Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Haunting Home

For me, too much time had passed
as I carved a niche in to
myself and in living,
I only protected my bleated heart.
Maybe, it’s the age of times
or just my lone age in life,
I feel you within a breath.
Close like the surrounding air,
I see your mind ticking,  
carefully watching the world
in which few know.

Always fighting against the current,
rarely looking back
I see the tidal flow eluding me.
It is passing through
and coming back around,
continuous with subsistence,
bringing fire, like an oil slick
in flames.

I have stumbled on your
sweet sincerity and earnest way,
free and born again.
Although, not of doctored
moral standards but
within distinctiveness drawn by life’s
observations and preservation.

In some residential homes,
life is often like a house of cards.  
I have given them up to reside
in wooded shanty shacks,
taking time to give them propriety,
while struggling and pushing forth
to have a kingdom come for me.

During which, I have given all I could 
to the small souls in my care;
I have allowed no others
to see such reasons to feel free.
I have laid myself to rest
in my own comfort.
Yet, you however haunt me
with your intellect.

Staying vigilant throughout the years,
only gathering strength for those close,
I feel you pass through,
leaving me in thought.
I cannot escape the feeling
that I can feel you;
not that I know you
or have claim to your thinking,
but feel your strength ringing
as if it were my own.

In return, I have left my inhibitions
at the door and left
without a jacket made of armor.
Once lost from frailty and strife,
I come across your house,
and your sidewalk,
I stand there dim-witted and distraught.
The fog begins to elude me
and I see the house,
covered in shrubs and ivy
with bricks laid adorned.  
A strong foundation sits weathered, 
though liberated by wind,
rain, sleet and snow and
disclosed by the seasons passing.

My mind rests, no longer blue from death 
but filled with blue breath
that frost has bitten too.  
I stand there fragile by just being,
on behalf of dread and terror
that resides within glass houses.

Passing by, your windows were 
illuminated with light,
with one room vividly dark,
eerily empty and taunting.
Then, I felt your reoccurring ghost
contained within my own simplicity.

"I take pleasure in your acquaintance and
your unequivocal ideas and theories
in contemplation and redemption".

The long haunting feeling surrounding me, 
frees me as I become more
visible and apparent in form.
May I haunt you too by sitting down on your stoop?

Monday, June 28, 2010

Silent War

in the art of

Armed with silence,
the enlisted stand firmly
planted in uprooted lawlessness,
locked and stiff only taking time
to breath in new endeavors.

With freedom ringing,
a cadet does not question
integrity or intelligence
because recognition
is without delay.

Within silent refuge,
a trooper lays down weapons
in the surplus of
a diplomatic state of mind.

A silent soldier is on reconnaissance.  

Embattled in insurgent conscious ideas
a guard stands at attention,
deciphering coded justice
and questioning veracious intentions.

Saluting presidential kisses,
service personnel look on 
with smiling eyes
to the young and old,
while protecting the sick
and innocent in parade
around the world.

Voiced, a militant's opinions are deployed
after the argument has offered defeat,
returning home to contend with
others in repudiated combat. 

A silent soldier takes a sniper's shot with precision truth.

Within politics, commandos 
remain on the battlefields
standing between God's judgment
and verdict being lost
to Man's law and order.

Retreating into silence,
a G.I. is fearless,
obtaining strategy
that separates them
from ranking rudimentary dogma.

Reluctantly surrendering
to three words
that form a thinly lined heart,
beating and pulsing....
I love you, I need you, I have you,

A soldier-at-arms knows 
sacrifice and gain 
and always brave 
to face battle once again.

Asiatic Assumption

Japanese tourists with eyes in the camera recording the sights seen.

Thai folk speak a language sounds like chickens clucking plucked into a sumptuous treat.

North Korea’s lunatic running around with nuclear weapons like guns instead of fists.

China’s congestion swarms with vultures flocking like McD’s one billion serves the list.

South Korea quiet like gentle pandas in the mist home to the Olympics with soldiers left in drift.

Asiatic assessment seen more than this.

Temples with long eared men large bellies sit in bliss.

Cherry blossoms give Zen credence with karma's kiss.

My slanted eyes wide open to this.

Minute Minnow

A minnow in a pool of thought,
surrounded by shallow water,
endangering its own species.

Once swam massive oceans
currently missing an original sea.
A minuscule wish is encompassing.

Baited by a hook, seeking captivity,
a fish leaves a nook that's comforting,
bidding ado to the abyss, gradually swimming upward.

Sailors and ships are dominating
and unequivocally fleeting,
surpassing tide and current.

Taking new breathe and breathing bubbles,
despondently drowning in subsequent timing,
waiting patiently for the catching drift.

Like a salmon withered in his own demise,
eloquently upholding stature upstream,
a minnow closes in on the path to fresh water.

Flapping, moving rapidly through dissension,
climbing and ascending concrete stairs to Heaven,
swimming with one goal in mind.

Resting and dropping eggs, one fish commissions,
rather impasse to other fish in the sea,
and heads off diligently through the cycle of life.

A small minnow sheds its moss infested scaling,
hiding the life and color waiting within,
slowly breathes and scrapes against the shore.

Evidently awashed by the banks,
wishing to join school once again,
time to recycle death into living.