The Last of Them

The Transient

Further down the long white road
merging with the flanking fields,
a darker illusion stands waiting,
a stranger I once knew.
The approach reveals the illusion
to simply be an exposed part
of the dirt beneath the snow,
elongated to suggest height
from a distance I once knew.
Numb, yet aching fingers
flick ashes out the cracked window,
as the relentless tires rush over
the illusion I once knew.
Exhaust disappears quickly
in the frozen morning air,
and smoke rolls over chapped lips
leaving behind a fix, reminiscent
of the dreams I once knew.

Draco

Belated is your arrival
as all is prepared
and your path laid out before you.
Boisterous ones await the momentum
your passing will provide.
Elders fear the numbing stagnation
your presence will leave behind.
Red cheeks,
violet hands hurry
as your violent breaths
herald your approach.
Are we to awake
and find you have gone?
Are we to awake
to your icy desolation
of a world that knew warmth
merely a moon ago?
Are we to awake
to icy nips and blanketed snow?

The Pair Tree

Coupled in the least amount
that defines "accompanied",
is the amount that vanquishes 
singular ideas and explanations.
It is the binary ballocks that leads the great hunt,
and yet when married,
rediscovers the original solace in deeper complexity.
It is the birth of both
when individuals impale themselves on the pair tree.
A paradigm of a paradox
is the pair-a-twins who follow the bull.
Warring aspects that perfectly combine
in the smallest combination to rule the ages,
and set dominion over expectations and species.
The smallest key to earthly existence and desire is
to acquire the fruit of the pair tree,
bite in, 
and revel in all that the juice has to offer.

Heart Chakra enamored

A Father's Advice

A sparse stand of grain
is left in life to reap a bounty of wisdom from
The sowers that have come before
have left few fields and the golden heads are fewer yet
But in the last acreage
that memory has visited with an empty stomach
There is a small ripe patch,
which offers the gleaner promise
In applying sickle to straw
it is understood that all is not lost
when going over the edge
the sower advised many years ago
to be fully aware
when going over the edge
for there is no point to hide
when going over the edge
In the end there are two conclusions
in a trip over the edge
Either one finds an ultimate end
to a physical life
or one survives
In both cases, the sower told that
when going over the edge
one must keep their eyes wide open
and enjoy the journey to either end
For when going over the edge
it is an extraordinary experience
and one can either be imprisoned by fear
or completely liberated by it
As gravity soon recalls those
when they go over the edge
it is in that moment that one can revel
and take in the rare occurrence
And if the journey is survived
a tremendous story can later be told
and if the journey meets a final end
those last moments can be spent
in pleasure rather than in pain

One night...

When we are awakened by loved ones 

who have already made their earthly beds,

moments are created where cranial sutures swell at their seams

and unnoticed pulses race 

amidst the stage-stealing lack of breath.

Those times are only sought

when search is surrendered

and heavy hearts melt in pouring disappointments.

When those loved ones pull on toes 

hanging out from the covers,

to give rise to verses and brief moments of debating,

"Was that, or wasn't it?  

Did it, or didn't it?"

Only then is the bridge gapped 

to where one knows,

and sees life is well beyond the blanketed bed.

Curiosity

Circumnavigation is the rule of the game
for all succumb to the circle, eventually.
Some fly, some crawl,
others crawl only to fly,
but all are making their rounds this time.
And other times will ebb and flow
in the near infinite plain we all walk.
It is what's beyond this plain,
the great unknown,
that we not only ponder, but often
argue about and destroy others
while defending precious hypotheses.
This curiosity affects all,
from drifting rocks on arid plains,
to lightning strikes and hurricanes,
to the obvious scholar behind a book,
to the more obscure babbling brook.
From the delicate airborne fruits,
to the ravenous and thirsty tree roots,
to cats that can't seem to help themselves,
to all the unread words kept on dusty shelves.
Knowledge is a vibrant word
that is the sweet nectar to our wavering minds.
Wholly satisfying is it when new,
greatly taken for granted when old,
and always forgotten to only become
ever-satisfying once again.
Though some have seemed to have had their fill,
others desperately seek it, sacrificing their own will.
It tortures many, eludes quite a few,
and transforms only those who allow it.
Regardless of this, it beckons to all,
serving as its own gravitational call
on all energy throughout this plain of existence.

Time of the Southern Sun

In the time when the tiniest of flitters
flutter through the sinking light
that catches the drifting silks
of the sly and hungry weavers,
the earth can slowly sigh
and take in a moment of rest.
For this is the time of the Southern Sun,
when green gives way to gold
and crimson and blushing violets.
The skies fill up with vivid
hues that return from their
long and distant journey to the
Northern lands of ice.
They return to reminisce
with the children of the Southern Sun
and hear tales of how the earth
has greatly provided abundance
once more for the lengthy nap ahead of them.
The setting rays lull one to
heed the season's pending warning,
and overwhelming calm
relaxes all senses, while the tiny flitters
flutter in and out of the hungry weaver's silks.
Their illuminated wings twinkle
with their rapid movement,
busy in their own endeavors
to stave off the frost's lethal grasp.
Their larger counterparts have all
but gone, as the icy nips have already dealt their blow.
Yet the tiny flitters still flutter
in this time of the Southern Sun
when the warmth lingers just a little longer.

Clocking

The impetuous fourth dimension
serves cold meals to its dwellers,
and no offer,
no bribe, no entreat
can ever buy it from its sellers.
Lucifer's own lips can't loosen
the ticking away from the tock.
The true master
has mastered
the unending hands of the clock,
and has placed that rhythm, life's
own pulse, within each mortal being.
Off they scurry,
keys turned tight,
while their own ticking is fleeing.
Pass from glance to day, season
to era, then eon and far beyond,
clocks reviewed
and recycled,
wait for the master to respond.
No other intervention can attempt
to turn the hands of each clock,
neither forward
nor in the past,
for each lives a measured walk.