Through Gaps

Photo credit : © Ingalin | Dreamstime.com – Cathedral De Santiago, Antigua Guatemala

We build each our walls
But through gaps
All the light gets through

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© Ingalin | Dreamstime.com – Cathedral De Santiago Is A Roman Catholic Church, Antigua Guatemala Photo

On An Old Filling Station

Out here, abandoned in the grass,
A vintage filling station:
Where many sat preoccupied
By labor or vacation

As fuel was pumped and windows washed
Supporting life’s-won fruits
To aid the modern family
In nuclear pursuits.

Out here, abandoned in the grass,
And desolate to view,
The end of every precious thing
Once loved for being
New

Emptiness and Echoes

So accustomed to noise are we,
Our minds provide it
In our rare moments of silence.

When we cannot feel the world anymore,
We attempt to become the world,
A process fraught with anxiety,
And rife with chaos.

It is the silence we fear:
Discovering only then
What we truly believe the world to be,
Past our lies and our slogans:

Emptiness and echoes,
Regrets and recriminations,
And a desire, at all costs,

To keep the noise going

On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer

He let imagination play
And spill across each fevered page;
Of life spent at a breakneck pace,
Of love and hate and
Sex and rage

And peaceful moments that would touch
The hearts of any who might see;
But wonders now, and over-much,
If all of it’s
Not vanity

He wanted what he wrote to shine,
The brilliance of a million suns;
But now, he simply wants to write
Some thoughts that you’d read
More than once


 

(“On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer” – 7-11-2015)

On An Old Abandoned Hospital

“I’s” unknown,
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
Bygone days,
In rooms for healing,
Pass away:
We know this.
But we just

With our contumely
Carry on,
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
We think
It isn’t real, beyond,
A faint remaining
Crust

An echo, an
Enablement,
A bill of life
That’s elsewhere spent;
We needn’t hear
What there was meant,
Nor sit down to
Discuss

The primitives
Who came before,
Who lay in here,
Or built this door,
Whose tears and blood
Call from the floor,
“All dust is made
  Of us —“