Four Deep Thoughts (& Poetry)


1) Vindication
(Deep Thoughts)

Here at the death level I stood, seeing nothing, save a gray to charcoal mist lapping its way towards me, it filled everything, like a hawks settling wings. Life was a vague thing, a thing felt, a moment ago, rather than now. I swam in the air, circling the place where I was slowly, steadily, observing this new immensity, limitless vagueness, and I discovered the center was I.

It was on my right, I told myself “Over there!” I had a faint uneasiness, an exasperation you could say: I reassured myself, and went in that direction; the mist remained as it was—.

As I looked closer, I saw an eye, and relief came over me—I found what I had almost lost—life (I got my wind back).

#1463 9-14-2006





2) The Art of Life
(Deep Thoughts)


The art of life is to live life in the moment—a wonderful complete existence involves the soul. It involves putting pretense aside so you can really be alive, before you die (for normally on the death bed is when we put pretence where it belongs)) and it is not under the pillow)).

This is perhaps the greatest function of art: to do the best one can, with what one has, now (in the moment). The scent of bewilderment resides in the idea: art is only a picture, a landscape.

Art is (or can be) a garden, now you need to plant, thus, you need the seeds; gardens are or can be any old place, throughout the world, it is the seeds, the damn seeds that make the difference, and what you planet, will grow.

Hence, when the soul gets hungry is when true art finds its purpose to exist.

9-15-2006 #1464






3) An Old Mans Lightness
(Deep Thoughts: a poem)



She sat close to him, and as she did—
As young girls can,
She became utterly stagnant beside him
As if a burning fire was seeping
(Likened to osmoses) out of her thighs—.
Lightness moved to and fro
Among his members (unbearable):
To his hand, feet, then he fled.

#1465 9-16-2006




4) The Humble Giver
(Deep Thoughts)

With dolce malice from the black poised and tense above seeps down to earth? Breathe—; thus, only a few will make it.

Some people put a lot of effort into life—keeping them from becoming involved in it; thus, gathering little inspiration for working in it. The creators are the artists, the others, perhaps they can share by furnishing the inspiration needed. The humble givers or giver has his or her plan in the scheme of things.

Giving something to the world, this is the road of the Gods, the one they have cultivated (the voyage of voyages)—complete!

You say “For what?” Perhaps for being taken away from starring to sharing; from snapping a cigarette outward, and into the dark night to respecting the puppet show. Who knows, but pride and arrogance become marble in the tower of loneliness; in a quiet fathomless mist one must remember it is the balanced dark that seeps down upon us.

#1461 9-13-2006

Two Poems: Let it Rain & Youth's Short Duration


Let it Rain

Death, comith,
thus, we must march on;
if barefoot so be it—
we are of the tribe
of three layers (humans),
hence,
a drop of water
continues to erode
our surface
to its bones
(there we will find):
barbarism,
immortality
and bread—.

We are the horde
(you know)
of materialism—.

This grand annoyance—
only the little ones
the shortest of us all—
are immune to the
tensions in the air—
(under the clouds).
Thus, we learn, man
From their tribes—thirst,
As melancholy fills our eyes!


Note: written 9-4-2006, #1458





4)

“Youth’s Short Duration”
(A Poetic Epigram)

In the spring of life one loses all innocence. It is but one season youth has before it fades; thus, the maturing summer: the season one must stop being an observer and experience, arrives. Then fall, innocence has no playmates, and sorrow is on the plate. It is youth’s short duration.

Note: The author feels this period hi is talking about, in his poem, “Youth’s Short Duration,” is but four years, between 12 to 16 years old, (take or give a year).