Beside the Point

The train cars were full yet the benches were hollow

 all eyes could be seen yet again they had become blind

and at the station stop the only sign read: FOLLOW.

Outside all references pointed to vanishing

minds of sentiment, that once twined

together into the lives of a kind –

The sixtieth second fell upon a dead reckoning

Seeking the origin fires that will swallow.

Beside Myself

The train was late by fifty nine seconds

however, the commuters arrived at same time

as the old clock tower’s hands beckon

me to find a seat beside myself;

the route ahead will be deranged in rhyme

with a destiny that sinks and climbs -

though there is quiet waiting

at next the station stop of RECKON.

Waiting Motion

Waiting Motion

If there is no beginnings to remember

And, if there is no endings to cherish

Is there then a waiting in motion -

If dreams linger on to a long perish

Then the ticket one holds is paid for with emotion

As the train’s cars move on in locomotion

Past, present and future cars traveling in terms of relative

While the waiting motion anticipates movement

To a begin or to an end;  there is no real difference

The carousel specters stare into their circular torment

As the poignancy of the moment

Ceases to contain the revolving impermanence

No hay color en esperando

Acción es negro o es blanco

Live the spectrum at the brink; hold still the moment; wait for tilting point

And then, leap unto the nothingness where dark offers spark of light

As the unknowns may become fateful or may become a delight

Wait for it; wait for it; wait for it.... dazzling.

Period Of Wating

Period of Waiting

In the end who is to say right from wrong-

As the sense of oneself floats and sways about

Whether sitting upon the tranquil waters of peace

Or battered about in turbulent seas that cast doubt

One must find harbor; an anchoring crease

To hold on to while the chaos comes to a cease.

When is the time; where is the place; who is there

To take the step to and from a period of waiting -

To chase after time; after sentiment; after a quest

Often requiring a certain blindness; a quiet selfness; an odd hating

Of the very qualities where strength and hope rest

And the reasons for staying outweigh the instinct of flight.

How long is a period of waiting to be –

A minute; a day; an epoch; an era; an age

Who determines the completion -

Is the one who waits not capable of being sage -

Are boundless actions and aggression the way to redemption -

Doesn't matter – waiting’s conclusion also ends the rage.

Upon Waiting

Upon Waiting

Is there any rhyme upon waiting -

Or,  is it merely a word that bides

With halting hands that caress

Away at the dilettante’s sides

Revealing naked degrees of undress

And too, the covers of a stillness.

Is there poetry in a solitary  life –

Where sentiments stake the heart

Into a motionless stay

While limbs seduce their part

And the sunlight and moonlight of each day

Are dismissed to unravel in fray.

Is the next moment to be:  an expectation –

That fulfills a mind perched on emptiness

Ready to succumb unto the dimming light

Or, is the hesitation more a randomness

That propels one to take a leap of flight

Back to the mysteries of nothingness.   

   

    

Waiting

Waiting

Sit alone at the dance

Or quiver adrift in the dark

For the music will play on

Spinning upon a plane’s arc

Balancing across the grooves

Life moves on a single needle - is all it proves.

Lyrics wait with you by the heart

while verities dance away

to exuberant expectations

and leave you holding fiction’s hand to sway

a lingering bittersweet stay

where time may not bother to give back a glance.

Will your lost love appear before the song ends -

it is accepted that you will bide

patiently to save the last waltz of a dame

holding firm for the solitary shadows at your side

to take your waiting hand

while a faint whisper - speaks his name.

II

Hollow Ways of the Worm

Stepping away from a genial place to pursue the unknown

perfection, as is whispered by elders, owning the fire

light that dances around the black pits of tribal lore

and desire – one left to seek eternity;  another must

stand and follow the unfamiliar path to the horizon

where tomorrows wait to become the old stories

that traverse the generations across the ages

forming the hollow ways of the worm – turn.

Hollow Ways of the Worm

Turn and turn again

the minute and the mass

will strain upon quantum sense

until the odd pass and even path evolve

unto a black passage  -  where one must exist

in multitudes of unique organic reams;  conforming

into circular overlaps of singular faces that traverse

between then and now - the hollow ways of the worm, again.

Happiness is a Stay

delay

obfuscate

change stand

on your long stay

before midnight’s voice

intones

a name

a date

a time

for the executioner

as the long losing sentence

is over  -

there will be no stay

only a final divarication

between where the ego

stands

and the ills of fate

fall...

You cannot stay

A Dwelling of Prime

Tall oaks surround the cottage - forming

     Into groves of ageless sentries whose silent presence

     create an aura of unforgiving remoteness

     and yet, at the same time, portraying an allure -

of simplicity; a place of sanctuary

the timeless stone dwelling stands deep into the woods

     barely visible from the road;  displaying only a frontal face

     the rounded windows, though uncovered, appear eerily blank

     no light; no reflections – nothing but expressionless portals

revealing mortal truths while allowing for mystical lines at Prime

  

the front gable juxtaposed, in a striking upward angle,

     an odd ten-degree-point, against all that is natural

     and mirroring itself at each side of the polygonal edifice  -

     with engraved notice reading across each lintel:

“Introitus In Aeternum”  -

the anteroom consists of stain glass walls in inviting hues of ocean

     and then a second entrance, with a confronting bronze door,

     effused in patina with notation stating: “Life and death have no place within”...

     the interior enclosure; massive - larger  than appearing possible

     while housing volumes and volumes of lists and obituaries to ponder

his work compels absolute isolation

     away from the village; distant of church brethren

     however, he must touch each their skin to complete fate

     as written upon the churchyard stones, that stand in circular rows,

looping time and space at infinite points; one soul – one departed.

A Mystery of Time

That he was a hungry man in need of nothing

     or satiated one in want of everything

     one could only wonder...

     he never asked - nor gave reason to understand

if he dressed in fine silk shirts or preferred plain cotton

that he lived at such a time was a mystery

     as even the elders could recall him as old and strange

     when they themselves were young; in change

     sometimes even retelling their stories to their grandchildren

of how or when they followed him into the winter

after all, the seasons came and passed

     and the village changed as life wended through

     the streets and the roads - taking people away

     while others came but never could leave

and of course, the churchyard told all their histories

he kept these tales and dates as his duty

     and as carefully as he kept his books and shelves

     no one was left out nor left in – it seems

     the inked words and works held a finite term

as his place of harbor offered a life affirmed   

A Choice to Leave

No one knew why he sat alone

     at the rear of the bench rows on the last pew

     he usually arrived early and left last

     never meeting anyone’s eye...

no one ever knew why

he lived in solitude in the old stone cottage

     that sits across the churchyard’s view

     his wanderings took him away most days

     but he could never leave

the private thoughts that persisted upon him

some insist he was once a rich man

     with a learned mind - based on the rooms  of books

     that he hosted carefully in lines of shelves

     these all were meticulously marked with notes

that allowed slight insights into the complexities

then again, no one ever met him to know

     nor bothered to alter his nonconforming path

     everyone assumed that his life was either his prize

     or his torment – in any case, his choice;

 he did sit alone at church – did he not?