Notebook

February 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

I had this old notebook when I was young
with pages and pages of tales I’d spun.
I wrote endless stories and once upon a times,
with mystical characters made up in my mind.
I found that old notebook in my closet one day
and thumbed through the pages of my fiction bouquet.
It revealed past wishes and childhood dreams,
but every story contained one consistent theme.
While their plots all evolved in different times and worlds,
something happened just when the stories began to unfurl.
A sentence, a period, and then nothing more,
my narrative would end, not a summation to implore.
The pattern existed in each and every tale,
as if I searched for inspiration, but to no avail.
But perhaps my endless stories spoke a message of hope
that the end of one’s journey can always change scope,
and that life is astounding because no one truly knows
what wondrous endings our stories may bestow.
They lay ready and waiting, just out of our sight,
they are free and they’re ours, should we dare to write.

twelve o’clock

February 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

the day leaves softly
closed eyes and an open mind
drifting to tomorrow

distance

February 18, 2014 § 1 Comment

to illustrate time
resting between me and you
we’d need a decade,
at least.

Still

February 14, 2014 § 2 Comments

if the world still spins
among an expanse of unknowns
and our blood still flows
through an amazing maze
and gravity still heaves
burying sandy beaches
then why must we remain
still

Beginning

January 30, 2014 § Leave a comment

did it start at Genesis
at the ABC
or at the very beginning
of the end
with hope
on the right foot
stepping from number one
or a countdown
from ten did it start
at first-things-first
or slow and steady wins
and second is the best
when the good guys
finish last or was it
the chicken or the egg
a Big Bang that cut
the ribbon
at the line
signaling a small start
with a sunrise
in a new chapter
breaking the ground
of a page turn
at the omniscient alpha
just before the fresh tomorrow
that’s dancing
like there isn’t one
was that exactly and precisely
where it started
and where
it all began

To-Do List

January 25, 2014 § 2 Comments

Our decade is floating upward
toward a precipitous cloud
encouraging the worship of wisdom
spilling from the fingers of intangible spectators,
who, again and again,
proclaim that the expanse of time
before death, before thirty
even, should be filled with experiences
from a shiny checklist, floating
on a flashing screen
guaranteed to render you more fulfilled
and sculpt your life journey to match
expectations of apathetic crowds,
those digital souls with hands ready to lend
affirmative praise to each picture posted
that fulfills the pre-defined checklist
of necessary accomplishments
and stringent guidelines of precisely
what it takes
to live a perfect life.

Seven stamps in your passport, at least,
before you become real, and old, and settled.
Skydiving naked, is a must
in order to truly live
you must break all the rules, as well
and simultaneously become
successful, noteworthy, wealthy.
New York on New Years, gambling in Vegas
skiing in the Rockies, sailing on the Gulf Coast
must all be done within the next five years,
at least, to ensure no regrets.
Don’t you want to be happy?

Expectations from an anonymous author
behind the guise of a piece of glass
becomes the Bible for the 20-something
dreamer, wishing to see, and hope, and do,
but what happened
to that dog-eared piece of lined paper
scrawled when you were seventeen
in a blue notebook, amongst science notes
and doodles of clouds, the cumulus kind,
a list that was carefully composed
before the world became enamored
with digital scripts of how best to live
when you were able to dream, entirely
in your own mind
of all the wonderful things you would do
someday, that would give you
your own version,
of a perfect life.

20140129-002808.jpg

History

January 24, 2014 § Leave a comment

With weathered hands and downcast eyes
he carefully collects the days, weeks,
years and decades, balancing
this unbearable expanse of time
atop his hunched shoulders, his task unrelenting
it grows with each passing day
a burden taken with vigilance and care
for if small pieces should slip from his grasp
he is chided by those who remember
and punished by those who forget
but he is only one and we are many, and as his accounts
of the facts and stories and lifetimes and fictions and lies of millions
become blurred and inky with time
he must let the insignificant, sodden bits
float to the ground, for his muscles tire
and his mind becomes cluttered
and he worries for his sanity, because what he has seen
is far too much for any one man to bear himself
and those small pieces, released from his steadfast hold
become dusty and yellowed and torn
as the weight of days and weeks and eras
trample them underfoot, until they are forgotten
and erased from pages of timeworn tomes
indistinguishable to even the spirits
who still wander the earth
unrecognized and foreign to all
except to the man with the weathered hands and downcast eyes
for History never forgets.

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