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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
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. 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. 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. 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.  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. 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? 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.  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.  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.  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. |
