells tick off the clock, like muffled thunder
under the hoofs of deaths’ mercenaries; some from heaven,
and maybe one or two from hell.
We may shed a warm small tear, becoming a prism, to glitter
In the sliver of a waning moon; signaling with joy—
tomorrow’s brand new day,
with its bright sun chasing
A weathered Sundial’s ever-moving shadow
~The Night Before Breakfast~ Vol. I Another Draft Revision
Although I enjoy the ease of a sidewalk
I often preferred cutting across the lawn
I can only do one thing at a time
Even if takes me two
Or three tries