another person killed
the bullet etched by invisible hate
engraved in his own words
the walls he sought to build
failed to protect him
nor will they shield you or you or you
the guns you hold on others
will be your death
when you are falling to the ground
who will come to hold you
the bier upon which you will be laid
the branches that set afire the pyre
the smoke that rises from the flames
all these will not be noticed
the world itself is in conflagration
the mourning is too vast
this moment of now
this leaf poised on the precipice of turn
this morning crisp with foretelling
this breath without any need
this step on the timeless threshold
this invitation to go beyond
one hand touches the earth
sudden fever decimates
scorching the physical terroir
poisons previously held in check
spread like liquid fire
usual means fail to extinguish
everything is consumed
room now for new growth
a leaf always upon the wind
its color the element of fire
yellow flame red flame brown-smoldered ash
some spark sets all alight
blown by forces uncontrolled
we stand bewildered as the brick walls collapse
while the match drops from our careless hand
rain carries sorrow hope joy despair
each drop a tear for all you cannot express
growth and destruction entwined within
mirrored strands of the same process
germinating seedlings given enough
villages in a floodplain washed away
each vital somewhere to someone
stand with open heart and dare
to be drenched in what water brings
and it was dying on the sidewalk
one delicate wing’s edge half-missing
the black border jagged as if chewed
the bright yellow interior poised
as if to spill color onto the pavement
in one last flutter before utter stillness
such brief resplendence needing witness
there on the sidewalk in silent recognition
then off into the seasonal turn
steps echoing on the cusp
and summer was dying as well
done with the weariness of it all
overbearing traffic, busy shops
too many cars and the heaviness of trucks
no longer trying to contain chaos
within their narrow lanes
resting in time’s change
home now to mundane businesses
and the occasional solitary walker
who finds solace in abandoned dreams
lost in dreams
bridges lose their moorings
chitter through barren scapes
manufactored arthropods seeking
their remembered Paleozoic glory
roads untether from the earth
slither over desolate terrain
hardened serpentes with hidden fangs
their venom’s effect unknown
if you awaken to glimpse
this inexorable journey in the dark
close your eyes and turn away
let it rest among the debris
on the floor of your night
only a shadow cast upon the wall
faint shoe prints on the stairs
a smear from fingers upon the jar
laughter from games that never happened
the scent of dinners never cooked
warmth from arms never clasped
but in the window glimpses remain forever
of that constant playful grin
I keep reminding myself that there’s no need to say everything I think. Indeed, I do best to say very little, because most of what I think turns out to be incomplete, incorrect, and often rubbish.
Here are some danger signals I look for:
Anything that has the term “you people” is not fit to be heard and is useful only insofar as it points back at myself. Time to revisit my own biases and also the 37 practices. Anything that sets me up as expert is immediately suspect and needs to be quashed. The depths of my ignorance are more and more apparent to me, and I know very little indeed. None of what I think is truly original. Every thought exists built upon other thoughts, and the whole ediface is shakier in coherence than a tower of cards. So why bother with sentences like “I think…” unless someone first asks?
Anything that arises from negative emotions, esp those in the anger realm. Before I speak from annoyance, anger, or even outrage, check first the source, the intent, and the probable outcome. The first is usually not what it appears initially, and as before, circles back to me and my attachments, aversions, or confusion. Similar case to be made for intent. As far as outcome, safe to say that invariably differs from what I imagine.
Here are questions I ask before rushing in and allowing words to rush out:
Is this necessary? Is this wanted? Is this valuable to the listener(s)? Most importantly, is this kind? (Not “nice,” which is a different attitude, and one with which I don’t truck.)
I will revisit this page often. If you read this-and truly, there’s no reason anyone should-if you have any suggestions to add, please do. I’m an old judgmental bit of livestock but I can learn
