Ravings and Rantings
obviousness is what is Predictable and lacking in subtlety. (e.g. the title of this blog)
Poem: The Country-Side
A place bound by God,
Where nature roams still,
And the sky still blue.
No city dust here,
No concrete kingdoms,
Or back-washed beings,
Just the green grass,
And the sprouting treelings.
Young love is born here,
Free to roam the tattered hills-
And the vacant nights,
Free of black powder men,
Of blue and red,
Of the living and the dead.
A place where a man can be a man,
With a woman to share it with-
And a God to plough it for,
A man never wanders for food or helping hands here,
Only a horse and dirt; a cry to crystal air.
A place where man and animal,
Step upon equal ground,
No metal to sheer the meat or collect the paper,
No politics or glittering silver.
“I plough today, for my food tomorrow,”
Phrases uttered in the farmer’s marrow,
A sun on his back,
The sweat on his brow,
The scythe to cut,
And the hammer for the sow.
There is,
No city dust here,
No poverty or killing anywhere,
Just the countryside,
And the beautiful blue sky.
Poem: A Love’s Lost Past
What is that sound?
Like a beach hitting sand,
A parade of the devil’s band?
No,
This will not do,
It is calmer,
More of a clue.
Is it a feeling?
Deep down inside,
Is it reeling?
No,
This is not it,
It’s more deeper than that pit.
Is it a girl?
With fine hair,
Yellow and curl?
No,
It is not one,
But that might’ve done.
Is it love?
That fills life with joy,
But sometimes can be a toy?
Yes!
I have found it,
Yet where it went,
I know not one bit.
It took a form of a beginning with no end,
Then smoke and warmth,
It turned in to water cooling my soul,
It turned in to a tree where it shaded life’s depression,
Then a vaga-bound telling me journeys of love,
Then a falling star,
which was gone as quick as appeared.
It has written volumes and tomes for me,
Paintings of joy and sorrow,
Songs of youth and vigor,
Poems of the heart,
Even tear drops of suicide.
Where will that leave you?
If it touched like heroin in to your soul,
Can it be you?
A soul of art and beauty,
Will you be my honeydew,
To make sweet ecstasy,
Or to make sweet acidic hallucinations.
A poem OF love?
Or about it…
I cannot say,
But hopefully you are my hope,
That is here to stay.
A thought
Sometimes I wonder if I look at the world or its just looking at me. What is it to me if I’m not me? Can I be me? Will I be me? Maybe now, maybe later; all motion is relative to the world. In this world I see, the many onslaughts of possibilities that could’ve happened and the ones that did. Can we ever know what happens if we did or did not? What is the pleasure of knowing these outcomes? So many questions and so little time for them to be answered.
A thought: Pictures
When I look at a picture, I or rather we, don’t see just a peice of paper with an arrangment of colors or pixels on it. We usually see a memory or a moment in time that is made for a purpose, what is that purpose though? What is the purpose of a picture that is just a peice of paper with a memory on it? Rather whay are our memories so important? Can we do without them? Yes, hypothetically we can, but since we do have them, we do find them as a nescessity. Not only are actual pictures memories, but they can be ideas or thoughts and such. An artist usually PICTURES the painting before he paints it, without those pictures the artist can do nothing but stare at a blank canvas and set aside his brushes and pencils and erasers. For instance: when I make a poem, I don’t think about the words, I PICTURE an idea of whatever it is I’m writing about. Another instance is, when I look into the eyes of a person, I usually can make a scene, like mountain-tops or lakes or beaches, anything. A picture is worth a thousand words they say, but I say that the picture needs no words, in itself it is not a word, but an idea or memory or thought wrapped up in to a visual image. I love pictures, I love this picture of life, it is horrifying at times and beautiful in others. In a way the world is just one picture that never stops being taken.
Poem: Living
Nothing that is living, cannot be dead,
Life is in the process of dying,
Ever shadowing the shadow’s gloom,
Heading towards death’s inevitable doom,
When one is born in the womb,
They cannot be dead ever,
Somthing that is born, is always born,
Until their life will inevitably be torn,
The circle of life begins not with death,
And the circle of death begins not without life,
There is no destination for life,
Only a purpose,
A purpose to end and to begin.
Our life is God,
We are the Alpha and Omega,
The beggining AND the end.
Driving a soul in to this descension,
Is no more to complete it’s unending ascension.
How can a soul drift amoung life?
And how can it plummet to death?
Neither is right,
Nor wrong,
Nor in contrast
And not in doubt.
But a means to perpetuate life’s looming clout.
A circle begins where it ends
And will my life follow it?
To be alive when I’m dead?
What most I do to live before I die?
These questions a man can hold to his breast,
unknowingly and blindly,
His life must fend for the rest.
Is this a test?
Or a trick?
An ending to my means and a life left unchecked?
Yet all things are benign,
All is ended before starting,
Yet,
When life begins,
The ending will be sweeter,
My circle will begin with the birth and death,
My heart will stop when it first beats,
And whe I open wide the door of life,
I shall wait for death,
And with content,
Release my life’s very last breath.