Act/React

React
Or
Power forming from my
Act
Shun
I feel power in my 
React 
Shun
Because I'm an act
Or...

I read today...

I read today, and found that there are people out there who still believe that we are headed toward a higher consciousness, and I was amazed anyone could still think that.  Then I started thinking about why I didn't believe that was true anymore.  I know I certainly used to think that.  Then it hit me- that there seems to be a growing distance between what is true for an individual, and what is true for a group of people.  So perhaps "we" are not headed for higher consiousness, but the door is wide open for the individual.

I think this is a time when the individual is particularly primed for higher understanding and self-knowledge, but collectively, we may actually be going backwards.  Our culture, our identity, and especially the things we value are getting more petty, fleeting, and shallow seemingly every day.  For the individual, this is a very trying time.  I swear, I can almost hear people crying out from the inside in their pain, their dissatisfaction, and their generally being fed-up with this spiritually dead culture we've insulated ourselves into.  For the person who is self-aware enough, this dissatisfaction can lead to asking "why?", and thus to personal growth. 

Collectively, all I can tell you is how I feel about it.  This cultural depression has been affecting me very negatively.  With each year for the last couple, I've found it harder and harder to shake off the "what's the point" feeling that I get every time I listen to the news (which I frequently go out of my way to avoid), or even to the conversations I hear around me.  I've been trying to shut it out and simply focus on my life, and what I need to do while I'm here, but still it gets harder.  As a group, we're headed for something- a crisis, I feel- and the anxiety of that looming thing is palpable.  Perhaps I should learn not to fear it, but embrace it.  God knows our way of thinking needs a change.  And as they say, crises precipitate change.

Photos to go with "subtle"

A few weeks ago, Beth and I took a walk in the woods.  To go along with my last poem, "subtle", I posted some pictures on my shutterfly site:
HERE

subtle

the rock and twist

of an oak leaf's fall

is gentle in the sway

but a fall nonetheless

He, She

I asked

if she weren’t also searching

for a place to stand on.

She said

she always would be.

I said

that we’re constantly incomplete.

She said,

we’re standing on nothing.

I didn’t see that coming-

that I’d create myself a world

complete without her,

just to have it threatened

by her.

So...

I've been going back through a lot of my old notebooks from years ago.  Most of it is pretty awful, but there have been things that caught my eye.  I may be trying to clean some of them up and post them on here for posterity.  Many of them have to do with being heartsick- there were many years that I had no direction in my lovelife.  Hell, being confused about love is a constant in everyone's life, no matter what stage of life you find yourself in.  So if you're someone I love, or loved, please don't take offense, and know that many of these memories have now turned happy.

Untitled

Scar tissue doesn't really tan,

your celebrities don't really breathe,

and there's a Wal-Mart blocking my view of the sunset.

Fall Back, Part 2

Yes, it’s only one, but it should be two:

windchimes tinkle and yard dogs croon.

warped reflection in a silver spoon

the drunks peel out of their favorite saloons.

He grins and breathes, the man named Kuhn:

he’s watching the searchlights that search for the moon.

If you sleep through this night, then kudos to you,

but you’re missing this sight, so shame on you too!

Two in the morning but really, it’s three:

there’s a feeling that all this was (not) meant to be.

The shadows themselves are skinning their knees.

The fish in the deep are swimming in threes.

The squirrels are hoarding their treasures in trees,

while the trees themselves, they sigh and they wheeze.

The squirrels are wild, and do as they please,

but the trees remain steadfast, and remind us to breathe.

It’s three in the morning, supposed to be four.

Poets wake wives with refrigerator doors.

Live, and live now, the electricity implores,

as the shadows outside still run and cavort.

The balconies and spirits, they roll and distort;

collapse on themselves and finally abort.

The waking world looms: soon must come sleep.

The crazy waves break, the electricity recedes.

Four in the morning, what difference is five?

Whispered, not shouted, come spirits’ replies.

No more are fridge doors waking up poets’ wives:

the poets are sleeping, succumbed to the wine.

The life of the dying becomes hushed by sunrise,

and will be dead by dawn, making room for new life.

Fall Back, Part 1

Fall Back, Part 1

The life of the dying

Is acrid and pungent;

Smoky.

Electric.

Spirits call in the rustlings of November trees.

(Cease. Cease…)

Silhouettes move against the darkness,

stark as a splinter: your glance, moving, catches against the woodgrain,

and poets sit on balconies in recognition, like Pamplona spectators.

Night revelers feel it as the need to live more.

To move,

To live now.

(Impending death, as resuscitation.)

Doors knock on themselves, windows rattle and chatter,

Invisible things thrive as if they were visible.  As if in daylight.

The parking lot is empty, but you’d never know it with your eyes closed.

The crickets sing out in defiance of the season,

improbable.

Pen cap litter, loiters discarded on concrete.

Let fly, crazy man, deny it no further:

It’s only one, when it should be two!

it’s harvest moon

it’s midnight noon

it’s spirits’ boon.

Windchimes tinkle and yard dogs croon.

Cold squash soup and infant’s tune.

And we will all be this way soon.

Yes, we will all be this way soon.