1.618

i am used to travelling alone. faring forward- not looking ahead nor behind- only this transient moment is made known on the faces of my fellow travellers (who i do not wish to know), in the understanding of a poem which leads to tears, in this music which is valuable not only for it's sound or aesthetic pleasure but for how and why it was written- the depths of a soul and fervor of a mind.

such is this poem, this plea, this life-
we are seeking, seeking
moving and not seeing,
knowing and understanding this brief and significant journey-
not birth nor death
but only this moment.
this shaft of light where the dust is now settling,
all that was in darkness seems foolish now.
for here is the music of day, of light, of being alive:
faring forward- not from nor towards-
but only dying to ourselves
again and again
for this, is love.

the last disappointment

i have nothing left to contribute
in a world of perpetual solitude
words are perpetual reformations
of the same letters
again and again
i write
with no meaning at all
despite that nothing is heard
there is only the passing of words
as a breath, a sigh
no more shall i
breathe
give in to the empty breeze
shadows of the heart

yes! i am a long way from home...

the night sky is glowing
though it is pouring rain
what a sound, so soothing
so pleasantly reliable

candles are glowing
though i am alone
what mockery- the chance to be,
the choice not to be...

a clear note rings
along the horizon line
here in a somewhere
i am meant to be instead

the red tree is dying

across fields of memory. to oceans of the mind.
the red tree is dying, the waters move to tide

heaving, sighing, crashing, foaming
the sea breathes in, subsides.
all is quiet now.

the stormy weather of our discontent-
our misintent- all come to failed resolve
all is quiet now.

breathing in now, like the sea
knowing the briefness of the pause,
that soon will be stirred up again
tormenting and unresolved.

the red tree is dying
though the sun is still warm
the world still moves in one direction-
steadfast, unyielding to that which can't keep up

the churning tide, a tumultuous mind
to move with the sea of thought is aching
unfulfilled, the unending cycle
the ebb and flow that never moves ahead
only back and forth, back and forth
heaving, sighing, crashing, foaming

the red tree is dying
and all is quiet now.

s-a-t-u-r-d-a-y

i hate saturdays. yes, you can sleep in and do nothing all day- if you aren't working or if that obligatory weight doesn't fall upon your shoulders. i have to get up and do laundry, clean my car, clean my room... all these things you can't get done during the week are forced into one day of pressured productivity. saturdays feel weird, wrong. not relaxing and free like a sunday (until about 6 pm when you realize that you have to get up and start you work week again in a matter of hours...). it has an aura- a negative one. that soon after the luxury of hitting snooze on your alarm 27 times setttles in that obligation to get your lazy ass out of bed and do something with your day off.

unfortunately, it is only worsened when the weather is sunny and warm. if it is raining, there is felt no urgency to spend your day outside. when it is raining you are forced into doing the things that a. you have to do and b. that you want to do (like read or watch that netflix movie that's been sitting there for almost a week now). fantastic and so socially contradictory...

the only days to look forward to anymore are holidays. rainy ones.

emptiness

the empty glass.
it is completely empty. there is not half this or half that.
my parched lips wish only for a taste of something full to quench the impassioned nature.
anything, now.
the sun hurts my eyes. this music strains my ears.
love hurts my eyes and my heart. now.
because of you.

*

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essesnce
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
not with a bang but a whimper.

[excerpts from T.S. Eliot's 'The Hollow Men']

ascent

diagonal, above the loud earth (it is so small now)
things are happening , the but we cannot see them
they mean nothing now
as silently climbing- the only sign of life the shifting beams of sunlight
between patchy clouds– until we are above, above
layers of white, their billowing figures worshipping the morning sun,
the smooth blanket of the stratosphere falling below us now
glowing lakes interrupted by colorful grids of land
where rays of light fall to the earth
when we fall back to the earth we are consumed again
but here is the silent and the safe
so surreal, so simply realized
and soon forgotten
til we ascend again