The Train

The Train

I hear the train 

I feel the train

Thunder, rumbling beneath my feet

The horn declaring

I bring you goods

I bring you progress 

Progress is good, isn't it?

It built America 

I hear the train

More quiet now

It has moved on into the distance 

While I sit here on this bench

Waiting

Somewhat intrigued 

Somewhat saddened 

I hear the thunder of our ancestors

But it only lingers

So far out in the distance

A sound deep in the recesses of my soul

I am shocked out of the moment

Ripped back into the present

Thrown onto the concrete sidewalk

With nary a speck of compassion 

The train has returned 

Swallowed me up in deafness 

Blowing its horn right in my ear

I don't think I have anything to fear

Except for the fruits of perdition 

And now that I cannot hear anything

Anything but the ringing and noise

I go about my typical day

Seeking out my typical toys

Thankful for what the train did bring today

To help me get through the mire, 

To help me get through the fray

Still there is a thunder in the cacophony

I must be still enough to hear it

To feel it

To know it

One cannot simply rip a redwood

Right up out of the ground

I know that sound...

(Train Photo via Google Image, CNN.com, unknown photographer)

Hero

Hero

My grandfather rested in a recliner at 50,

My father walked many laps at 50,

I will run at 50,

My sons and daughters will sprint with great endurance at 50, 

And my grandsons and granddaughters will fly at 50. 

My great grandsons and great granddaughters will reach the moon at 50 

and my great great grandsons and daughters will touch the edges of the universe at 50. 

The stars of the generations of life, 

thus are the generations of life

Who are the heroes in the story? 

All of us. 

Because we decided to keep moving along. 

We decided to not allow our pasts to determine who we are, 

We decided not to allow our pasts to determine where we are going,

Nor to determine how quickly we move beyond

We all played our role in this comedic drama called life

My grandfather worked hard for pittance, expending his heart

My father decided to break out of a cycle, moving us all into a different orbit

I decided there was more, and pointed us to the edge of the universe

My children and their children will take the baton beyond

The stars of the generations of life

Thus are the generations of life

“Not so for me” you say?

You can decide to change the way

Your future touches the universe

You can be the one

You can be the hero

Dedicated to Lillie Carter. You may have passed away today, but eternity will tell the impact your mercy, generosity, and prayers made. You are one of the heroes.

Poetry

Poetry has been good to me

An outlet for all my rantings and ravings

A method for taking the soot and the ashes

And forming them into a beautiful pottery

Then baked and made golden in the sunlight

Poetry has been sunshine in the midst of the darkness

A beauty and a treasure never quite apprehended

A yearning for more of the more

A chalice filled with the best of wines

Only taken one slow sip at a time

You have been a friend, a companion

A counselor, and full of rebuke

But also full of compassion and emotion

Feeling and rage

Have always accompanied my travels on page

I am so glad to have met you

I am so glad to have known you

All these years we have meandered through

In reds and greens and blacks and blues

Yet still some days I am speechless

I must go on, I must regress

To the place where dreams come nigh

So with a song, a dance, a release, a sigh

I walk on to the radiant fog

Grateful to live in this mystery

But never alone

The Lost Leaf

 The Lost Leaf

This seems to be me

Intricate, designed

Complex, intertwined

But dead nonetheless

A remnant of what used to be

An echo of a former spring

A monochrome of a former green and flower

I hear the warmth is on the way

I hear the light is lasting longer

Yet I wonder

If that means anything at all for me in this state

Or maybe I’m simply a reminder

Of what was in the past

And what could be in the present

What could have been the future

Or maybe I am a building block for the next ones

Maybe I’ve done all I was supposed to do

The hours they were all too few

While I sit here in the stillness

The wind begins to whisper

No RMAL

No rmal (regular mundane average life)

There’s nothing worse for a poet

Than to have no poem

But even darker still

Is a life with no desire

An existence with no burning fire

Long has it been quenched and calmed

Into a vicious and nasty state 

Known as normal

It’s time to arise

It’s time to arise

To stretch out those broken wings to fly

(For how will you taste healing unless you fly again)

Feeling the winds of yearning begin to lift you up

To taste the sweet and bitter cup

Of the real and untamed and glorious Fire

Of the deep and haunting chalice of desire

Begin to dream again

Begin to call impossible friend

And watch him yield to the sight that is within you

Who makes all things new

Picasso

Picasso

I wish I had a reason for living

I wish I had answers for life

I often wish I was an artist

So I could slosh paint violently all over a giant canvas

Taking out every single piece of frustration and pain

Slapping it, moving it, putting it exactly where I wanted it to go

Right out there in front of God and everyone

Such a healing form of transparency

Such a marvelous form of deep confession

Someone would pay out handsomely for it all

Bringing me a sense of justice and restoration

I could take all of that money from my creative maelstrom 

I could drink myself into one nice coma

Or maybe I could take my prize

Build a grand hotel on the coast, in the quiet fog

To let all the rest of the wandering ones rest

But then I would need the entire California coastline

For all of us to have our place in the cooling mists

Altruistic or a giant disgrace

Those seem to be my choices right now

In this imagined place of the heroic

This imagined place behind my brow

Deep in the confines of my heart and soul

I could use the colors to show the depths of the bleeding

Things much deeper than shallow crimson

These things are black, and a deepest black

Pieces and parts of me

Blue and bruised from repeated attacks

I’m not quite sure where my shield was

Stuck outside of space and time would be my guess

Waiting for my appropriate and timely confession

Waiting for my chocolate chip cookie recipe to be perfection

This is why I despise the reflection

For it always seems to lead to the food

The things I allow within my being and mood

This is why I want to get it out on the canvas

To be forever delivered from it all

While the winning trophy hangs on my wall

As evidence that I will never ever know such torment again

I wish I were an artist…

The Goose Feather

The Goose Feather

I was driving out the driveway

The brown and fluff caught my eye

Against the backdrop of drying green grass

I came back much later

The Sun had set, darkness coming quickly

I went back to where I first saw it

There it was, still caught in the grass

I picked it up at first with delight

Then felt my heart fall a little when I saw

The distal edges were worn and torn

Yet then I thought

Why this disdain? Why this sadness?

This sign is here to remind me of great goodness

And simply because it doesn’t look the way I thought

I almost discard it

Why this disdain? Why this sadness?

There is something amazing

About treasure hidden in the field

No matter what sight it yields

Ambivalent

Ambivalent

Ambivalent

So difficult to stand for anything these days

Tolerance has boiled us down to split pea soup

Not very attractive

Not very appealing

Little to no flavor

In desperate need of salt

I never, ever hear the halt

Of wisdom before reply

I listen to all this hubris, I sigh

Because no one seems to see the hate

Everyone is so irate

That none of us can hear another’s heartbeat

We’re too damn consumed with our own

So I will climb down off my lofty throne

To begin to simply listen

In the places where the dungeons glisten

I know there is a goodness somewhere within

Treasure is never easy to find

For if it were it wouldn’t be treasure

Maybe all of this uproar is our clarion call

That in the midst of all the difference, the turmoil

We seek for the meaning within it all

That meaning that always is above and beyond ourselves

The Awakening (Embrace)

The Awakening (Embrace)

Whoa!

I almost fell off the edge right there

Teetering on the brink of insanity

Boredom

Uselessness

Nothing is ever good enough

Nothing is ever good enough

The poets once said

“Same as it ever was

Same as it ever was”

I believed them

Now I’ve walked that path at least thirty years

And have found that it ends up here at a precipice

I almost fell right off the edge

So now what do I do?

Do I turn around 

Retrace my steps

Go back to wherever this started?

I might die before I get there

Or I might live

I might be completely overwhelmed with monotony

Or I might see the subtle differences

That come with seeing things from the opposite way

All I know is I have come to this day

Almost aimlessly

Is it too late to set a new course?

Is it too hard to begin anew?

Maybe,

But it is surely more mundane to keep going

This path I have already chosen

This dirty snow, these rocks that are frozen

Give me nothing firm to stand upon

I decide that I must not carry on

I must decide to embrace the difference.