The weight of constancy is the progenitor of fear. The uncertainty of shifting sands, the current of change, this is where peace is. The fear of the stable drives one to indecision; it is only in the moment of distortion in which the truth clarifies.
The House Above the Tree
In the house above the tree,
that's where they'd always be.
Conspirators, lovers, traitors all,
never would tragedy befall.
Winter, spring, summer and fall,
into a trance all interlopers lull.
Drag them out you cannot do,
for they are all too true.
From beginning to end,
they shall not bend.
For in the House above the Tree,
that's where we'll always be.
Meaning
When I was a child,
the senselessness made sense.
It was there,
but time would wipe it away.
As the days and years moved by,
I knew that I would know.
But senselessness is eternal,
stretching from womb to grave.
Acts of Meaning,
gripped tightly against the tide.
Not the meaning I had hoped for,
but I must cherish what I have.
The Formless Pattern
White Dot
Blinking In
Blinking Out
Existence defined by its presence
Not Random
What is the pattern?
Prediction fails us
Our senses not yet Refined
Punctuating the Formlessness
It now Leaves
and so do We
Thoughts formed
Only in it’s presence
We are Tied
Inextricably to the Fleeting
Willpower
The antidote to laziness, catalyst of success. More heroic than heroes themselves, an ineffable quality seemingly innate. A tenuous hold, grasping breathlessly, forever evasive, harder to catch than a beautiful woman. A problem in and of itself, the solution teasing us always.
Walking Contradiction
Standing up, day after day. thinking one thing and doing another. Questioning why one side showed itself to others, the other subsisting on secrecy. Unsure why one was accepted, one seen with confusion and scorn. Shaking hands, smiling, following society in an odd dance. Not truly disliking it nor feeling particularly genuine, success and failure blending together, possessing qualities worthy of praise and disdain both. In this odd riddle of life, constantly engaged in internal battle, ideals and actions never in alignment, a Question, floating about, understanding lacking on why the two facets of life sat separate and in poor harmony. Did the lack of connection exist as a societal consequence, or stem from a weakness, the kind that defines a person? The misplaced sense of duty, causing abandoned morals, replaced with practicality. An ever widening gap, conjuring up the Walking Contradiction, the ever bewildered Individual.
Scenes, running over and over in our heads, making perfect and no sense at the same time. Images, in full HD and color, spinning behind our eyes, distracting from the person in front. Words and phrases, echoing in our ears, said by people yesterday and tomorrow and a year ago, constantly following us from place to place. Dreams, stepping out of slumber, chasing us through waking hours. Ambitions, the children of dreams, driving us, forcing our hands to run over the keys, our feet over the ground, our lives over the coals. Difficulties, from past and present, dog us daily in everything we do. These turn life into a challenge, and without them life turns into nothing, into something meaningless. Should the challenge be accepted? Should life be conquered? Or should we accept the malaise, the meaningless of ease?
Eastern Washington December Morning
Out of the slumber of night, dawn awakens,
light dripping out over white earth.
Tendrils of sun, grasping like the wizened knuckles
of grandmother, reach out across the snow dusted hills.
Frost, claiming the car as its own, dissipates slowly,
forcing a decision on sleep clouded minds;
show up late to work or get up early and scrape the windshield.
Standing at the stove, making breakfast,
warmth from the electric stovetop
clashing with cold window drafts.
Hands warm with cooking,
cheeks cold from staring out the window,
the disparate temperatures oddly comforting.
A magazine, filled with other people’s opinions,
two eggs, a hot cup of coffee and
a dirty tablecloth.
These welcome the new day.
The drive to work,
radio waves echoing inside the car.
The drive, peaceful in the mountains,
frustrating in the town.
Thick fog, a fluffy white cape,
dresses up the cascades.
The car pulls into the parking lot,
two minutes after eight,
the three usual suspects smoking their morning cigarette,
the smoke indistinguishable from frosty breath.
I walk inside, the day begins.
Transplanted
Transplanted, one edge of the country to another Looking for meaning, through many different avenues. Is the truth I look for to be found in work? Is it to be found living in community? Is it to be found in solitude? The meaning I seek, Sometimes elusive, sometimes close, Never completely out of reach, never totally understood. Meaning to be found in new people, in new areas of the country, in new struggles and new triumphs. Or is it in all the places I left?
Thoughts of a Nation 