There are iron bars

There are iron bars
in strands of dna
locking life behind them,
But they are also…

Ladders spiraling into oblivious lifeforms
Spatters of cells without locks
That morph and grow and talk
About the meaning of life

And although we can evolve
And find riddles to solve,
We are ever answering
to the limited flesh

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Published in: on November 5, 2014 at 8:58 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Our Lives are Unfolding

Our lives are unfolding
Like origami

Creases are undone
We are returning to
Simple paper
With marks that show
We were once beautiful cranes,
Fancy napkins,
Cootie catcher fortune tellers.

In the end, we are all the same.
Squares of paper, blank slates
Mere cloth on laps
Open maps

After one bad bend, turn and smooth
There is a groove that beckons all future moves
Actions that make wrinkles,
Our mistakes, lines in our palms
Spelling longevity or brevity.

Our lives are unfolding
Like picnic quilts

Snapped open
And drifted to ground like fall leaf parachutes
We find a simpler time
To be alive
gleaming and gnawing
On rinds and bones
In an open space far from home

In the end, we are all the same.
Patchwork patterns
Loose stitches
Laced by ancestry,
A beautiful barrier from feeling the earth
And a tool for getting fresh air

Our lives are unfolding
Like old love letters found in hope chests,
A careful dumping of heart-wrought ink
That eventually fills us with longing or grief
Such simple paper
That echoes in the halls of memory

In the end, it is all the same
We fold back up,
envelope ourselves in long cedar boxes,
Mere parchment etched with
Sequestered confessions
Our crow’s feet biographies and laugh lines
Denied light or wistful gaze
Forever tucked away.

Published in: on January 17, 2013 at 10:09 pm  Comments (3)  
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Learning to be a competant breather

Life is as hard as diamonds and cuts like them too. But if you slice a diamond just right, that rock can sparkle. For most, life is a longing for that sparkle.

We spend long hours in dusky air-choked mine-shafts looking for that glimmer of hope. Statistically, it eludes us and we settle for some nicely polished granite stones engraved with our names.

Then, there are the few who see the sparkle within themselves. There is no longing or searching. They have dumped the contents of their soul onto the proverbial floor, surveyed the goods and have determined that what they see is everything they’ll ever need.

They exist in the moment. When life gets hard and cuts, they take a cue from time, knowing they can only live in each second. They understand their enigmatic human body is designed to heal from the inside out. Living isn’t any easier for them as it is for anybody else, but their realization carries them a long way. Such a person hardly cares about polished granite stones.

I surmise those who search don’t think too fondly of those who just exist. Perhaps someone who is content to merely exist has actions, motives and words that are foreign to the Searchers. The Searchers must think, “What fool can be happy with so little? They should be trying as hard as I am. You haven’t found anything and shouldn’t stop now.” A frantic person does not appreciate a person who is still. Ask a person who is about to be late and has lost their keys if they think they will still be alive in 45 minutes.

I know a woman. She has the good sense to know she had that sparkle inside. Searchers pull her like taffy and guilt her into their dank lair, not for the sake of appreciated company, but to rid themselves of their own misgivings about their fruitless quest.

I try to understand the Searchers motives:

“To be okay with myself, I must validate that the way I live is right. Therefore, if someone is doing it differently, they must be doing it wrong. I will feel better about myself if I point this out and save them from their erroneous ways. I cannot bear the thought that they might be living the right way, let alone better than me. Because I am showing them the way life ought to be, in a way, it will be like saving them. I am a hero for having tried.”

It’s another fruitless pursuit, Searchers. Once an Exister has discovered the art of being, that awareness cannot be undone, only forgotten. The most vanquished soul is an Exister who has lost their way. They have resigned to searching but are unconsciously awaiting instructions as to what the prize actually is. It is absolute unnerving futility and it leads to inexplicable madness.

The woman I know will remember the sparkle. Unfortunately, it may require an earthquake that ruins the very foundation that supports her, reducing it to smithereens.

Buildings will crash around her like plaster waves, scattering their pulverant debris in the typewriter ribbon streets; sin sitting in knots in the pits of the bellies of all the victims- merely lost souls who never found their gem. She’s never willfully brought harm to anyone, but she will initially feel like a roach- alive and despised.

She is not a heroine.

But alas! She is! She breathes!

When she rises like a phoenix from the disheveled mess around her, bewildered and distressed, her clothes, strips of muslin hanging loosely from her frame, ragged and mangled like a ship’s sails; she will not be remembered for valor and fortitude. She did not perform a feat of incredible strength or save a fellow man’s life, let alone a kitten. She will be momentarily regarded simply because she clawed her way from the rubble and chose to stand up. Her victory will be in the modest effort she made to continue breathing when she could have sacrificed herself to despair.

“Fall seven times, stand up eight.” ~Japanese Proverb

Published in: on April 15, 2010 at 12:09 am  Comments (5)  
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The Windmill of my Mind

My chamber

dry and still

waits

for the beta breath

the tender cilia-

such fields of grain

anticipating

that gentle wave

.

And when it comes

alive with motion;

churning the turbine,

acumen firing

and sputtering

at the start,

the rust shall fall

from the leaden layers and

the thrusting pistons;

then I will rise!

.

Each whirling contraption

humming along

basted with the living grease,

corroded circuits arcing the gap,

no matter how great the leap,

for there is no greater honor

than to empower the unliving thing

and suscitate that which was made

but never used.

Published in: on March 9, 2010 at 11:04 pm  Comments (4)  
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