Journey’s End

Every journey starts out simply,
with a single thought:
where am I, where have I been,
and is it where I ought
to imagine is my place,
my center in this life,
or is there more to me than this,
a home, a job, a wife,
a few possessions, give or take,
some good deeds, half undone,
almost a mid-length sermon’s worth;
does this make up my run?

Every journey starts out simply,
one step at a time:
which is the direction onward,
which hill should I climb,
beyond the horizon, will I
find that which I seek,
will there be fresh water
or a decent place to eat,
and more importantly, perhaps,
why should I choose just one,
when other routes seem just as fine
why leave them all undone?

Every journey starts out simply,
at least in the mind:
here I am at x,
and I will leave this y behind,
forward in direction,
stabbing outward with a will,
never for a moment
giving thought to standing still,
seeking something other,
something else, some thing undone,
something that won’t be remembered
when my journey’s done.

21 APR 2013

Burning Down

If you ain’t got your thing together, what is it that you want with mine?
If you ain’t got your thing together, what is it that you’ll do with mine?
We’re running ’round in circles, and you’re running out of time.

If you don’t know where you’re headed, why do you keep me hangin’ ’round?
If you’re not sure where you’re headed, why just keep me ‘hangin ’round?
Our time is growing shorter, and your candle’s burning down.

I don’t mind coming on for the ride, babe,
but I’ve got my own life left to lead;
and I don’t have the time to mess around here,
just ’cause you wanna waste your time on me.

If you don’t know who you’re looking for, why is it that you call my name?
If you don’t know who you’re looking for, why do you go and call my name?
Our candle’s growing shorter, and you’re burning out the flame.

If you don’t know what you want, girl, what makes you think that you want me?
If you don’t know what you want now, why in the world do you want me?
I’m tired of wasting precious time; our fire has become history.

I don’t mind just traveling along, babe,
but I’ve got problems of my own;
and I don’t have the time to sit and wait here,
’cause you don’t want to be alone.

If you don’t know what it is, girl, how do you know you’ll find it here?
If you don’t know what it is, girl, how do you know I’ve got it here?
We’re running ’round in circles, baby, and our time is drawing near.

If you ain’t got your thing together, baby, what you gonna do with mine?
If you ain’t got your thing together, why should I trust you with mine?
We’re running ’round in circles, darling, and just running out of time.

1996

At the far end of the canyon

At the far end of the canyon
where the road fades into dust,
and the remnants of old wagon trains
have dissolved into rust,

where the touch of high society
has left no lasting mark,
and no streetlight marks your way
if you’re out walking in the dark,

where there’s no hum from the engines
far off on the interstate,
and there’s not much use for fences,
iron bars or cement grates,

where the flowers bloom through summer,
their scent filling the night air,
if you come when dusk is falling
chances are you’ll find me there.

09 JUN 2005

Preparation for the journey

What is required of me, that you will listen
and subsequently think on what I’ve said?
No matter how inane a task, my mission
will be to fulfill that desire, instead
of simply guessing what you like to read
then stabbing it out with electron pen,
my want to please forgoing style for speed
and coming up still short, time and again.

The problem is, of course, that just your eyes
or ears, in single sense, are not enough;
if we are to peer through the world’s disguise
together, where the veils are thick and rough,
the whole of your perception must be used.
I know, it is presumptive that I ask.
After all, you likely did not choose
to simply browse, and then be lain this task.

But think on it, before you make reply;
and just imagine what may come of it.
With not much effort more, man learned to fly —
to falter now would mark us hypocrites.
The world in song, and words, and rhyme awaits,
its melody unheard for many years;
let not our time be wasted in debates
or pared away by worry, doubt or fears.

What is required of you? Your mind and heart,
a willingness to try, to fail, to laugh.
Just beyond the horizon’s where we’ll start,
and each day get no closer than by half.
Companions for the journey must decide
before they step one foot upon the trail
if there’s a chance their paths won’t coincide
five miles anon, lest their quest fail.

So let’s be sure we travel the same road:
to find out, if we can, the reasons why,
discovering an underlying code
that fuels the universe. At least, to try
to hear songs long forgotten by mankind,
those melodies connecting us as one.
Such treasures should be worthwhile things to find;
if we agree on that, our quest’s begun.

24 May 2005

Take heart, ye wayworn pilgrims

Take heart, ye wayworn pilgrims
on the road to finding out,
who’ve braved the elements of fear,
delusion, pride and doubt,
and found on your long journey
not a sole epiphany
except that destinations often
are illusory.

Take heart, ye lovesick paramours
who thirst for the divine,
whose knees are raw from crawling
through the realm of Proserpine;
what horrors in the realm of Death
you’ve suffered for your lust
are merely shadows, palimpsest
that will crumble to dust.

Take heart, ye hopeless wanderers
who think there is no trail
and have forsaken long ago
some great quest for the Grail.
The cup is in your hands already;
Drink, and have your fill.
If you can’t find it there by now,
you likely never will.

10 May 2005

At the Wishing Well

I wish that I could still believe the lines
that feed the young and nourish childhood dreams,
the reassurance everything is fine
despite the raging chaos it may seem.

I wish the world would confirm to my will
when I am sure the course the world should take,
but what I want to move often stays still,
convincing me such wishes are mistakes.

I wish the course of my life was less blurred,
and that the path ahead was much more clear.
But often truth and logic are obscured,
and what seems plain is not what it appears.

I wish that the religion of my youth,
the vanity of hope I held so dear,
would have ten years ago revealed the truth:
that who you are is not found in the mirror.

I wish, and then for wishing want an end;
instead of dreams, to just touch solid ground,
and in this world, that often seems pretend,
to be at peace with what small things I’ve found.

But wishing is a habit hard to shake,
a tool that serves its purpose for a while,
resisting all attempts one tries to break
its hold, to seek for substance rather than its style.

I wish instead of wishing to just be,
and in that state to become without fear;
to loose the chains of whimsy and stand free.
When faced with being, seeming disappears.

26 FEB 2005