Hiking
The most drab of tales – one which is not unlike the worn jeans, smelling of smoke and spilt whisky, that drape over the legs in front of me, perhaps wishing they were covering the legs of some adventurer, or worthy wandering legs of some nomad in a field never to be tread by myself – is about to be related. Now don’t take such warnings too seriously, as you may find something within this simple monotony that relates to some of your attire, be it internal or external.
Now that I mention it, the tale is less exterior than interior, and in it’s simplicity and repetitiveness, you may find some chord that makes you sing and cry in the same breath, but most of all reflect upon your own simple human nature. It seems that the difference is minimal, to myself at least, as I have come to believe that the cloth that we choose is really only covering limbs impartial to wandering elsewhere but the mind.
~
The winds blew through the branches in the undergrowth. The simple bamboo swayed in the heavy breeze, making me think of the ferns back home, and how, like they curl up and sprout forth in the spring, I had decided to sprout as well. The goal is always vertical, as upward momentum creates a magnetism in the mind more similar to growth and development, and conducive to moral improvement. But I have not yet learnt to sprout like these branches, and will for the time appease myself to walking in the undergrowth, listening to the earthly tempests giving spirit to the leaves, while still trudging horizontally in futility, looking for the place where I can climb more rapidly.
The stones that fell under my footfall rubbed against the gentle soil underneath, and hummed against the sands mixed in the gravel. Time falls just the same way, creating the pleasing yet disturbing sound that has sent me walking on this path of reflection. Is the goal to summit the path, or to simply enjoy its winding way? Either way I keep hiking, listening, and racing against the sands dropping down the subtle banks of the slope ahead.
At the time I was alone on the path, but it did not feel that way… it never does. How could I feel alone, while my mind races in a conversation with everything? I hear the winds, and see the branches, swaying with breezes I create in my movement, wafting up scents of future springs, and coming falls, of decaying life, feeding new generations, and promising changes not so dissimilar to seasons past. The forest changes, and I change with it. At first glace it’s stale and unyielding, but last time I was up here I saw snows break connections I thought steadfast, and now the broken is unrecognizable among the sprouting of the new bamboo.
How did I get up here you are wondering? The same way you did – along the woven trail left by predecessors and colleagues of humanity. Along the path forged by my fathers and mothers of time and nature, along the synapses of akashic corridors that I am still too naive to read, but just human enough to follow and recognize… and pretend to understand…
There is a mercy in the way I am allowed hope with each step. I may not yet understand mercy the way it has been told, but I pray it is somewhat like the thing I do see, like the forgiveness of the seasons that tempt the leaves to continue growing, that tempt this man to continue walking. Being a glutton for temptation I will continue the trek, laurelling these jeans with the hopes of walking in the summits fields, like those nomads who have found their way there prior, and thankfully left some semblances of a path.
PrioriThought 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Despite all appearances…
You were not the person I expected to see when I entered the room.
It’s not like I planned any of it at all, and I wouldn’t change it if I could…
Despite all appearances…
I still feel as I did when I was a child, maybe more literated, and pretending the profound,
But how much can one man change, even when the show is constantly a struggle..
Despite all appearances…
One day I will wake up to see how it was all planned, by myself, by you, who is always influencing my jaded experiences, yet acting as if in control, of the subtle things,
That create my appearance…
PrioriThought 2009
You were not the person I expected to see when I entered the room.
It’s not like I planned any of it at all, and I wouldn’t change it if I could…
Despite all appearances…
I still feel as I did when I was a child, maybe more literated, and pretending the profound,
But how much can one man change, even when the show is constantly a struggle..
Despite all appearances…
One day I will wake up to see how it was all planned, by myself, by you, who is always influencing my jaded experiences, yet acting as if in control, of the subtle things,
That create my appearance…
PrioriThought 2009
A deliberately wasted life
Is something we all seek
With our un-meditated actions
That cry across our faces
The tears we never let
Ourselves even realize
Wanted to fall.
The gluttony of negligence
Eats up the time
We say is ours to
Destroy, unwittingly
Is a sad excuse
While rolling in the
Puddles of decisions
Made while feeling
These repercussions
Stab through our emotions
Yet we look back
Shocked at the pain
We felt
And knew would come
on the follow through.
PrioriThought 2009
Is something we all seek
With our un-meditated actions
That cry across our faces
The tears we never let
Ourselves even realize
Wanted to fall.
The gluttony of negligence
Eats up the time
We say is ours to
Destroy, unwittingly
Is a sad excuse
While rolling in the
Puddles of decisions
Made while feeling
These repercussions
Stab through our emotions
Yet we look back
Shocked at the pain
We felt
And knew would come
on the follow through.
PrioriThought 2009
Belief
I didn’t believe them when they first told me,
But then I saw them, laying as they said they would,
Like a leather canvas covering the soils, in layers.
I cried that night, not for the death of beauty,
Because I saw beauty in their undoing,
But for the way the wind couldn’t catch as well.
They still swayed at the touch, but the grace that had left,
Reminded me of days where tomorrow would be better,
Where I waited for the springing of a ground new with life.
They gradually left, though I couldn’t see where they had gone,
To some place, some better place, where they would be
Rewarded for those days swaying so calmly in the breeze.
How could I believe them when they first told me,
That they hadn’t gone at all, and that their melody
Would be sung again, in the not too distant spring.
PrioriThought 2009
I didn’t believe them when they first told me,
But then I saw them, laying as they said they would,
Like a leather canvas covering the soils, in layers.
I cried that night, not for the death of beauty,
Because I saw beauty in their undoing,
But for the way the wind couldn’t catch as well.
They still swayed at the touch, but the grace that had left,
Reminded me of days where tomorrow would be better,
Where I waited for the springing of a ground new with life.
They gradually left, though I couldn’t see where they had gone,
To some place, some better place, where they would be
Rewarded for those days swaying so calmly in the breeze.
How could I believe them when they first told me,
That they hadn’t gone at all, and that their melody
Would be sung again, in the not too distant spring.
PrioriThought 2009
Paint by numbers
They always come to a conclusion that was predestined,
These numbers that formulate the pieces of our purpose,
Like they were written out so long ago, and now we are
Feeling the algebra of it, lap our minds infinite shores.
I always talk to myself of the controlling of destiny,
Of our own free will, as if my fingers shun the brushed
Strokes on a predetermined canvas, mixing colors with
Thoughts, and creating worlds separate to the things physical.
These pictures I draw create so many separate realities,
Because they are interference; they are a force of will,
in a system that understands perfection, and doesn’t need
meddling hands or thoughts, to create the images needed.
It’s a false knowledge we have, that makes us believe we are
Even capable of seeing ourselves properly through the smeared
Oils that show our eyes a fabricated reality of our own
Decision, and contrary to the natural lines of the place we are in.
When you feel you need to control anything, you are dabbling
In places, testing with colors, eating of fruits, that were not meant
For you; the peace found in a life without this will scare you beyond
Your means, and you will shake like a child, seeking familiar warmth.
Because you think you know…
PrioriThought 2009
They always come to a conclusion that was predestined,
These numbers that formulate the pieces of our purpose,
Like they were written out so long ago, and now we are
Feeling the algebra of it, lap our minds infinite shores.
I always talk to myself of the controlling of destiny,
Of our own free will, as if my fingers shun the brushed
Strokes on a predetermined canvas, mixing colors with
Thoughts, and creating worlds separate to the things physical.
These pictures I draw create so many separate realities,
Because they are interference; they are a force of will,
in a system that understands perfection, and doesn’t need
meddling hands or thoughts, to create the images needed.
It’s a false knowledge we have, that makes us believe we are
Even capable of seeing ourselves properly through the smeared
Oils that show our eyes a fabricated reality of our own
Decision, and contrary to the natural lines of the place we are in.
When you feel you need to control anything, you are dabbling
In places, testing with colors, eating of fruits, that were not meant
For you; the peace found in a life without this will scare you beyond
Your means, and you will shake like a child, seeking familiar warmth.
Because you think you know…
PrioriThought 2009
Butterflies…
I still miss the butterflies most of all,
The ways their thought can change the winds
Miles away from the small tempests they summon
Through the light beat of their irregular wings.
From wings to winds, the difference is a consonant away,
And repercussions span continents, the way they sing
Through the breezes of our minds, and let the sounds
Of what was meant to be, nestle like a song well sung.
The different is just a small time away, and when I began
This vowel made me think of you, and the places we had been,
Drawn there like the moth to the flame, still burning bright,
Hoping that the place is still there, and can yet be seen.
The sights of the place have deceived the senses, and driven
By winds, just created by your unintentional thrall
Tell me that maybe, despite my running, I will see that
I still miss the butterflies most of all…
PrioriThought 2009
I still miss the butterflies most of all,
The ways their thought can change the winds
Miles away from the small tempests they summon
Through the light beat of their irregular wings.
From wings to winds, the difference is a consonant away,
And repercussions span continents, the way they sing
Through the breezes of our minds, and let the sounds
Of what was meant to be, nestle like a song well sung.
The different is just a small time away, and when I began
This vowel made me think of you, and the places we had been,
Drawn there like the moth to the flame, still burning bright,
Hoping that the place is still there, and can yet be seen.
The sights of the place have deceived the senses, and driven
By winds, just created by your unintentional thrall
Tell me that maybe, despite my running, I will see that
I still miss the butterflies most of all…
PrioriThought 2009
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