Monday, August 31, 2009

Gone is the white wind,
my homeland, the beautiful.
Lost is the steady
smooth hue
of my hands.
I am smothered, adrift
on this violent black sea--
so easily unmade of me.

We are worlds bent backwards,
made of unknowable oceans--
I've been shattered, refracted
and thrown by the notion
that perhaps hope is nothing,
like a curse from this sea--
I am cracked,
I am flawed,
I am free.


**


we are shards of ourselves,
splintered wood, contradictions,
unnamed places;
dark inertia,
confident ignorance
and the illusion
of peace.

I am well practiced;
with a laughing smile, straining
every second
happy happy
no
I had only one genuine summer
and now I am back
to shows.

I'll do cartwheels and flips;
make rainbows and bridges
skyscrapers
all for the sake of hiding.

I am a hole.

I am a hell
I have always known.




**

I thought maybe
if I valued every second, every memory,
if I said thank you every day
and prayed and bowed
to all this world gave me,
I thought maybe
love would keep you
for me, thought maybe
I could grow old with you
and knowing only half of myself
would be okay, like maybe
if I could cling tight enough,
prove that I take nothing for granted,
that I value love above all else
and I would never waste it, and share it freely
that maybe
life, or good karma, or something
would stop this. You know, maybe
if I racked up enough points
I could cheat, avoid life, avoid another hole
because that's all I am
holes
which I have tried to climb from
since a child -- dear god, was I ever a child?
I will always be terrified--
I am cropped of myself, stolen
and drained, sold
as a porcelain doll, empty
so I am, so I will never know,
so I will always be
unknown.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Let Me Die

Silent,
until all that has meaning
descends into non-meaning
and I am left
with nothing;
nothing,
and the knowledge
of everything.

That the final answer to life
lies in darkness
and eternity;
an eternity of silence.
So we are.

That everything here
was meant to end.
Only death,
and death alone,
prevails. It is
life's only master.
It is
our only
measure.

That all I value,
what it means to be
a person, to be
a soul,
to be
a messiah--
What it means to be
kind, generous,
or spiteful, uncaring
doesn't matter.
We are left
with only
nothing.

Nothing--
to tell us
that what we have made of this world
is purely
what we are.

I will be god.

I will be a doormat
if it means
that truth might be
the door.

Yes,
I will die
a servant.

Yes,
I will be
used,
I will be
discarded.

Let me die,
and by nothing,
I shall serve.

By nothing,
I shall bow.
I shall be all.
I shall be
everything.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Poems from the Ocean

Went camping for a few days on the beach. Came up with these poems while staring out to sea. Enjoy!

The Watcher

Between every grain of sand
the watcher sits,
counting many things
and carefully dividing them into
countless pieces,
creating of itself
a thing unnamed, a division
of one into many.
It divides
that it may create, and as its creation
makes of itself a precious thing,
a thing so valued
for one day, it shall end.

The watcher made an ocean
to teach us of a wave.
It made many collections,
circles, spirals, stars,
things of no number
to remind us that we all are countless,
and we all are counted,
and we all
are the counters
of things.


On Love

Shall I make of myself a fool for love?
Drown myself in it, a child spoiled by my years--
or shall I chase it own, a fox after the morning dove,
or relent, have it tame my will, instill such fears
as loneliness, or disregarded dreams--
I shall cleave myself of love! Fling it to the ground, retreat
to way of solitude, they themselves asleep, adream--
and I myself awake -- and in so waking, seem
in love of all, yet I am in love with none,
my heart promised to this world long ago,
and so, as promised, gone.

Love is not my master, yet neither am I tamed
by its pleasure, or the scarring of its flame.


Ocean Poem

The ocean, running into the sky
solid, like a land of lead;
I must shut out all the voices,
can't they leave me to the wind?
liberate my ear, as my ear, to listening, lends--
I would steal another minute,
one more wave to breach my soul,
give me silence, sense of purpose,
let me listen to that pull--
the rhythmic rushing of the future,
tangled currents of the past;
perhaps I'll be the ocean's lover
and be buried in the sand.

It was this ocean that taught me how to pray;
now I bend and bow to every wave.