Musing & Rhymes of a Man Reaching For Meaning
I wanted the world, and I found it,
I poked and I prodded with certain glee.
What I had found was youthful and free,
A boyish desire for wild
And wildernesses within me,
But the world was wicked and cheap
And myself so dumb and naïve
That I had found pills and gold drink.
You are not an arrow,
nor is your path
flowing like time itself
from birth to death.
Even as newborns
we are defeated
by our very own nerves
I want you to carry my eggs;
I trust you and the care that you take,
yet I know that you are afraid,
Nothing is more disappointing,
nothing so uncared-for
as one that knows let down,
The night comes,
whispering at the eaves,
as if to say,
he world is not enough for us of late;
the rough cold fate of living life to die
exchanged for the spending and getting of time,
If I was born a thousand years ago
perhaps the beauty of birds
or all the natural world
would have been enough for me,
I would tell you
that you
are not alone
and reference
two bodies tied
to each other
in space,
as if
He’s nobody’s hero,
the man that wakes at dawn,
the bagger that packs bags
’till swole with groceries.
On workdays he’d get up,
worn as the mattress’s springs,
and put on his dad face.
I’d sometimes see him through the cracks
We are the cynical age of man
we are the mouth of ridicule,
whispering alone,
I have gone out into the snow,
braving the winter’s fiery cold,
and searched for rabbit high and low
when frosty mitts refused to hold.
Often I think that people are distant
and only look close when viewed from a far;
Each star its own among the crowded streets
and lonely bars; each a beacon that peers
In thumping thuds of far off drowsy drums
I hear the restless distant call of questions,
beckoning me closer to feel their boom
and beat within my body louder the taunt
I will not let my death bore my friends.
Our lives can do enough of that,
The re-inspection
of words, that were his, or his,
is often entombed
in the backlash
Ever since the wolf was at the front door,
we’ve build our lives with bricks,
Under the figs
I woke to fog and dew,
white oaks, and mist
I looked for you
in places we used to go,
I returned, I had seen,
and was conquered.
