On the Metaphysics of Old Age Clumsiness

A certain clumsiness comes with old age
Almost another adolescence
We stumble–
On our words, footsteps, and
even our prognostications about life
All else keeping us awake at night

A certain clumsiness comes with old age
Even when we’re just sixty
Thinking back, I remember
When my parents were where I am today–
Clumsily closer to nonexistence–
Where all is lost, including ourselves

A certain clumsiness comes with old age
And then, there is nothing
Even the clumsiness ends
Once we get out of our own way
And allow our stream of existence to empty back
Into life’s sea of new possibilities

innocent eyes spotting a deer in the wildflowers

lone deer standing so very tall
amidst a patch of spring wildflowers
wearing, as they always do, long stems
and remarkable yellow-red headdresses

not a far off place, a simple place nearby
where spring makes its way past–
all the nonsense, indifferent faces
standing between you, me, and joy
transcending the imagined realities, even
the promises we hoped for as children
forgot as adults, yet
linger as ghosts in our souls

strange but it finally ends–all of it
the pretense, promises, misplaced and forgotten words
losing all effect, ultimately giving back to us
the innocent eyes that gave birth to us
those spotting the lone deer in the wildflowers

A January Eve Riddle

We can choose to forget or remember
Depending upon our current reality
We are now just past December
Last signs, youthful vitality

Truth a mere lost vanity
Younger years, days gone by
Sparing all humanity
Hopes, dreams, say goodbye

Amidst the rush, long winter storm
Nights and days lose all form
Tell us why we should conform
Live we shall to transform

These dire times to be overcome
Onward, upward, way beyond
So much left to become
Then alas waves life’s magic wand

Confessions on a Bitter Cold January Morning

Slipping away each day
Life, but also illusion
Forgetting at times—
A good thing
Cleansing, renewing us
Purging the insanity
Killing off our joy

On this bitter cold January morning
The wildfire inside me rages
Consuming everything in its path
Including the faded goodness
I wear so proudly
As armor against death
And its deceitful bantering

The alchemist stirs the words
In familiar self-serving circles
The search for magic ends
No gold
Just more feeble incantations
Taking their turns
Dancing with time in poetic armor

Reminding Myself at the New Year’s Beginning

A new year begins
In one sense, completely new
Different than all others
In another sense, like all the others
Peppered with unanswerable questions

On this new year’s first day
I pause, remind myself
We live in each moment
One breath at a time
Each a miracle, a blessing

Also, I remind myself
We only truly live
When we align
With what’s real inside us
That giving us our heartbeat

The world is filled with lies
The biggest one remains
The illusion of permanence
That anyone or anything lasts
Past its time

Resolutions are fruitless
Leading us astray
Causing us to miss our real lives
Those fleeting milliseconds we exist
Just tiny ripples in the universe’s eternal vastness

Taking Us Home

This time we’re going back
To move forward
This time less will be more
Not more and more

This move will simplify
Clarify us inside out
Bring us into focus
Help us back home

We were getting painfully close
To losing what’s most important
Not money, what it buys
But what’s deep in our hearts

Hard times remind us
With some pain, what’s most precious
Certainly life itself
All it dreams

November Sparrow

Hear me read this poem (click here).

See the photograph inspiring this poem (click here).

So small, delicate
So full of November
That something making you
Fit perfectly into the whole
That I so desperately seek

It’s so easy for you
To be yourself
Not worrying what others think
For somehow you know
Who you are without trying

You, the November sparrow
Just happened along one day
I saw the sparkle in your eye–
The sparkle of life
As the sunlight fell upon you

There was music
No words
But life’s sweet melody
Drifting from you, through life
Touching everything about you

You make life seem so instantaneous
So there
Within reach
Approachable
Sadly believable
For all us nonbelievers

You, the November sparrow
Sitting meditatively still
Your hush overcomes me
My heart fills
Overflows with emotion

I am angered to think
That for so many years
I have hurried through November
On the way to Thanksgiving, Christmas
And all these years I have missed
The blessing of November

But for this moment
Because of you
I am filled with November
Her barren trees
Faded gray skies
Earthy browns and rust

My dear November sparrow
I thank God for you
My sweet reminder
Of November’s beauty, grace, charm
Because of you
November is a special place inside me

I Wonder

You must have wondered, more than once
Where the time has gone, and
Why things have changed
So suddenly, like the harvest wind
Why life, like sand in an hourglass
Slips quietly away, while you sleep
Or stand naked in your cold morning shower

Sometimes I look in the mirror
Late at night, when no one’s watching
And I catch a awkward glimpse of myself
Remembering way too much
Like the chewing gum I stuck under my desk
In third grade, when I once wondered
Why is love so difficult
And will there be a time
When the fighting stops
At home inside me, where I always live
And where I find myself just sitting
Waiting for another night to pass

Dedicated to Wink

Our Place

There is this place
I begin and end in every day—
My daily launch pad into life
Special only to me
As yours is to you

When I was five
Growing up in Martins Ferry
I knew nothing of James Wright
His poetry, or that we all have our place
That goes far beyond geography

Now, I feel my limits
Like a vise grip, applied to unspeakable places
Places we all know
Places where we begin
And eventually end, placelessly

How We Get There

I think back
Remembering
The life I left behind
The life forever hanging
On the wings of time

The very same wings and life
Carrying me moment to moment
Breath to breath
To new parts of myself
Parts yet unborn

You ask if I’ve changed
Since shedding my last skin
My eyes blink
A new world appears
No need to answer your question

I stare ahead
Where they keep the future
I only see what my eyes allow me
I am wedded to my feet
With one in front of the other, the future appears

Something but Nothing

Each of us, a part of that larger something
That speeding beam of light
Streaking through the universe
That churning river, no beginning or end
That idea, completely incomplete
Seeking form, expression, repetition
Even before it is aware of itself

Each of us, a part of that other something
Something beyond us, you, me, anything
Always something other than what we think
Illusive as the beauty we sense
But cannot touch with our hand or words
Like chasing smoke from a distant fire
Or a butterfly through the heart’s garden

Each of us, something
But nothing by ourselves
Contingent, perhaps co-dependent
On each moment flowing through us
But even in the moment
No permanence, foundation, or reason
We just are

Our Work Can’t Save Us

I think of work
That which pays us
Promises to sustain us
And yet, milks our life energy
Leaving us empty and dry

I think of careers
And how we entrust ourselves to them
To being something in particular
Somebody who matters
Because of the work we do

I’ve given up on work
As anything special
As anything that will save us
Or prevent the inevitable
Whose work it is to take us away

Look up close
Use a microscope if you must
To see what work is really about
For those you work for, and for yourself
When I look I see little that really matters

It’s a disease
Incurable for most
This thing we call work
It saps away the real us
Leaving us empty and forever wanting

I think of work
How I’ve spent my life
There’s no stopping the sadness
That descends and lingers
Until it takes us, and we can then rest

What we do in life should really matter
It should be about more than money
Or healthcare benefits when we’re old
These things aren’t enough
They can’t save us, or prevent the inevitable

I think of work, and wonder why
There isn’t something deeper in my life
That helps me see
Work only leads to more work
And never the freedom we all seek

Rejoice in the Clouds and Rain

On those mornings
When the heart weighs heavy on the soul
Remember to rejoice
Give thanks for the clouds bringing the rain
That revives and nourishes the new and unexpected
Growing inside us

On those mornings
When tears fall like the rain
Allow them to wash away the past
Bringing us back to the present
Where life can be lived, and
The heart swims deeply in the soul’s still waters

Sunday Morning Metaphysical Journey

Think back, as far as possible
Remember your first breath, if you can
Then go beyond
To when the future
First passed through you
And left you as a trace in time

Return to the place
Where past, present and future are one
To where when began in your life
And you made your first distinctions
Between this and that
You and everything else

Go beyond all recordings, all traces of time
To the first moment
When illusion took hold in your life
It is there, and only there
You will find peace
And there, you can be without any remembering

Saturday Evening Fireside Reflections

Life…
That which breathes
Returns breath, and
ventures forth into death

Death…
That needing no breath
Beyond immediate comprehension
Waiting on all of us

Breath…
Borrowed at best
Wind, blowing through us
Carrying us to death’s doorstep

Truth…
Breath’s best friend
Always a step away
Everything we are and beyond

The end…
Filled with new beginnings
Always escaping us
Infinity’s juxtaposition

Our Timeless Souls

Beginning of time–
a starting place for the clock
but not for you, or me
Too often, the clock
married to time, enslaves us
locking us into one dimension
missing all others

Too often, we lose track
of all that exists outside time
Like the soul, which is timeless
knowing nothing of minutes, hours
days, months and years
To the soul, a minute is a year
and a year but a minute

It’s easy to mistake
what beckons us deeply
for the clock’s ticking
and time’s insistent prodding
It’s easy to forget
time reaches only so far
and the soul so much farther

Doing What You’re Here to Do

As your life happens
in deep unexpected ways
give in, to the light
shining magestically through
all standing between you, and
that shining through
like sparkling diamonds
in the black satin night sky

Surrender, best you can
to what you’ve always been
from the first moment
your soul breathed
inhaling life’s eternal beauty
exhaling what only you can provide
in this incantation
and this incarnation

And when you know
what can be known only by you
about this life
its purpose and position
rest assured, you have achieved
what you must
so all else, inside and outside
can continue forward

Beyond What’s Apparent

Think of the odds
unthinkable as they are
Imagine something, beyond
where imagination usually leads

Find yourself, midstream
between what’s known and anything other
searching for the crack, expanding
across the cosmic egg you call your life

Hatch the truth–
not at all perfect, often missed
accessible though, if you linger
just beyond your denial

In all this
go beyond what you know
Find what nobody knows you have
What you don’t know you have

There, you’ll find your way–
the way you lost
whose end wants
just one last beginning

Who Am I?

Who am I…
when I stop being afraid
stop pretending
give up trying to be somebody, and
finally give in to being me?

I’m not…
the person I thought I was
wanted to be
was to please someone else, or
imagined one night all alone

The easiest thing, and
the hardest thing in the world
is being who you are
without trying, and
without being anyone or anything

All of us stray from ourselves, and
forget who we are
Next time you lose yourself, just remember
you are the subject, searching
for what you aleady are

Truth as Your Surgical Knife

Psychic surgery
You’re the surgeon
Cut carefully
removing only the bad apples
spoiling the bunch

Some parts of us, look diseased
needing extrication, but
at a closer inspection, we see
good and bad, sewn together
All parts of the same cloth

Parts and wholes
just illusions
like chickens, desert journeys, and
Sunday afternoon football
All parts of who we are

Surgery, on one level
separating us, parceling out
what’s not needed
to be healthy
and grow stronger

Should you decide
psychic surgery is needed, and
something beyond cosmetic fixing
choose truth, as the knife
used to remove what’s no longer needed

No Escaping Who You Are

Escape your lies and self-deception
like time out runs the clock
and like the waves
always stay ahead of the ocean

Whatever you hold onto is nothing
compared to what is left
after you let go of the illusions
blocking your path to reality

No matter how hard you try
there is no escaping who you are
Eventually all clouds clear
and the real you shines through

Once it does, there is no hiding
no more pretending
you can be anything better
than who you already are

Life’s Paradigm Shifts

Life changes sometimes, in major ways
Those markedly different, than what we know
Ways resembling tectonic plate shifts
building, unseen, over time

Paradigmatic changes: destroying old foundations
creating new ones, undergirding our being
Changes taking us back, to our essence
To the beginning seed, we didn’t know we were

Suddenly, there we find ourselves
like a new seashell, washed ashore
to be collected and transported, or
left as material for tomorrow’s beach

Easy answers escape us at these times
All questions new, too unformed for our lips
But one thing for certain
change is, and change we are

Hanging in there, but for what?

Give up, life ends
Hold on, life lingers with you
like an extra breath
you never knew you had

Like daylight savings time
you get more time to shine
Forget who you are, and
everything you lived for totals nothing

Swim to the ocean’s bottom
There you start over
like the sun every day, and
like each evaporating moment

Then, there is the time in between, when
nothing before or after
can free you, like
you can free yourself

Parallel Universes Inside Us

Like me, do you wonder
about parallel universes?
Subtle places, inside us
not outside us
Yet, out of reach
with our hands, conscious thinking-minds
Deep pools for reflection
mirroring our thoughts, feelings, actions
in archetypal ways
Like an ocean’s bottom
is read by sonar

Some say, there is a rabbit hole
cutting through the universe
ignoring all space and time
Starting one moment before Genesis
ending one moment after Revelations
Seems more likely
this tunnel is inside us
connecting conscious and subconscious

Like you, I want to know…
whatever there is to know
about these places
how to get there
how to get out, once there
and back safe and sound

Does Continental Airlines fly there?

Pondering Something Larger

We’re borrowed, from something larger
Not borrowed like a cup of sugar
from the next door neighbor
Nothing that simple, or sweet

We can’t quite grasp this something
therefore, no idea its size, our size
In this case, size REALLY doesn’t matter

This something, beyond space, time
any physical properties, dimensions
No location; neither here nor there

This something, identityless
No face, gender or name
like Yahweh, Jehovah, Brahman

Neither this nor that, because
it has no divisions or parts
like a car, body or solar system

Since we’re borrowed
we don’t own ourselves
We owe it all
to this something larger

Our Attitude about Money

money isn’t the devil
some say it is
it’s a reality of our existence
and can be a resource for good

how we come by it matters, and
how we use it is important
not a ticket to happiness, and
many other things are more important

though, it concerns me
when folks disparage money
calling it the root of all evil
saying it doesn’t matter

it also worries me
when people only want money
don’t care about other people and things
believing money and life purpose are the same

our attention manifests the life we have
no more, no less
same is true with money, and
everything else in life

if there isn’t enough money in your life
ask yourself why
explore your deepest attitude about money
it may be an impoverished one

life doesn’t stop for us

life doesn’t stop for us
like some bus, picking us up, dropping us off
there’s no stopping what’s always been
and without reason
reinvents itself moment by moment

it just moves through us
that’s all it’s supposed to do
it’s not yours, or mine, to keep
given what it is
let’s not stand in its way
try to slow it down, or
even speed it up

don’t believe me?
let’s hold our breath
as though that changes anything
eventually, we’ll breathe
and life continues on

in case we’re wondering
death brings no end to life, only us
think naming things stops their becoming?
think again
better yet
just let life go on, and
let’s get out of its way

Transforming the Mental Onion

mind, like an onion
growing layer upon layer
each wanting to be peeled
explored
granted a reality
a wish to be more
anything transcending the layers

layers growing inside outward
each subsequent one larger
yet all the same, just layers
ripples on the mind’s surface water
curved lines with no beginning or end
no independent existence
never free of all else

in the end
just swirling circles
atop formless prima materia
seeking to become more
than an onion
in the alchemist’s flask

Note: Toss an onion into an alchemist’s flask and this is what you get. What do you get?

Lines

lines in life, drawn between this and that
sometimes easy to draw
often hard to erase
once in place, leaving impressions
like those left by a full moon
on a farmer’s resting field
on a biting cold winter’s eve
like those cut by a determined river
following its surging heart to sea
like those etched into our faces
from years of smiling or frowning
and finally
like those in a poem
connecting and separating words
to give meaning

Freedom

freedom, is not:
   having the world at will
   being whatever you like
   having everything you want
   going wherever you desire
   sleeping in, while everyone else in working
   staying up as long as you like
   having nothing left to lose
   what your willing to fight and die for
   absence of constraint and determination
   even a completely blank slate to write on
finally, freedom is not your state of being
if you have to think about it

Reality: Not What We Think

reality, conditioned
like a farmer’s field
growing dreams
we feed ourselves and others
mind falling in love with itself
forsakes reality
for maya’s magical spell

faces, only what we see
not what lies beneath them
so sweet, so natural
each sip, intoxicating
each illusion, giving birth to others
each dream spins into the next

then
mastering all forms of illusion
the magician inside us falls prey
to his own tricks
no way out, he dies

everything shifts
the cart topples
we fall out, naked
stripped of illusion
finally reality appears

Note: This poem embodies the concepts of nonduality,
maya (illusion) and spiritual awakening from the Upanishads,
which are ancient Vedic texts, discussing Hindu philosophy
dealing with the nature of the universe and soul.

Ecstacy in High Contemplation

By St. John of the Cross

1. I entered into unknowing,
yet when I saw myself there,
without knowing where I was,
I understood great things;
I will not say what I felt
for I remained in unknowing
transcending all knowledge.

2. That perfect knowledge
was of peace and holiness
held at no remove
in profound solitude;
it was something so secret
that I was left stammering,
transcending all knowledge.

3. I was so ‘whelmed,
so absorbed and withdrawn,
that my senses were left
deprived of all their sensing,
and my spirit was given
an understanding while not understanding,
transcending all knowledge.

4. He who truly arrives there
cuts free from himself;
all that he knew before
now seems worthless,
and his knowledge so soars
that he is left in unknowing
transcending all knowledge.

5. The higher he ascends
the less he understands,
because the cloud is dark
which lit up the night;
whoever knows this
remains always in unknowing
transcending all knowledge.

6. This knowledge in unknowing
is so overwhelming
that wise men disputing
can never overthrow it,
for their knowledge does not reach
to the understanding of not
understanding,
transcending all knowledge.

7. And this supreme knowledge
is so exalted
that no power of man or learning
can grasp it;
he who masters himself
will, with knowledge in
unknowing,
always be transcending.

8. And if you should want to hear:
this highest knowledge lies
in the loftiest sense
of the essence of God;
this is a work of his mercy,
to leave one without
understanding,
transcending all knowledge.

Note on St. John of the Cross: Saint John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz) (June 24, 1542 – December 14, 1591) was a major figure in the Catholic Reformation, a Spanish mystic and Carmelite friar born at Fontiveros, a small village near Ávila. He is renowned for his cooperation with Saint Teresa of Avila in the reformation of the Carmelite order, and for his writings; both his poetry and his studies on the growth of the soul (in the Christian sense of detachment from creatures and attachment to God) are considered the summit of mystical Spanish literature and one of the peaks of all Spanish literature. He is one of the thirty-three Doctors of the Church.

Facing Our Anonymity (Revised)

Not wanting to be known to others,
sometimes we choose to be anonymous.
Stripped of our identity by others,
we’re rendered at times anonymous.
At times , life’s pressures are too great
we can’t bear identify with the pain
life creates within us, and
we slip into anonymity.
Sometimes we remain behind our masks-
they are all we know
we cannot escape them.
Then there are times, when
without provocation,
we wake up one morning,
no longer liking who or what we are,
and enter the world nameless and faceless.

disappearing garter snakes in the garden

two newborn garter snakes slither
like placeless rivers in concert
through the dancing delphiniums

they find their way–
God only knows how and to where–
through the foreboding snapdragons
   then
disappear into thin air
an alien abduction    maybe
but gone in any case

the rest of the day
   while not over
seems to limp    in the direction
of where the tiny snakes
exited the universe

Secrets Hiding in the Shadows of the Waxing Gibbous Moon

It is the small secrets
that grow overwhelming large
in invisible shadows cast
by the waxing gibbous moon
that become your life,
forever changing who you are.
It is the large things
giving birth to the shadows
that flush you out to deep sea
where you must tread water long enough
until the right wave can carry you back
in the direction of your dreams.

Looking Back on Longfellow Bridge

Crossing the Longfellow Bridge into Cambridge
The sweet scent of brainpower all about
Harvard, MIT, and so much more
Makes me wonder how my life
might have been different had I risked
the Anthropology program at Harvard in 1974
Had I said yes to a dream carrying me
to remote corners of the world
Had I taken flight to distant planets
without names
All making me wonder
what persona I would be wearing
thirty-three years later
Asking the spirit of Longfellow I hear:
“All things must change to something new,
to something strange”
Indeed they do Henry, indeed they do

Beyond You and Me

Every time I open my eyes
I see a you and me.
Even when I close my eyes
you and I continue to exist,
because these eyes and this mind
are conditioned to separate
what really exists as one.
The you that I see
is everything that I’m not.
The me that I see
is always a familar stranger
catching himself looking
into the cosmic mirror of life.
The me that you see
is the me that
you think I am
and the me that
I reflect from the mirror.
If we crawl much deeper
into this cosmic space,
all lines between us give way
to something singular
that exceeds whatever
you or I represent
separately or together.
In this space
you and I cease to exist.
For in this space,
nothing exists–
no you or me–
separate from anything else.
And in this space
you and I surrender
all form and conditioning.
And there we rest us one.

Note: This poem embodies the concept
of nonduality, which is a literal translation
of the Sanskrit term advaita. That is,
things remain distinct while not being separate.
Want to learn more, click here.

A Metaphysical Dissertation on Being Who You Are

If nothing else,
don’t doubt yourself.
If nothing else,
don’t discount the wisdom
planted deep inside you
from the very moment
of your birth.
If nothing else,
don’t be afraid
to be yourself
in all your glory.
If nothing else,
don’t for a moment
waste your life wishing
you were something
or someone else.
Should you decide
you want to be
something more,
start first
by being who you are.
Chances are
you will find
no need to be anything
more than you already are.

Suggestion: Read this one speedily and it will hit you where it matters.
Pretend you are a machine gun reading this poem.
Click here to hear me read this poem.
[odeo=http://odeo.com/audio/13322623/view]

Keys

Yesterday
three new keys
were made.
Spare keys
but new keys.
Keys brought into being
by conscious action.
Identical keys
opening the same doors
I’ve always opened
but now
with new keys.
Each opening doors
to the world
where I live now.
Then another key
different than the others
shows up in the mail
without my asking.
A world map
showing new worlds
tumbles unexpectedly
from an envelope.
All keys pointing
to coming changes.
The first three
urge me to look
for new ways
to open doors
in the world
where I already live.
The last key points
to a larger world
to be opened
with new keys
soon to be made.

Click here to hear me read this poem:
[odeo=http://odeo.com/audio/13319133/view]

Three Short Poems

#1
Mediocre.
Average.
Run of the mill.
That’s what we become
when we try to be
something we’re not.
To excel, be who you are.

#2
Status quo.
Breaking even.
Par for the course.
That’s what happens
when we fail
to take risks in our lives.
Blaze a new trail to find happiness.

#3
Sour grapes.
Missed shots in life.
Looking back,
hoping for something different.
The past doesn’t change.
Give the future our best shot.
That’s all we have.

Fountain of Youth.

Being around young people
awakens your child within–
that original seed born
and giving rise to all that follows
in your life.
Exposure to youthful yearnings
and unanalyzed ideas
lifts the veil off the overjudged,
seriously questioned,
and programmed face you wear
when you grow older.
Something inside you changes
when a young spirit touches you,
releasing the kid within
who wants so desparately
to experience things afresh
and without known boundaries.
It’s not the water you drink
that keeps you young.
It’s allowing young spirits to touch
that part of you that never grows old.

To hear this poem:
[odeo=http://odeo.com/audio/13260003/view]

On Being Who We Are

I could be lots of things in life,
including things that I’m not.
So could you.
We have a choice between
being who we are
and being who we’re not.

I’m not trying to poke you in the eye
with truth or anything so resembling,
and you should know that
I’m not above mistakes,
and yes at times,
I am guilty of serious misdirection.
So please don’t put me on a pedestal,
or any other place up high,
but do consider,
just for one moment,
the possibility that light can emerge
in any of us
during our darkest hour,
and make us shine forth.

It troubles me,
and probably you too,
that somehow some of us think at times
that some of us somehow are entitled to more,
or something special,
that the rest of us cannot receive.
That’s nonsense!
In fact, it’s the farthest thing from the truth.

So next time you think of distant galaxies–
places your imagination can hardly reach,
consider the possibility that each of us
in our own special way
can find happiness, truth, and
most importantly liberation
from all that obsesses us
and drives us completely mad.

So I could be lots of things in life,
and so could you, but
the real question is:
Can we just be ourselves
and find happiness in that?

Click here to hear me read this poem.

Dangling in the Echo of Spring

Bright morning sun drapes itself
like a silver silk scarf
on the fluttering pendulous shaped leaves
of the drooping white birch tree
in the front yard,
where sits an ever so proud,
but exhausted mother cardinal,
doing her best to feed bits of seed,
carefully chosen from the nearby rocket-shaped feeder,
to the two impatient youngsters at her side.
A slight warming breeze fills the yard,
stirring the Himalayan wind chimes,
hanging and dancing from a limb
of the nearby crab apple.
Their earthy hollow echo sweeps me
across the yard
and deep into the moment,
leaving me dangling
on the delicate vibrating edge of time.
There I hover till the cardinals
break the silence with their wings.

Click here to hear me read this poem.

Click here to hear the poetry of the Himalayan wind chimes.

Going Beyond Life’s Cliches

Lift me past
the cliches of life.
Those proto-ordinary word-images
that stick in your hand
as it strives to write original words
and lines of words that form and flow
like no other words or lines written.

But who am I to think
that anything
could possibly be new
in this world that goes on and on–
past us and always after us?

Who are we, as word-bound bards,
to think anything is special
because it is our time
to rise and fall,
like the sun and moon,
which have done the same,
without our help,
for millenia before us,
and will likely for millenia after us?

Who are we to postulate
we are anything more
than God ever intended
from the very beginning, and
I mean the beginning of all beginnings
when all things, including God, began?

Is there any wonder
I should want to rise above
the cliches forever grabbing truth
from the hands of ordinary people such as us,
who live and die,
like the cliches we spew about us,
hoping we can be different?

Click here to hear me read this poem.