Suffocated lives seem liveable,
Breathable.
The inhales become the problem.
The exhales the solution.
I sigh the differences,
Measure them,
Like a tonic poured down the throat
Of a long-suffering leper,
A magical potion.
The sibyl often warned me,
To maintain hard hearted distances
I admit I failed.
Can you legalize the deadlock?
Euthanasia, may be?
When the world was grey through and through,
and the friends we thought we knew
only revealed themselves in pantomime,
mouthing the thought
of whomever was seated across from them,
and when our theology
seemed to only echo the sound of a space between
invisible clouds,
the way emptiness preaches to uncertainty,
I knew that her heart would still be overwhelmed,
and I knew that the girl
I met in a velvet plush room, when seeing the universe again,
like the first time all over,
would spread her arms and a fresh assortment –
azaleas, star flowers,
chrysanthemums, Easter lilies, and those always
glowing marigolds – would rise like new,
and my down-trodden views, my neglect
and well-tended negativity would again fade,
seeing life and history and birth and death
as a convoluted mixture of the eventual,
the possible, the declared and undeclared,
and the always flowering present, a snap-image
of doubt-shaking hope in the face of ash,
and she would always, always teach me
about beauty, trust, and patience.
I’ve loved and lost
Then loved once more
Always had the capacity
To dust off and try again
All these years later
I look back fondly
At pieces of dreams
That became romances
For better or worse
From all of you
I took something
Looking back fondly
I smile and recollect
You touched me in ways
I still recall
You never left forever
Your memory etched
In a passion that breathes long
Were you paying homage to me
Or trying to steal my thunder?
Either way
Know this
I’m always watching from afar
Every nuance, every move
I surround you
You didn’t learn from just anyone
You learned from the best
I advise caution in your approach
But continue with courage
Cross me and you’ll pay
with more than your dangerous curves
Salute me with your honor
And what you really want will
be yours
Have I made myself clear?
Leave it at that,
on a precipice
are rolling ideas,
hurt is an intangible
substance of being,
what is, is not,
the rhythm measures
to imponderables,
thoughts leaven where
the only is lonely,
a being.
Leave it at that.
The rhyme of sands on sea shores of washed-away death
is the flood of our times. They who cause it are in hollow beds, where sleep takes the informal time.
Rest is the formality of washed-away truths.
Leave it, smother dreams
with pillow and tablets.
They won’t be crushed.
Only live with amputated
arms and legs.
We hear at the bluegrass
festival the whining of a culture,
slowly shifting into the hills.
In their songs, we hear
the rumbling truck bouncing
on back roads.
We hear the coffee can full
of worms for fishing.
We hear the sickness of Addie,
the family building her grave.
More at http://jddehart.blogspot.com.
My mind Drifts
Like a plastic Bottle
On an ocean wave
Finding its way to virgin shores
Unable to resist the enticing pull of the beautiful unknown
Can I trust it?
One thought visionary, the next wavering
All impulsive and unpredictable
On constant tug of war between passion and reason
Sensitive segues
From one notion to the next
Giant leaps of consciousness
The restless mind walks the line between genius and impulsive insanity
The restless minds floats like a seed in the wind
At the mercy of the slightest change in the current
The seed is an idea
Once that idea has found fertile ground
Its roots dig deep
Stubbornly, mercilessly
Taking hold
Sensitive segues
I will make this a reality says the restless mind
Nothing will stop me
Illustration by James Steinberg