Tag Archives: separation

The Borderlines

Watch along the borderlines,
out where the edges meet
and mix their colors in the sand
that stretches down the beach,
not knowing of a start or end
or which belongs to which,
whose property is over there
or just who owns what ditch.

Watch along the borderlines
that meet in shades of gray
and turn to solid black or white
at least ten miles away.
Up close, there is no clarity
or sense of this and that,
no exit signs above the door
nor worn out welcome mat.

Watch along the borderlines,
where fences do not last
but turn to rust and fade away,
their ink not colorfast.
Out here, there is no us or them,
no sane or lunacy;
only horizon stretching on,
connecting sea to sea.

18 APR 2013

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It Doesn’t Matter

It doesn’t matter anymore
Who’s right or wrong, who’s keeping score.
Whatever we were looking for,
you’re set on walking out the door

It doesn’t matter what I say
You wouldn’t listen anyway
It’s black and white, no shades of gray,
So you’ve decided not to stay

What good we had has come and gone;
It makes no sense to linger on
the hurt we both have deep inside
and all the lonely tears we’ve cried.

It doesn’t matter who’s to blame;
two hearts are breaking, just the same.
There’s nothing left to lean upon;
it doesn’t matter, ’cause it’s gone.

It doesn’t matter, not at all,
who slipped, who was the first to fall;
The writing’s clear upon the wall:
it’s really anybody’s call.

It doesn’t matter, in the end;
there’s no use trying to pretend
that what we had we could defend;
it’s broken now, it wouldn’t bend.

What good we had has come and gone;
It makes no sense to linger on
the hurt we both held deep inside
and all the lonely tears we’ve cried.

It doesn’t matter who’s to blame;
two hearts are breaking, just the same.
There’s nothing left to lean upon;
it doesn’t matter, ’cause it’s gone.

16 JAN 2006

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When You Were Mine

I’ve been listening today to a lot of early Merle Haggard. He’s always been one of my biggest influences, particularly as a songwriter — although as a singer, particularly his work in the sixties, there was NOBODY as fluid or versatile, not even Elvis, as far as I’m concerned, and for me that’s saying a lot. Anyway, drawing water from the Merle well is always inspirational, and to drink such early vintage is heady stuff, which inspired me to write another drinking song.

Yes, my body wears the scars
from long nights spent at the bar;
I’ve grown old before my time
Become vintage, like this wine.

In my younger, bolder days
I followed wild and dangerous ways;
Now I’m tired and worn clear through
by those things I used to do.

If I could go back, try to undo
the ways I tried to get over you,
instead of drinking, try something new,
what would that get me, what would that prove?

There’s too much sorrow, too much pain;
don’t want to live through it all again.
I’d rather wear out before my time
than relive remembering when you were mine.

I’ve poured fortunes down the drain,
spent nights standing out in the rain,
grown sick and tired, and aged 10 years,
much like the whiskey I’ve got right here.

You should have seen me in my prime:
I was so reckless, it was sublime;
Now I’m just waiting around to see
how long it takes to lose all of me.

If I could go back, try to undo
the ways I tried to get over you,
instead of drinking, try something new,
what would that get me, what would that prove?

There’s too much sorrow, too much pain;
don’t want to live through it all again.
I’d rather wear out before my time
than relive remembering when you were mine.

16 JAN 2006

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The Thread That Holds

The thread that fasts the edges of the fabric
to link the warp and woof which forms our life
is tenuous, at best – so thin and fragile.
This tapestry we take so much for granted,
whose boundaries extend to memory’s end,
is but a million of these strands and slivers.

That it remains a whole is quite surprising,
considering how little work it takes
to cause a snag, or worry loose a seam.
The pattern fades, and shows its age in places
where time and stress have worn through either side;
through these holes often come epiphanies:

it’s where the surface thins and turns transparent,
that life beyond our isolated realm
makes faint connection to our sense of known.
In those quite rare and brief enlightened moments,
true balance becomes difficult to find;
despite the danger, we must seek the edge

and look to the abyss that lies beyond,
to find within ourselves the fabric’s mending,
or pulling that loose thread, unravel all.
Because in truth, we are just as connected
(despite the separate spools from which we start)
as those fine strands of nothing in themselves;

and can together form a thing of beauty
beyond the ken of isolated minds.
If just an inch is lost, we are no more.

24 FEB 2005

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Goodnight for Gonzo

for Hunter S. Thompson

A life in isolation breeds its own brand of malaise,
that the respected classes just ignore
and seek instead on worthless causes to heap shame or praise,
with their good sense, naming such moods a bore.

The paranoia of the underdog they call a sham,
not worthy of their time, a waste of ink;
the causes that disturb the peace are just not worth a damn,
or dangerous, if they make people think.

And who would dare innoculate the tough, unfeeling side
of such a beast, except a man possessed
with his own brand of madness and a sense of civic pride,
when noticing the emperor’s undress?

Beyond the limits of good sense, and often at great risk
(where reputations are built on mere whim)
who is to say where genius crosses into wild hubris?
The line between the two is faint, and slim.

But madmen are the world’s redemption; there amidst the cracks
in grand facades, under its public face,
they toil to bring to our ennui the honesty it lacks,
and see beyond our masks, to our disgrace.

When leaders bend reality to disguise or deceive,
cloak their ill intentions with a winning smile,
despite volumes of evidence they cannot be believed,
are any sane who hold back on their bile?

Too many sane, respected souls stand silent and do naught,
while freedom, trust and liberty are sold.
It is the madmen, in these times, whose minds cannot be bought,
that shock us into breaking from the fold.

They ask why should such things take place, in language coarse and rough,
and whisper their dissension in our ear.
What’s more, they make us wonder if we’re paranoid enough,
or numbed by false pretense and hollow fear.

Truth lies somewhere past the lines that we’ve been taught to see,
those boundaries of someone else’s dreams.
Too often, we accept as gospel such insanity
that even madness is not what it seems.

21 FEB 2005

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The Wall

There is something in a family that doesn’t like a wall
inside the boundary it constructs, its face against the world,
that thin veneer of solidarity presented to conceal
or pander to the social mores ranking its esteem.

Behind the bastions of normalcy, its main concern
is making sure the single units pretend to conform;
and in that monitoring, it wants no separate, secret lives,
accepting only hesitantly strangers from outside.

Each strained reunion of the brood is subject of concern;
and any bricks laid on in private are quick set upon
with sledgehammers of guilt, and picks of hinting, sly reproach,
each proud attempt to isolate examined and destroyed.

Against this force of silent judgment, one who would be free,
seeking an authenticity outside accepted norms,
must toil in dark and secret, lest their labors be discovered
and hung, a warning pike along the outer fortress wall.

The separate self the enemy the hoarding family fears.
And so with subtle sabotage it works into new bricks themselves
the shale of doubt, and shunning stones to weaken each new plan
until in desperate surrender only the whole survives.

And distance, what is that to it, that reaches beyond time
across the generations, fingers clutching, like ivied vine
that resists even violent axes to grow back anew
and cover each new wound, and scar, with uniformity.

Its cry to arms is “Unity against the gathered hordes
that seek to infiltrate and then betray us from within,”
and with that xenophobic fervor fights to quell, subordinate,
the individual desire to reach outside its grasp.

There is something about family that doesn’t like a wall
within its defined boundaries; it challenges the whole.
And each new member must accept their assigned sentry role
or despite years of effort, its well-maintained castle falls.

27 MAY 2004

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A Line Has Two Sides

We sit & stare across the line, we stare & sit across the line
Our words drawn as sacred weapons, our symbols drawn as ancient hexes,
Ever at the ready should the need
For our defense or quick attack arise.

This worthy line the boundary marks, its cursed edge our limits,
Unblurred & razor sharp, it forms a cruel & hardened knife;
We know its breadth & height & length,
Its size & shape & form are known,
For it is ours and ours alone,
For it has kept us here.

Our palaces & cities we have built, great wondrous sites
We have placed along its separating cleft;
And many, many watchful nights we spend guarding
Lest the line, in moving, be crossed.

It clearly illustrates the limits, the boundary,
Defines & enslaves us with its reach.
There is no question that the line
Cannot resolve by its presence –
Bringing pain & sorrow.

Sometimes, we sit & wonder, staring,
Our eyes unblinking across the line,
Checking for movement,
Ever at the ready should the need
Outweigh superstitious caution, and offense arise.

This blessed line the crossing marks, its worthy form the boundary,
Its edge as straight & true as time, unblurred & razor sharp.
We know its breadth & height & length,
Its size & shape & form are known –
We have had time to measure it,
For neither we nor it have moved.

We watch each palace & great city built
Against this separating cleft,
And for many watchful years have hoped,
In vain, for the line to blur.

It clearly illustrates a boundary, our limits,
And enables us to dream beyond while defining us in its reach.
There is not question that has not been answered,
Save one:

If we should all blink at once, on one side or the other,
would it move?

05 OCT 1999

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