There is a storm rising in the deep cauldron of the sea of humanity,
An untamed insanity, wailing louder and louder, like the wild child
Emerging from the jungle of irrationality to destroy all of banality,
To cannibalize civilization in the realization that it is but a carcass
Only to be eaten now in a free frenzied feast of half-starved beasts;
Woe be to the man of upper-clan, who but fans the flames of blame!
The storm rise is upon us, the size of which we cannot measure . . .
But there will be no pleasure, only pieces of what we now treasure
Something has changed inside you, something strange
Over the whole range of your person, now rearranged,
Yet you smile the same way and walk through the day
Just as you always have, but it’s as if you have cried
For the last time and somehow have now died inside;
So as we walk side by side now and talk as we have,
There is only your shell, your inner-well has run dry;
And try as I might the sight is not the same, not really;
You are present, persisting in existing, but with no life;
Is this just the gyration my imagination, or is it true?
Did your spirit finally break for the sake of survival?
And is there is no hope of revival? Are you living dead?
Something has changed inside you, something strange;
Yes, something vital has changed you are not the same
Our sun will still rise
We will have our prize to claim
And walk without shame
Tree leaves will still fall
Beautiful autumn for all
And hear heaven’s call
Still there will be joys
And, too, playing girls and boys
Games, laughter and toys
Fret not! The sun still shines . . .
Even behind the dark clouds!
Autumn leaves are quite telling,
Such beauty shown in dying,
No trying to resurrect,
Life has been lived serenely,
And now comes the last sighing,
For there is no buying time,
Only chime of sweet sleeping. . .
Like night and day, no one can say which way you’ll turn;
To the right or left, jump in the light or run into the night,
Who knows where you’ll show yourself next and when,
And then how high will you fly? Or will ya crash and burn
At the very next turn as you churn inside and never learn?
You show an immense proclivity to levity and flippancy
With no dependency on discernment or shrewd selectivity
In the gravity of genuine life lived with some perspicacity;
You’re rather like the wind that sweeps round every bend,
Sending the debris of people tumbling this way and that
At your appearance through the day without adherence
To respectability, propriety or any suitability to decency;
Like dark and light twirling and swirling in the one vortex
Of your soul, no one knows whether you’ll shine or recline
In the shadows where you’ll pine for love too high to grasp
As you gasp for the fair air of purity in some serenity of life,
But you’re prancing along in fantasy,
Dancing on the very edge of reality…
On the edge of reality
Note: First published August 2016
Saints and sinners all play in the same game,
Sometimes wild, sometimes tame,
Sometimes intriguing, sometimes lame,
But never the same as the players change,
And so does the range of play from day to day,
And no one can stay in the same spot
Though they may look like an ink blot;
Everyone must move — this way or that,
Up, down and all around — even if bound
For nowhere in particular, but somewhere,
Anywhere but where they were, that’s for sure;
And rarely can one return to where they were
Because the field never remains quite the same,
Though who could blame someone for thinking
Somewhere stays the same for some time,
But time chimes on in alteration of creation
With very little stagnation or resignation
To immutability — only a divine attribute —
Which does give credibility to the game of life
In which both saints and sinners are destined
To play both day and night, in dark and light:
In the same one game famously called life . . .
But, odd as it is, all seems to remain the same!
Ah! I’m so sorry, my rose, that your gardener knows so little
But tingles with self-ambition from head to toes, though you
Grow best in the garden where you are, with so much sunshine,
Rain and stars, in such lush, sweet garden where lovers meet
And admire your beauty as you abide your duty in lovely glow
To show all passersby just how one flower can flourish despite
Slack care and lack of cultivation by the gardener, who is hard
Pressed to truly impress anyone; you have been rooted in good
Soil with other healthy shrubs and trees and flowers, and from
This you’ve drawn strength and power without allowing yourself
To sour from neglect, misuse and abuse; yes, and you grew into
An awesome rose in all, tall in magnificence without pretense,
But now … ah! but now how the gardener is ripping you up by
Your very roots while sipping on poisoned wine, perfectly fine
With the decision to replant you with scant attention to your
Health and well-being, seeing there is more to gain in another
Garden despite what pain it causes you and how askew the plan
As if laid out by a madman, but can anyone ban the transfer?
Kinsman, clergy or wise man? Oh, but each one tries in vain
As the gardener only continues to lie, claiming the uprooting
Is best and will ultimately invest you with even more charm
And beauty, though we all know it will only harm … only harm;
And I’m so sorry; it breaks my heart, tears it apart! I’m sorry
If I could I would leave you just where you are
And plant the gardener in scant soil instead!