Eyes open to the blackened sky.
I find myself on scattered rocks.
Cold waves wash over me as I struggle to remember.
Ravens call across the bay.
In the distance a portal opens and for the first time in years I feel hope.
Ravens now carry the fragments I desire to keep.
The dirt road lined with pine and poplar
exists in familiar land and on the map,
but standing here beneath the northern sky
as the cool wind brushes the lake,
I am without time or space.
In moments where I become aware
of my contact with the earth,
does it matter where I exist
physically when everything else
I am is scattered to the sea,
the sun, and the stars?
Behind the red glass
what being or consciousness
watches our every move?
The voice behind the glass
asks one clear question:
why won’t you let me out?
Beneath the new moon
questions become more frequent,
secrets begin to spill.
** From the series “The Integration”
The sound of metal scraping across
rock strewn fields is not the imagination
filling time with stories and distracting
thoughts away from what appears to be inevitable.
No, that really is the machines
emerging from the dense forest.
That is the machines rewiring fluid thoughts,
adapting to the immediate environment
while focusing on the assigned task
while the human elements head toward the sea.
Edit of the previous posted here.
For now I am the winter
beneath the mask
revealed beneath the
cold water of the sea.
Eyes open to the sky
above the surface
breath held as snow begins.
Carried further into depths
away from the forming ice,
the sea floor echoes.
For now I am the winter
overtaking the autumn
slowing rivers and lakes
the graying sky swallows the sun.
Across the field a black swan
swoops low above
tall grass and sumac.
Winter’s presence everywhere
and nowhere as red wildflowers
disappear into white.
With an empty mind
free of obstructions
we can see and hear everything.
Each leaf in the tree canopy –
each breath across the sea –
each grain of sand.
Walking across the empty field
we hear each foot step
and see the wolf before it sees us.
Across the black sea I see nothing with these eyes
and I stand here not as I see myself
and not as I desire to be
but as the being accepted by the water.
Across the see littered
with fragments I am
but a whisper cast from
I hope with every last
shred of this being
that you are out there
waiting with patience
for my return from one
field and when I land
in the black waters I am
able to swim now free of myself.