Untitled Poem 3/20/15

Entranced and obsequious
to a unifying tyranny,
the one that serves us best.
But does it really?

do idiosyncratic ways
not fit the mold,
are they a cancer,
must the branches be
trimmed so that the fern
isn't overbearing?

Perhaps this incongruity
is a carapace that must be
shed, in order to grow.
The tyranny, it is
self-imposed, so that
everything may flow,
so that the ferns
don't obstruct the paths
and new skin breathe anew.

Sea

We're always given a choice.

The choice to drift with the waves,

and the choice to learn to swim against them.

At any given moment, we always have

the same choice to make. 

Often you may find yourself

swallowed by the waves, thinking,

wishing, hoping you could swim,

but if you could, you wouldn't know

which way to go.

Do you choose a direction

and swim towards no destination?

Do you wait for a beacon,

one that might never come?

Is fear stronger than will,

is will a shrouded pursuit?

Do we all come up with

our own answer, or

is there no answer at all.

In an open sea, we drown.

Quietly

The value of my thoughts are little,
when I myself give them little worth.
I feel I have something to say,
but I'm afraid no one would listen.
I want to say something that can change,
somehow affect those who would hear it.
Yet there are so many who feel the same.
With so many as I, reality takes hold.
Not everyone will make that difference.

Most of us will live quietly.
Most of us will die quietly.

Quietly I press on.

Borrowed Possibilities

If you could, if it seemed that you had to,
would you use the dreams of someone else
as a step in your ladder? Are theirs worth
less than yours? Maybe if they can be used
as a step, then that is in fact their only value.

I don't know.

Who are you?

You are possibilities.

You are the choices you make.

You are the results that you garner.

You are the expression of your complexion.

You are the memories you’ve made.

You are the things that you say.

It is often hard to say,

Who you are.

Describing the news

Collision

The young man cycled on the path

of a Crooks Valley Road morning.

He turned to Winter Street

and met the person who would

leave many, wondering. Meeting by

collision, acquaintance through casualty,

she drove into him, leaving him bloodied

bruised and scarred. She got out of her vehicle

and said little. Her kids, they would frighten,

they must get to school. She left him there and drove off.  

Narrative Poem

He sat there, cross-legged,

with his knees to his elbows,

and his hands to his face,

looking across the lake into

the horizon.What he looked for

I did not know, but I wish I did. 

He looked across the island 

dotted horizon, as if though 

the depth of the on-forward

distance was the very same 

that resided within him. 

His eyes searched for meaning

in the profound and I searched

for the same truth within him. 

He picked up a stone that laid

next to him, and he threw it. 

It skipped across the water

and averted my gaze from

him to it. It made one final

leap and sank beneath,

and so did we.