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Tag: struggle

The shadow knows

Published on April 28, 2013

It ought to be a simple thing:
you spend years looking for just what
inspires you, makes you realize
exactly how to become you,
to finally be satisfied
with who the mirror shows you back,
and make the bold choice to refuse
your past to close you in.

It ought to be a simple thing;
and yet, once that thing is achieved,
and all the hours and pointless days
up to that point are washed away,
the wounds from battles long forgot
all healed, their scars in slow retreat,
a shadow still remains behind
and finds you unaware.

It ought to be a simple thing:
a shoulder’s shrug should send it off,
that careless smile you’ve learned to wear
to keep your thoughts close to the vest,
and yet, despite a new-found strength
spurred by convictions now secured,
the darkness creeps in with the night
to hide you from yourself.

28 APR 2013

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Let go, let go, let go

Published on April 19, 2013

Cast away your doubts and fears;
let go, let go, let go.
Leave behind all that you know;
let go, let go, let go.

Nothing left to tie you down,
nothing blocking out your sound,
nothing keeping you around;
let go, let go, let go.

Toss aside those clouds and gray;
let go, let go, let go.
Ask the universe to play;
let go, let go, let go.

There is something left to find,
something of another kind,
could be something on your mind:
let go, let go, let go.

Leave behind your cares and woe;
let go, let go, let go.
All you’ve learned and all you know;
let go, let go, let go.

Anything can be achieved,
anything you can believe
can be used to make you grieve:
let go, let go, let go.

Let your worries slip away;
let go, let go, let go.
Start again, just start today;
let go, let go, let go.

No one blocking out your view,
no one left except for you
to complete the passage through:
let go, let go, let go.

19 APR 2013

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Winding Down: diminishing verse

Published on December 14, 2012

Oh, that brave actions would outstrip
my idle thoughts on this strange trip
and rend this silence, letting rip

against those fears none understand;
and on that battleground, I’d stand
secure in my convictions and

well-knowing that I could suspend
reality and time to spend
a moment in peace at the end.

Oh, to feel that glad release,
when this worn flesh negates its lease
and finds at long last, a true ease.

14 DEC 2012

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Red(neck) White and Blue

Published on December 16, 2005

OK, so I’ll admit there’s something dangerous about listening to Jerry Reed, Johnny Paycheck and Hank Williams Jr. while at work on a Thursday afternoon. Follow that up with dinner at a restaurant at the edge of a college town where you’re likely to see obnoxious young punks dining across the room from farmers and truckdrivers, and it’s a recipe for some kind of social commentary. Here goes.

My name is on my shirt, but that don’t mean that I forgot
just who I am and where I learned the lessons I’ve been taught
about this world we’re living in and how it got that way:
some people create garbage, and other folks scrub it away

I pump the gas you waste in your designer SUVs;
It’s my sweat that delivers your brand new widescreen TVs;
I watch as you buy priviledge with handfuls of crisp new cash;
You may buy friends and influence, but that don’t mean you’ve got class.

You say I’m redneck, poor white and blue,
not worth the future you’re entitled to;
but it doesn’t matter much what you might say.
The trash that you talk, folks like me wash away.

If it’s broke, I can fix it and charge you an honest rate
while you laugh underneath your breath and think me an ingrate,
not thankful for the culture you ignore and would let die
without my servant class to keep your asses warm and dry.

I grow your food, construct your homes, and keep your golf course green
My friends and family fight your wars, and build your limousines
My face seems so familiar, but you can’t recall my name
Down that great height you’re looking from, we all look just the same

You say I’m a redneck, poor white and blue
not worth the effort it costs to improve
but it doesn’t matter what you choose to say
The mess that you make, folks like me sweep away

Maybe I’m just redneck, poor white trash and blue
just one more hillbilly with nothing to lose.
one thing’s for certain, and I know it’s true:
except for the grace of God, I’d be like you.

15 DEC 2005

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Sisyphus

Published on January 7, 2005

At each new dawning of the day,
our shackles turned to dust,
we rise from bed and check the door
in case it’s turned to rust;

and finding perhaps a loose hinge
or screws worn down and stripped,
we throw our weight against the seam
where new daylight has slipped.

The door cracks open, and we sprawl
out in the joining hall
that through our window seemed so vast
but really is quite small —

for it is just another cage,
a slightly different cell;
and after a few moments’ rest
it becomes hard to tell

if where we are and where we’ve been
are very much the same,
or if the move we just accomplished
will affect the game.

The light begins to fade, at length,
and we begin to sense
that each room we have passed through
is illusion and pretense,

that the rough walls are paper thin —
in fact, they’re barely there.
We could walk through and out
with just a single breath of air.

But reaching that epiphany
we do not grasp for more,
just sleep, and dream of getting past
tomorrow’s brand new door.

07 JAN 2004

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undertown

Published on July 30, 2004

in the undertown around the middle
earthen jars the senseless struggle:
i shall be released from this
before the current pulls me

undertown, around the rooting rockets way
before the dawn of timing, when
our cultured throats scream out so that
the horse-drawn whispers drawl
their quiet haunting innuendos.

in the undertown beside the river
runs the hiding seeking slumber:
i shall be awakened from this
just before the nightmare finds me

undertown, beneath the covered bridges burnt
before the gods of ego’s altar, when
our cultured pearls slide out so that
the tenderloin potential plays
its game of spattered caulking.

in the undertown below the wasteland
roving scarlet head supporters speak:
i shall not believe in this
until the dream has drowned its dead in

undertown, before subtle shaded sadness swells
its mottled cracking smile, and then
our cultured throats slide slow so that
the sword-clamped teeth can grasp
their severed thoughts’ aboutness.

1994

for Memphis

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The Dust That Settles Between Sculptures

Published on August 28, 2003

When you think of all the time spent constructing a life,
each scene cast in its fragile plaster mold
and then carefully chiselled and sanded away
so the finished piece can find its own path in the world

out there beyond the workshop’s doors, where it
will age with elements outside your control,
sometimes you dwell on the dust that settles
on your tools and sticks between the floorboards

like a heavy mist. But you cannot stay in that malaise
and have your work succumb to shadows;
The record of this day you must too erase,
where those two sets of footprints,

yours and your life’s work
smudged there in the pale grit at the door,
lead out, and only one set, yours,
returns. If not erase, then at least sweep clean

the way; else the memory of those last moments,
when the art must leave the artist’s hands
to seek its own workshop, build its own
reputation, will lose its deeper meaning,

and leave only a marred and ruined foundation
upon which the work of the future is lain.
This great work of art, so lovingly made,
is ready to be shown.

The sorrow would be greater if it were not so.
These tears will wipe the dust away,
and cleanse the heart anew.
And your work will come back, and will say

for all your effort, thank you.
So find no sadness in the plaster,
no remorse, no great disaster.
The piece is finished, and is good.

But it is not the only art inside you.
Build on that great store — you can, and should.

28 AUG 2003

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