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THE TRACKLESS PATH

The Boxer and the Alley Cat - A Poem by J.A. McCormick

11/20/2019

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They are too old,
Too old to fight,
Too old to stir.
But they were fighters once…
He with fists that bruise
And her with sharp claws 
And teeth that tear.
You’d think they would have found
Another room, another world, another life
To share.
But they stayed instead
And fought it through.
For the fightingest souls 
Are steady.
To a passion deep within
That stays.
That stays and fights 
And Fights again.
Not like those who fight to win.
But like those who cannot leave the fight.
Till they’ve discovered what 
The fighting’s for.
And once they do
They fight some more
Till all the anger’s worn itself out.
And like the coals 
Of an old fire
Smolder and warm 
And warm some more.
Till smoldered out
They cuddle in for warmth.
Two sweet old souls
Whose fight is through
Though lingering there
The fight itself worn out to fighting
It sits alongside them
Of a summer evening
Just the three 
The boxer, the alley cat and fight itself
And watch the sun set.
She leans back against his shoulder
And rests
Her gray hairs 
Against his cardigan sweater.
Their breath is slow now
As is the case with old people
And their knees too bent
To contemplate another rise
And so they linger 
As does fight itself 
One tear slipping from his cold eye
And running down his charcoal grey cheeks.
He sits along beside.
For strange as it may be, 
Porch swings are made for three.
But his tear is not
For battles lost.
Nor for battles that could be.
For he is also old 
And weary of the strife.
But caught by some strange affection 
To the two
Who would not accept defeat
He’s found in his old age
A refuge sweet
In the love of two old fighters
The ones he couldn’t beat.
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Sunshine Unbidden - A Poem by J.A. McCormick

11/19/2019

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Sunshine unbidden
​Comes streaming through my window

And wakes me

From dreams too few,

Its rays warming

The empty places 

Of my solitary room

With unexpected, microscopic 

Messengers of hope.

The photons,

Like forest nymphs

Mingle with the muted, manly

Greys and browns and blues

Changing desk and appliance

Into stately tree 

And sparkling fern 

Covered with dew.

A fleeting morning miracle

Visits in the first few glimpses 

Of sleep-filled eyes

And warms 

This weary knight

To distant quests 

Still miles

Beyond the enchanted forest

Of love-filled sunrise.

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Holes - A Poem by J.A. McCormick

11/17/2019

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Let your knife rip and tear
Leaving the deepest wound
Fresh with blood.
Sweet weeping
Of my blood-soaked soul.
Those for whom I’ve given all…
Bear it a little longer
And a little longer still,
Bless the dear knife of my torturer.
Cut deep and quick and clean
And leave no pining there for me.
It is they and they alone now:
And the deep holes 
Within my heart,
That only they can fill.

​
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Gravestones - A Poem by J.A. McCormick

11/16/2019

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​Photo by Scott Rodgerson on Unsplash
Who are you?
A story tell.

Buy why do I ask?
You are cold stone.

A token is enough 
To start imagination
And perhaps cloudy perception 
Is clearer than plain sight.

Somehow this one a century deep
Shines brighter than those not ten years dead.
But a year gone
Is plenty to silence ingratitude.

Their silence speaks to me here.
And my steps slow…
Listen heart. 
Bow soul.

And there from down beneath the sod,
Deeper than six feet down,
Their music plays.

It is the old sacred song, 
The song that only silence sings
Because it is too sacred for words.

It is the song of children at play
And young men working,
The song of factories and farms,
Of babies nursing
And mothers laughing,
The song of painful shyness
And bold proposals,
Of wise old women
And foolish young ones.
It is the song of painful wrongs
And tearful reconciliations.
It is love and hatred.
It is pigheaded fools
And spineless pushovers.
It carries the full hearted chorus of the triumphant.
And the fearful hiding strains of the defeated.
It is Sunday picnics
And family reunions.
It is the touch of another person.
It is kindness.
And hurt.
It is devotion.
And treachery.
It is…

The life song.
And here it plays most clearly.

Apparently the dead know something of life,
For they sing to me here.

But I must go now.
I cannot linger all day at temple.
For the sacred song awaits my own refrain,
And I must write my own lines 
Before my day of life is through.

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The Spring Thing - A Poem by J.A. McCormick

11/15/2019

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Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash
A month of spring,
Joyous thing,
But dangerous too.
How dare you
Expend such love?
It seems extreme
When you consider
You might get hurt
With all that love lying about.
So you rolled up the grass
And pulled in the flowers.
A month was enough
Spring for one year.
And you said to yourself
Perhaps that spring thing
Was just a fling.
But summer and fall were all a drawl
Without spring.
And winter was worst of all
And wouldn't give way.
For without spring,
There was no...spring,
You know, the bouncy thing
That keeps it all moving
The whole year round.
And so you did your best to recall
Back past winter and before the fall,
Before the summer
To the very spring thing
You'd called a fling.
And there in your memory
All cramped and small,
In a far away corner
Not very tall,
Stood the very love thing
That had started it all.
But he whimpered and cried
And started to bawl.
He said "I'm so small
And not very tall.
Don't spread me about
I'm sure to be mauled!"
But you closed your eyes
And grabbed that love thing
And started to spread it
Around with a zing!
And though at first
It hurt something terrible,
Soon you found
It was better than bearable.
And that the thing
You'd wanted all along
Was spring.
So now with every chance you get,
You spread the love thing
And not just in spring.
For love is the very best thing of all
For turning the seasons,
Winter, spring, summer and fall.
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To Vanish - A Poem by J.A. McCormick

11/14/2019

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Picture
To vanish,
To disappear
Into thin air,
That is heaven.
To exist 
But to not be seen,
That is power.
To speak the truth
From behind the veil
Of mystery
And then to leave before
They ask your name, 
In that there is 
The hope of immortality.
But you desire to be seen
And to be known 
For your good works?
And so, you are doomed to fail,
To be forgotten,
And in the mean time
To suffer for your weakness
At their lips
When your strength 
Has worn out 
And they can no longer use you
For their ill gotten gain.
Fools!
To have a name 
Is to be forgotten.
To have a reputation
Is to one day 
Have it tarnished.
Why won't you see
That it is in letting go
Of all that's you
That you will rise
To disappear
With that host 
Who shine so bright
That one glimpse of them
Dissolves the eyes 
Within their sockets. 
For we are shadows,
Wispy glimpses 
Of forgotten hopes
Of the dark fairy folk
Who were once cast out 
For their self made idols.
And all of the dreams 
Of what we hope we are 
Is no more than
Borrowed, unsavory,
Twice chewed morsels
That fall from the tables of the fallen,
No...
Better to disappear,
And to be a no-one
And speak the truth unnamed
Than to find out too late
That they only wanted you
For the thing that you could give them.
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When Wits Fail - A Poem by J.A. McCormick

11/13/2019

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Drawing by Vincent Van Gogh
​​With downward eye he cries,
But not aloud.
An inward aching, fearful
Shifting from side to side.
A turning tearful glance.
 
To what? To where? How much?
Alone? What if? And Why?
All at once.
 
And then to where his soul would fly…
No place, nowhere,
No answer.
But to try.
 
But he’s worn out to trying
And broken to the fight.
 
The world is run by wits
But when wits fail, what then?
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A Petal to His Pleasing

11/10/2019

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Photo used in video by Jessica Lewis on Unsplash
Nothing but to surrender
A yielding to some end

God only knows,

To be part of something

I yet can only feel.

I see it faintly

Though often wrongly still.

What is it to me 

That I useless be 

To every other purpose 

But His own,

A flower’s petal 

To His pleasing?

And when I’m finished,

I will fall away

With as much delight

As when I came.

For it is the cosmic thing

That matters.

Perhaps it is all there ever was,

All that I ever lived for anyway.

And perhaps the fire that lit me

Is the same that will 

Consume me in the end.

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All Hired Out

11/8/2019

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Picture
I call from within 
My empty chamber
To no one there.
I call for a fife
But it doesn't come.
And all of the lyres are hired
To woo the world 
With song,
Mirrored pools 
Reflecting all the things
They most desired but lost
Or hope to loose.
And the world turns round
And the young girls 
Are wooed
By smooth guitars
Into the arms of men
Who disappoint them
But not too much
And they find a little joy
Here and there
They two,
And it's enough to satisfy
For season
And an age, 
A generation,
But not enough 
To stop the turning
Round and round,
Death and life
An life and death
Never ending misery
Is the tune,
And hope
And beauty
And solemn resignation
And often gratitude for it all
But the song won't stop 
Long enough to hear
That there is something 
Deeper than it all,
Something deep beneath the boards
That frame the stage
We all stand on.
Good bye world.
I bid you adieu.
I'm down beneath
Digging down 
To the thing 
We lost
Before we ever knew
What it was to cry
There in our mother's arms,
The thing we knew
Before we knew,
And now and then
I stick my head out 
Through the door
And call for a fife 
To play the tune
Of something new
But they're all hired out.
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Dreaming Creatures

11/8/2019

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Picture
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash
​We have become dreaming creatures.  
And we will not stop.
And if we ever do stop, 
We will die.
There is no going back,
No going back.
And that's ok.
This world was made
Unto this end
That when we could 
Not but dream,
That we would pass
Into that world
Of dreams
And never come back
Come back.
Are you afraid?
Don't be.
Believe.
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Fame - A Poem by J.A. McCormick

11/3/2019

0 Comments

 
Picture
​Photo by Oscar Keys on Unsplash
Bright lights
And applause.
And women.
And the rush of hallow fame.
It's an illusion
With nothing more to gain
Than cankerous ruin.
Yet they run after it.
Women dress their darlings
For charade
And prance them in front 
Of lecherous men
And crowds set to devour,
All for the empty acclaim
That consumes its subject 
By degrees.
And the winners 
Pay for their fleeting notoriety
With their souls 
And the sound you hear,
That great sucking sound
Is the sterilization 
Of a generation,
Their virility 
Flushed down the drain
That pours itself 
Into the putrid
Flowing sewer
That courses 
Down every street
And in and out 
Of of every house,
Each man lusting after
That which is not his own
And spewing out 
The thing that should be cherished.
And the women 
Having every man
And no man.
And all for the dream
That will not end
And leaves them empty.
For they did not understand 
That the sacred thing
Which they desired
Is and always was
Hidden.
"To your closets!" It cries.
"Hide yourself and dance
Before the dark and mystic
Thing you don't yet know.

Pour your heart and soul
Into that performance 
Which is only seen
By those not seen."
There, in the dark conceives
The cosmic and the real.
All else is smoke.
All else a dream.
Though real it seem.
And high it burns
Into the night!
Into the night!
Buuurrrn!...Buuuurrrn!
"Consume them up
And leave them dry!" 
It says.
"Then blow them out 
Upon the plain
Where their ashes
Mixed with gentle rain
Will sink into the fertile soil.
And from them 
All around will spring
The fairest flowers,
Flowers so sweet 
That little naked children's feet
Will dance among them.
And so for those 
Who think they seek
For fame,
Remember...
That the thing you really want 
You already have.
Seek it in your solitude.
And if you do,
In time,
When the mountains sink
Into the sea 
We'll praise your notoriety
As one who shunned 
The praise of men 
And thus 
In that eternal world
Gained it back again.
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