At the Edge of the Grass

How soon is too and what is in the ocean?
Things I reflect upon when I'm tired and spent
But because I have traipsed into a newer dimension
I must continue its walk, halfway across the floor
Keep in mind this is no lamentation piece or prose
Just a reminder of how I felt this day, or always
Rest for my mind, for it grows ever more weary
And so it is, my candle still burns bright, unkempt
No irony or contradiction, just an endless flow
For now to speak on energy, my body is in abundance
Of which it lends that my mental knife keeps sharp
Varied are the ways we walk, but always, to the same end

Once, a man can give anything, but twice you say?
Yes, a spoken word that is never written withers much
And two lifetimes split, can be housed in the same dwelling
For he always searches for what he can never find nor keep
Unless reversed, and then the time finds him without query
But it does good to not consider all of these such things
For little is to be gathered from judging every fallen petal
Collect them still, and pack them away into a proper box
Then, when the seasons grow short as they will: Remember
Not just that you are dying, but that you have also lived
Some pieces, they fit better in place than others ever do
All, however, have been comprised for a subtle whole

What moment does come now that changes tomorrow?
Many they say, or at least enough to replenish your cup
Be wary about what fills it though, lest drowning suits
Once, or many times, and the air, becomes harder to breathe
Live enough days to figure out that pride never abides
That its a broken thought amongst men, primal and doomed
Also, you will come across many your share of empty ruse
But if its truly something , there will clearly be nothing else at all
So tell it loudly, with all transcendence or simply let it  rest
Because there is only one which way in which to speak forever
Not from lips, but from deep within; Unhesitatingly and bold
And I, having surmised to have finished walking, come to kneel

The Tortoise

People don’t realize
No, how could they
As the weather turns
It’s more than just
The Earth, It’s another
Place, A new Earth
More than just a day
But part of their life
That’s ended, gone
So many moments
When you’re young
You think your bag
Is endless, unexplored
But as sapling leaves
Grow, they wither too
And the days of youth,
Cycle from long epochs
Into shorter sonnets
Sweet, as wine tastes
And warm is summer
The middle part, the best
We futilely cling, grasp
At days long in the Sun
But fail to stop and think
This is already over too
As soon as its spoke
It has become complete
Don’t dance fast child
At least stay and speak
For remembering,
It slows down the reap
Harvest comes tomorrow
If in fact, it comes at all
I smashed the clock
Tore away its hands
I screamed and wailed
Said not before I’m spent
The miles upon my feet
Just whispers of places
I’ve been before this day
Perhaps just dreams
Of things I thought I
Knew, or the beginning
I slept swiftly through
Until today, I swore
I did not understand
And how can practice
Count as if it were true
A young man battling,
In a middle man’s shoes
Don’t hold your breath
Because dreaded time
It has no need for you

Unforgotten Grace

The darkness cannot find you, not in the wind

It was just something, a thing I needed to believe

Once, but it was more frequent than a single tome

Daily, destitute journeys in search of a quite peace

And as I recollect, I tremble now, much removed

For serenity has no hold in the cacophony of pain

Imagine, as best as I can define, a chronic distortion

Of time, the senses--In every breath that you exhale

A man learns quickly that respiration, while vital

It can never constitute being alive, no not exactly

Existence, is easily the worst state of human capacity

Longingly waiting for the bus ride to reach its end

Certain respite, from an ailment inconceivably miffed

Storms I know—and all a man ever harnessed before

Grace, a word which found me hiding inside the void

Too frightened to capitulate, Far more weary to run

There is no answer, for lying awake on a frosty couch

Rancor, it clung about my spirit, and darkness danced

All at once what saved me, had always been my fall

Run child, into open fields, the wind is promised you

Only if you hurry, for faith not waits on contemplation

Calculation demerits a saving hand, and freedom withers

Be sure though, no man escapes a lifetime on will alone

One step, and one day, then another, and still some more

Choosing actively to erase a passive past, without sight

But for the hand of a face I have never seen, I remain

Lost, out in the outlands—dead before a vile, raging Sea

Instead, four summers now, I have chased a calling voice

My truth, light and way are all encompassed—in one place

Mirrors or Spokes on the Wheel

How then, will you know the truth 

As it comes rushing into your face

Stealing the very breath you've held

Waiting for the approach of grace

When all of your previous journey

Held more doubt than faith could shore

Which moment then, makes it whole

Or absolute, Opens the eyes to see

That dusk has fallen, on Yesterday

 Finally, you have been cast free

 So, could the God you claim to know

Have poured upon you hallowed sound

For if you say true, then love does grow

From the endless places, never seen

And your mind elates with melody

One that the darkness, it never knew

Tell me then, who amongst you denies

The future, or the presence of its face

Parking Spaces

Saturday is for focusing

Which is why I’m scattered

The words slipping past

Receptors, though I know them

The distinctiveness of the moment

Eludes my coffee addled veins

But it’s both familiar, and fun

And I feel most free when

I can diagnose the world,

Instead of the old bramble bush

With more branches,

Than for which I have the time

But you meet these other people

Who are simple, Their rest

It comes easy and you wonder

How can they not want more

Or hunger, at least that

Because a poet lives for beauty

Even at the risk of everything

He’s rather tragic,

Though sometimes beautiful

And his ubiquity,

It becomes confused with vanity

It’s a lie though, a farce

Some are just in touch deeply,

Lovers who believe

In tomorrow, or anything

That’s been told them in a dream

So they write about it, I do

Because words are the concrete

To an abstract reality, 

The cornerstones that separate

Truth from the void