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The Castle and the ForestOver the fields filled with water
The clouds hang low
Plentifully dotted across the sky
A phantasmagoric duochrome
Blue and white castles
Rows of wet, healthy green trees
Swamps and bogs
And plains, and farmhouses
All - very distantly - within sight of the city
With its pillars of white
Plants, robust, rustic
And fences, and we pass under a bridge
And glimpse a patch of trees, green and brown
And over that way, the dark forest
And we're heading that way
A lone dog walker
The curve of the road, I feel it
All of creation beneath us
And people playing soccer
And the burgundy fields
What secrets does the green forest hold?
Dark and endless, beneath a western sky
And the bridge ahead, like a castle
Fingers pointed toward heaven
The bridge we do not take
Houses in the trees
Houses in the city
The forest is dead
The PainterThe road twists like a river, like a snake
Brings me past trees on the hills that roll
The brushstrokes of a master evidenced
In the absolute care and precision that
The leaves are dabbled on, pointed
Like hands, like hearts.
And the farms, fields cleared, ploughed,
Planted and harvested in good time
The geometry perfect, yet natural
The chronology - dare it be said - divine
And beside, the fields not man made
But cleared by the artist Himself.
Within I see flowers - white points -
Scattered randomly, beautifully
Lit along with the grass in an expertly
Executed wash of evening sunset,
Now disclosing bending, lovely, towering
Trees, oaks, pines, hemlocks, dignified
In their place on the canvas, but not
The main subject. Is there one?
Yes, for we see farmer working in the
Late afternoon light, finishing his work
Before he goes inside to sleep, and then
Arising once again. His visage is
Outlined against a subtle backdrop
A peaceful hamlet set in the green
Foothills of far-away
MilestoneClosing doors and scribbling pens
And it's long past midnight, wind blown
Hair and bloodshot eyes, bloodstained heart
Pumping time, pain on every start
My life is viewed through a dirty lens
The clock ticks away the ones and tens
Each pulse a milestone
Electrons fire deep into the night
My heart is a bird that's already flown
And far away my deadlines race
Evidence I'll never face
My pulse is unlocked, I know I'm right
My hopes and fears go bump in the night
Each breath a milestone.
Five-FourA pulse in my head, like somebody
Rewired my heart, a pulse so
Foreign and and exotic, so much like
Somebody has breathed
New life into my
Heart, skin and bones, so
I => Have
A new time signature
An extra pulse, extra
Time => To finish
What must be finished.
No heaviness now resides
In my soul, only light
And air, and springs
On my heels, more
My heart now runs
In 5/4 time.
The Lady of the NightWhen the moons cries, and the swans laugh
And the birds have stopped singing again
The beasts are in burrows, down they've lain
The lake fills with tears
Not disturbed by man, no midnight train
To paint new fears.
Though mind may run, our hearts will tire
The world around one big campfire
The wolves will howl, but they're all liars
They wake us up in spite
But no sounds nor cares would dare disturb
The beauty of the night.
The rain might fall upon our eaves
Our hearts will beat in fright
The shadows cast by fallen leaves
Our muscles loose and tight
But stars will shine, no troubling dreams
Can find us in their light
For now we're safe, wrapped in the cloak
Of the lady of the night.
BlindedSome say that stars rise, but
Lucifer was a morning star,
And he fell, as we all know;
Fell and fell til he hit
The ground, dazed and numb,
Swallowing his raging words.
He now rises to the dais, nervous
Worried, questioning, doubting
What he is about to do,
Rightfully so. We will learn
To hate him for this day.
His words thunder like a
Teautonic nightmare, viking
Storms, raging across the world.
He sees himself as a god, an
Aryan dream, but light - be it
Good or bad, is not darkness,
And so light will crowd out all
Else, burning, blinding, scalding.
And this is the legacy he left us
Left us hated for what he
Forced us to do, they cry, but as
We all know, an eye for an eye
Will only leave the world blind.
PerfectionA perfect teacher. A leader. A hero.
We ascribe perfection to our lives;
To everything, we give it out.
This word, this value, I swear
I am perfect, but it was never true.
A marble idol on a doric column -
Or was it ionic, or some other
Traditional name given to something
Time has washed away, was perfect.
But was it ever true?
No, can it be true, that society--
The idols it holds dear, can it be true
That Jesus was perfect, the Buddha
Was perfect, Muhammed was
Perfect. It was never true.
A word meant to denote infinite
Goodness, justice, light where
Dark could never reach. But I know
In my heart, that the gods that
Haunt our past were never perfect -
They were men, rasied upon the shoulders
Of the crowd, raised to idols, heroes,
Immortals, I fear I will be too.
Perhaps I may one day become the perfect
Teacher, like Plato and his Academy, or
His shadows on the wall, wraiths.
And maybe I can be perfect, may stand
The test of time, but I know.
It was never true.
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