Money For Old Rope

The path to crisis is boulder-
strewn difficult. One must
strenuously avoid the
temptation to do nothing–
that is, they say, when evil
triumphs. Beware any
chance to sit in silence
clear the inner murmuration
of starling-thoughts flying
intricate patterns of karmic
misperceptions. Try and try
again! Do! Move like a murder
of crows as the tempest
feeds on your panicked
activity. Onward, to the
breaking point! Trouble looms
and brewers, we foment
with such good intent, and yet,
our trajectile initiates from
hate, the very rules we seek
to dismantle. This is more than
we can handle.

We set down
the old-world tools
curious, unsighted
to receive what now
has newly lighted.

Inspired by: Triumph, Crisis, Nothing, Temptation and this photo taken in 1890 of my great-great grandfather visiting his son in Colorado.  Do we carry the old ways in our genes, or do they carry us on a wave of preconceptions?

 

Unbounded Metaphor

The word daisy, for example, comes from an Old English word meaning “day’s eye.” ~ Merriam Webster.

Speech reaching for the

fluidity of presence

because we’re chattering apes

and the experience’s worth

is determined by the story

we tell.  Every word

dragging us into the indifference

cold separation

despite our intention to

illuminate this key

right here.

It unlocks the paradise

lost in translation.  Can you see

the stultifying power

of narrative? We are belittled

by interpretation. Pounding, hammering out

the rungs of a ladder

inspired by unfathomable depths.

Even when I sit

in the deep silence

feeling into my energetic

bonds and loving you,

still I open

my eyes

and compose this poem.

Inspired by Paradise, Lost, Indifference and Worth.

Wordy

I live on the threshold of water and sky

forest and plain.  Sometimes on the path

I scribble, racing the red

traffic lights on my way

to a civilized place

where my wild poem won’t fly.

My guitar always at hand for

my ballad-crooning folk singer.

And my pop diva has such

a snappy chorus.  I’m so freaking

grateful for my mess,

thank you, test.

I overwrite

to convey

like a cheerleader with a megaphone

what dwells in silence

deep inner space

dropping each beat

following breath

past the labyrinth

to the chagrin of my disappointed

mind watching as we slip by.

Slow for every speed bump

warning from my body.

Honor the hum

of om

embrace the silent song

and come up singing

at the chime.

 

Inspired by:  Hum, Overwrite and Megaphone.