edge

Poem – Beneath the Surface, On the Edge

A follow-up to a previous post – Beneath the Surface

What lies beneath the surface,
the playground of ancient times,
lands ruled by survival,
raw and primal,
we forever live on some edge
with a defensive posture
ready to protect at all costs.

That slippery edge of snow and ice
straddling deep valleys,
like the string holding a life together,
a tether anchoring to some reality.

Poem – Apathy

With an apathetic look in tired eyes
he turned away from the edge,
hundreds of feet above the turbulent
waters, and walked toward the forest,

across the empty road absent
of any traffic since the morning,
into the cultivated fields, curiously empty,
and sat next to the stone marker and finally wept.

Random 9/11 Thoughts

(1)

A depth of feeling
carried each day
buried into the subconscious
of each witness, born into
each offspring, burned into
humanities collective.

(2)

Questions will always outweigh
the answers when we attempt and
desire to look beneath the
surface, the material evidence,
the words and images – we want
the person’s thoughts, state
of mind, controlled actions, the
depth or lack of emotion.

The motivation. The why.

A snapshot of the moment’s impact.

What we all left behind
and what we are left with
incomplete and still searching.

(3)

Will closure ever come?

(4)

Even when we really do not
want to hear, the edge of
reason and the unknown can
only be walked for so long
before it takes over and consumes
and we free fall through the void
the dark night – or we accept
what is done, gather the pieces that
are left and attempt to rebuild.

Poem – Memories

On the cusp
between two worlds

the fine edge we walk
through each day.

One world filled with the
memories we choose to keep.

The other filled with what
we have left behind.

In the current understanding
time is a persistent reference

a way to communicate and exist
within this space.

But memories operate independently
wavering through all space

and the fabric that holds the
grid keeping us from flying off to nowhere.

They exist as energy and continue a journey
we started and they pass back and forth

ignoring conventional laws and mathematics
seeking out and obtaining experiences

from systems and lands we will never see
with our eyes but will return to our minds.

The Glassmaker is…

calling to me.  I guess I should back up from here.  What is actually calling me, is me.  My internal sense of where I am in life, how I live each day, is awake .  It is uneasy with the current state of the within and without.  It is pushing back to the surface all of the words I have spoken, all of my questions, everything I promised to myself, so that I may have the opportunity to review, reexamine, and make the next change.  To take the next step, as I must remain faithful to myself, community, my sphere of influence, and the universe.

I have been at that edge, the sheer tip of the blade, where each decision, each moment is tenuous and crucial to happens next.

I have failed, and fallen off that tip.

I have shattered and through honesty and integrity, the glassmaker put me back together from the pieces and fragments I chose to keep.

I am ready to shatter again, so that I may rebuild, keeping what is healthy and useful, and discarding what is holding me back.

How will I find the glassmaker again? What plane of existence do they live within?  The answer is easy, but the realization, the work, the pain, is the difficult part of the journey.  The glassmaker is within.

Fragment 1

I am awake
and waiting to awake.

This nature of being
being within nature.

Fog swallows the landscape
the knowledge I desire to swallow.

Cold clear dead sky wavers
reality wavers between life and death.

I am awake in the evening
therefore the evening has awakened.

I see the black sky
the black sky sees me.

Surface of the sun chaotic, scorching
the chaos created through thought and religion.

The collective belief fuels the machine
we run from the machine destroying the empty fields.

The minds struggle with system-less existence
we fight the tangled matrix and system of control.

Deep sleep through atmospheric storms
the minds’s deep shaft yet to reach the core.

I stand at the ocean lapping at the fields edge
with no definition and I struggle to know which
I am actually within and which I should walk towards.

The sun has risen low in the cloudless sky
yet I am surrounded by purples, oranges, and reds.

An artists palette held by the one hand I cannot see
outside the eyes, and I imagine St Peter’s painted ceiling.

Have you met the great artists forced
to an earthly bond now free with infinite
colors and brushes, the sky river, and land canvas?