Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Winter for the Spirit, and Spring

Why can't what is within
come out?
Why can't what is without
come in?
The former being preferable,
How is the abstract taught
to be concrete?
Shape to a void,
one form to another.
An inequality we all must model
as an equation
for proliferation
of the life brought
by this unmasterable ego.
Death the common result
where the converse is impossible
with a sole exception in time.
The impossible mission of the masses.
Universal human struggle.
More than a dream,
but less than God,
we haven't the power
to navigate
to discern
to enact
to fulfill.
More than panchromatic
but less than hyperspectral
our vision can never be seen
looking beyond an event horizon already crossed
a widow's nest to the empty ocean,
Endless as space
yet handcuffed in matter.
By the manacles of time
we struggle to realize
what we can't begin to understand.
Time, not, enough.
We haven't the eyes to perceive,
or the means
in our back
in our hands
in our mind's divisions
to enlist the translation
of our souls to reality's dimensions.
If only the things of earth could unleash it
like the breaking of an element
to nuclear proportions.
If a lion could be contented
or contained
with an office and grocery stores,
the field and game foregone.
More than impossible
it's nonsense.
Absurdity in the marrow from birth.
the chemos of choice,
of need,
of a lacking.
Destiny is not just ours
and not just out there.
Dreams are not imagined
that have not the possibility of coming true,
strength to be made real from another,
here and there,
within and without,
as much myself as not.

Springtime for Umstead and The Triangle

Walking trail in morning light,
Spring lost itself in leaves.
Trees woke up
from winter sleep,
the latest fashions
in buds and blooms
of yellow poplar,
white mountain laurel,
pink rhotodendron hung on cliffs,
and canopies
high above
and far beyond,
obscuring view
for to see feet and
forest fabric.
Noises of busy birds,
young squirrels prancing
in Fall's remnants,
longer days,
and warmer weather,
sweat long forgotten
reluctantly rediscovered.
A perfect background for focusing
not on what is out there
but in here,
pushing one into itself
in cleansing colors
and smells.
A house more human
than humans inhabit,
the season brings life
to souls separated by cold
and frozen through by
the sleet of suburbia,
the greed and garbage
of ubiquitous urban usperpation.
Friends reconnect
among red maple wallpaper,
sweetgum ceilings,
and carpets of pine.
A single flower
from a creekside Laurel,
white serrated cups
streaked and speckled purple
in clusters upon bunches,
remind us of hidden potential,
the cycles of time,
the promises of seasons,
and that life comes again.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

The Location of Trans-spatial Reoccurrence

Have you ever been somewhere before?
Not that the place is the same,
nor the person inside you,
but here you are again.

You are using the same computer,
newer then, older now.
Then you were using the internet because you had none
Then you went there to escape an empty and foreign apartment
Now you have internet and you try to escape a busy house.
At neither time had you a desk,
but both times this place has found you.
Life from the people around you
without chance of being bothered.
Books for inspiration
and imagination.
Unlike a coffe shop,
there is quiet.
All ingredients for focus and accomplishment;
checks on the to do list.
Then you were new to town,
now you are a year into another one.
Then life was before you,
now you're in the second act,
or is it the third?
Life was in your hand,
Life is on another block,
If only you had the map to get there.
There are a few old signs still bolted on their posts.
To change the present to the future,
like taking up the past,
there's yet a little hope,
not to repeat what has already been tried,
but to reclaim a vision that's fleeted.
Can these moments come to meet,
like universes merging,
vision to reseat,
opportunities reemerging?
By passing through the exit doorway
You claim right to travel through time
To the today and tomorrow
You wanted yesterday,
That last day in the library.