Poetry

On Meaning

I watched
the leaves today,
rustling around
upon the ground
in their domicile
of contentment.
I heard the crackle
of their laughter
as I trudged
among their throng —
barefoot, defenseless,
and seeking admission
to that place
a man only glimpses —
a world without
the shadow
of exploitation
and the badge
of destruction.
I heard the hush
of their complacency
as each one returned
with secret resignation
to its timeless niche,
and I could sense
the simple bliss
of having a place
to fall back to.
I saw the shuffling
of their excitement
as gentle breezes
came to caress
their assembly
in a moment of
resounding eloquence.
I stayed to watch them
turn their faces
to the sky, as if
they knew the dew
would come to kiss
them in the silence
of the morning
with the cleansing
moisture of life.
I watched
the leaves today
and wished
to find my place
in the grand plan
of Life's outpouring.
 

I hear the lonely children crying
and the old ones slowly dying
and greedy merchants vying
for their goods.

But I can also hear the birds in singing,
and I can see the sun shine brightly, bringing
life.  And I can feel the pain, rinsing
away the sorrow.

I met a man today
who challenged me to say
what is most important
in life.  In that instant
I knew I had no answer.
All my training, and no sure-
fire "three points and a poem"
message left to reassure him
of man's significance in God's
great universe.  No one dreads
the truth more than he
who knows it.  To see
it and to face it makes
the agony of life, shakes
the fighting spirit from a man.
There is no greater truth that
that which tells each of us
that we are alone in the cosmos.

Take me out among the stars,
to share with them their meaning.
I have wandered on in sparse
surroundings often, so I could bring
some comfort to them.  I've watched
them in their loneliness, and seen
them in their splendor.  I've talked
with them on occasion, and when
I have, they induced a longing
from within — to be at one
with some primeval Mover, the Spring
from which life emanated, a lone
Figure amid the universe.  I know
I'll find Him among the stars,
since that's where He first shows
Himself to boys with simple fears.
I hope He presents Himself again
before the searcher's dead and gone.

When threatening clouds have dimmed the sun
and You have come to claim Your due in one
constraining moment;  when dreams have run
their course and sweet melancholy has come
to replace them;  when all aspirations have gone
and life has lost its meaning in the simple sum
of its parts;  when death's seductive lips hum
the tune of my demise;  I hope I'll know again
the sweet contentment of my youth.  I've seen
its wisdom and its folly.  I hope I've known
the difference.

I remember the faces —
the smiling ones
who light darkened places;
the silent ones
in their solemn logic;
the secret ones
who search life's magic
corridors;  sad ones
relinquishing life's tragic tears
when sly ones
prey upon their fears;
the sensible ones
who seem to show concern;
and soft ones
who never seem to learn.

There are faces everywhere —
each one relaying
a story, though unaware
of another's weighing
of its significance.

Search your brother's tears.
They are the water of life,
borne of suffering years
of failure, longing, strife;
borne of the hardship of seeking
answers to trite questions
of mere subsistence.  The laughing
corpse of God's great predilection
everpresent.  Overseer, over-bearing
Lifelord, crushing man's ambition.

Wings are grown
to fly
among the clouds
with singing,
and men are born
to die
amid the cries
and wailing
of another
generation.

Only animals
which fly
are truly
free.

Morning approaches
valleys glistening
with night-time's
solemn tears.
Sunlight awakens
creatures listening
with nature's
fearful ears.
Spring acknowledges
the bringing
of life's
eternal strain.
And man accepts
the singing
of death's
primeval pain.

We see the inner workings
of a heart only in silhouettes —
shadows, misunderstood, lurking
at the outer edge, moving targets
in a game of chance forgotten
in another dream somewhere far away.
We are what we have hidden
beneath the surface.  Sometime in a day
of sunshine brightness perhaps we'll face
ourselves, but the possibility lingers
only dubiously on the horizon — a place
so distant and unapproachable.  The fingers
of an outstretched hand may help bring
the enlightenment, in strokes of loving.

Some of us forbear
enough to see the others die,
and then to wear
a cloak of soil, to lie
face up beneath it.

The grass grows green,
as if it hadn't been delayed
at all by men
who cry.  We are then dismayed
that all goes on without us.

The birst still sing
their songs with change of seasons,
and men alone long
for immortality, to need a reason
to believe in their disparity.

And when their bodies
lie rotting beneath the marble pillar,
when all the melodies
of life are sung, the far-
off drums of marching time beat on.

Though we may wish
for something more to come, we
face the simple hush
of death alone, destined to see
the void which lies beyond.

Sometimes I'd rather laugh
than cry.
Most times I'd rather live
than die.
At times I close my eyes
to see
that I'd rather have idols
than be free.

At other times I'd rather cry

and feel the aching,
and sometimes I'd sooner die
than face the waiting.
At those times I close my eyes
to see
that I'd rather have no idols
other than me.