A Place At The Table A Rambling Assessment of The Human Condition By:
William B. Burkholder
An SCCA Publication for Source of Universal Love
The following pages are a culmination of meditations and writings by William Burkholder. In this volume it is offered in a rambling fashion so that the reader can more closely identify ( hopefully) with the human thoughts processes that some may have and exercise. It is through these thought processes, these ramblings of thought that this volume, “A Place at the Table was born. These pages consists of various works written between 2007 and 2015. It is the author’s fervent opinion that each of us who reside in this world have a place at the table of humanity. It is up to us as humanitarians to ensure that no one is left without food, without love or without security of their person or dignity. To those ends, this publication will be offered in order to raise funds for the Source of Universal Love. A 501c3 nonprofit organization Located in Farmington Michigan. http://sourceofuniversallove.com/ This Publication is dedicated to all those who struggle to have a place at the table. Know that you are Loved and prayed for. William B. Burkholder
These fissures of Men, Deep, dark, Devoid of light and grace.
The only spark of passion revealed, The flash of death from belching muzzles.
Angered hate in eye for eye, Competing to see, Who the first is to die.
Yes, Chasms black, Deep and cold “Tis no place For the heart to abide.
Siege laid unto ourselves When fissures as these
Are left to spread,
When all that are left Are the dying and the dead.
And in glories engrained We sing the refrains of Cause and bannered flags.
And bury them in Heroes graves And widen the chasms again‌ O brethren, I call upon you to raise your hands in peace, rather than in war. I ask that your indignations be constructed upon injustice and empty bias; practiced by those who seek to divide and conquer for their own personal and maniacal gains. These motives of the ulterior, one of the greatest crimes perpetrated upon each other. Taking for granted, the kindness of others, manipulating those good intentions to garner approval, wealth, one up-manship, and so on‌
When was it, and why is it that being kind to another human being, just for that sake, was categorized and stigmatized as being a weak minded endeavor? Convolutions of the societal mindset, lost in lignite fogs of self-loathing and the lashing out of practiced, animalistic behaviors’. I shall break this singular chain, for I refuse to walk the path of Dogs! May we all break this chain, and live as man was meant to live; where the smell of gunpowder and cordite has been forgotten, and the taste of blood has never touched our tongues. Where hunger and homelessness becomes extinct, not by natural causes but through our efforts to eradicate it, an render it a forgotten thing! To the Seekers of solace and serenity, you need to look no further than to your own hearts and minds. Quiet yourselves, and listen to the beat of your heart, it will tell you its story, and give you its blessing... Within all of us, there resides a quiet keep. A place of peace and serenity. Clear your mind, this moment is just for you,
to achieve your silence and find that place. That place that will give you the sustenance of daily bread and blessings. No matter the pain, no matter the loss, no matter the damage. that peace, that silence, that joy resides in all of you. Let the strength of your spirit conquer the voice in your mind. May your hearts and bodies heal. May you all find love, peace, and serenity. May you all see the light of the joyous gifts and blessings of life. May you find your serenity in the arms of all those who care for and about you. Care for yourself, see yourself in a brighter light, For your existence shines as bright as a beacon on a dark night. Become illuminated in your understanding of self, And in that, you shall light the path for others. For back in the day, prior to the aftermath of poor decisions. I dreamt of a life without heartache and without tears. NaivetĂŠ with regard to perfected lives, with regard to teflon like resilience.
No one is bullet proof. None of us can predict our outcomes. Lightning strikes randomly, with no regard for the target, nor the best laid plans of men. The storms rise to teach us humility, they rise to teach us grace, These occurrences, shape us, to some extent. And within those shapes, come strength and forbearance. These flashes of tattered lightning, shards of chaotic light that enter into each person’s world; Have no design on their target, they are merely a conveyance of happenstance. A Karmic tool, the piper’s call? Quite possibly to some extent, yet within their heeded call, Lessons are brought forth. Cognition of humility gleaned. Poor decision, seemingly a forgone thing that each must render and deal with, that each must seek the insight that comes from those decisions. Each saturated by those rain falls, left to dry in the warmth and recollection of our past mistakes and those realizations of wiser viewpoints. A light, mistful rain falls today, and gifts me with these realizations.
I am glad for this introspection of self once again. To know where I have been. To know that a sentinels eye must be kept. Also knowing that at some point, control has no meaning in this regard. Except for the attempt to live a good an honorable life. For you see, I once packed a bag, and filled it with the past. Carried it for miles, such an aching back. Lopsided and heavy, setting my course askew, Leading me down empty lanes, robbing me of what I knew. Surface minded memory, covering bed rocked truths, Empty anger cackling out self-deprecation’s score. A shoddy bag at best, useless to be true. This meaningless bag of memories, that set my course askew. I left it at the sea side, I left it there to drown, Where those sodden tears of yesterday,
Were taken by the tide. And as those things washed away on that great and glorious eve The call of a distant horizon called sweetly out to me. To be filled with possibilities, and all my greatest dreams. A space for creativity, for love and grace to grow, “Tis the task of every man, that this is what we sow. A garden of humanity, instead of rancid fields. These things, in the end, shall be our battle shield. For you see, I needn’t concern myself with diatribe and disembodied hearts. Cold and stone like, Beating to subjective rhythms. Schisms and worldly pessimisms, hang in the air like the stench of decaying matter, sulfuric, mercuric in their rendering by those who seek havoc, rather than peace. In the end, they are just words, just thoughts, the conveyance of memory and experience, the assessed outcomes of a life lived. Set upon the page in ink, a story, a moment. A rendering of what was, and what might be.
To dream and care and greet the morning air with deep inhalations of a new day’s gift. Sunlit caress of all those things that give meaning. That incite thought and inspiration. But again, these are just bones, just words, strewn across the table, placed there to sort and surrender those things that mean nothing. To pare from them those things that mean everything. That inspire a step forward, another breath drawn in, and another horizon sought…and in knowing this and under the virulent gaze of engrained bias’ and closed minds, their attempts to make me wither cease. For in my efforts to end such things, To find and fashion a kind release, I realize that keys Cannot open a closed mind. Cemented shut in myopic gazes, Narrow alleys, Darkened in shaded grays of Circumstance and rhetorical opinion. The loss of humility instead, Replaced with dictatorial dido’s, And to this, There is no appease, For sadly, Keys cannot open a closed mind.
However, the constant quest to seek wisdom at the behest of our curiosities and dreams; therein, myriad pages exist, so that no man should have to claim ignorance. And upon the reading of these things, we begin to hear the pulse and the beat of our hearts, we begin to see beyond the veil of ignorance, Oh that we should experience and impart these things upon all, so they too can remove the silence in their lives... I shall continue to dream, in spite of ilkish diatribes, In spite of visionless eyes, In spite of lignite rhetoric, and innuendos of less than and not enough of‌ To live in the physical moment only, Is to slowly die a spiritual death. For what sustains our wants in that fleeting breath, Is petty and paltry at best. There is a land beyond, Beyond blind, myopic view. Where most men turn away, And frantically eschew. The truth of things, as they are, Instead of as we dream, In self-centered sentiments Of earthly non-contentedness.
Solutions sought in quick fix wandering, Instead of higher calling, and spiritual pondering. A seldom meandering to the lighted side of vision. Derivatives of Man’s selfish ways. Lost in the cacophony of physical moments. Squirreled away on a back lit stage, a dusted page of memory. In the wings and always will be, Never drifting too far away. Some things come and fade away, While others linger and always stay, Just outside the periphery of one’s day to day… Experiences, the mold maker. The collective rendering. Always a work in progress. We are but dust and clay, Each the sculptor of their own design. All affluent in beauty, Do not let circumstance dictate your shape. But let those experiences inspire something greater than a mere summation. For our experiences in life, All those things, lie in many graves, To be resurrected now and again, To either free, or enslave.
Circular Convoluted Concave Con vex Summations of breath’s drawn And at times, Trails of tears. From glorious victory To engrained, emblazoned fears, And in the rush of years, Tis the knowing of this, That we lay our memories down in graves To be resurrected now and again. Alas, We are born of dust, and become water. We are the rivers of currents in time. Collectively our courses are set. We return to that from which we came. Dust‌ Yet in that dust and from that dust, Things are made to grow, and become water once again. Cyclic, monolithic meaning. We are born of dust and become water. A drop of water, in its fall is never alone for long, It returns to its beginnings,
Along rivers of currents in time. Born from dust, becoming water, We are both, The dust and water, The water and dust. Life and death, What current shall I be carried upon? What wave shall see me home? A watery by way honed from dust, returned to water and back again. We are born of dust and become water. we are caught in waves of a dream, Universal, all encompassed. Whirlpools and tidal currents, teaching, forgiving, understanding, Patient particulate of sea bed song Ringing on the drum of an open ear. Yes, I want to hear, I want to know. The macro mind of the higher being. Caught in whirlpools, Caught in currents, Caught in waves drowning. And my humanity‌
The ocean. My spirit, the tempest that conveys my body To brighter callings. In spite of my mere floundering’s. So I seek another day in the land of wonder, to dream and sing, to sleep and ponder, and in its stead, put asunder, diatribes of ilkish hate. In valley’s green, and sun-cast coin, ‘Tis the place to be re-born. And under the gift Of mammaries love, Suckle the blessings of New cast days. I sit and sleep in the land of wonder, And celebrate its ways In blessing’s bounty With loving Kiss, The caress that un-blinds these eyes…
I Sample serendipitous truths that experience and reflection offer.
Golden gifts of happenstance and the fluttering of closed eyes; Slumbered state of dreams and rapid eye movement; harkened visions to a new light. Dreaming of that which can be, and one day will be. Finally setting to spark and flame, the dark refuse of lignite pains. Carried away in a freshening of mind set, carried away on a new breeze, carried away in the arms of wisdom’s loving embrace. O, that such pearls, unrequited in use and acceptance, could have been adored and burnt in dendrite’s fashion, leaving the mark of vision’s cane. I long to walk a vital path, where all is seen, where all is heard where all is wrapped in the expectation, the acceptance of peaceful and loving hearts. I long to close these eyes, and let the dreams find their home. Yes home, at long last, home,
where Love’s hearth, its warmth, invites me to finally land and rest, In peaceful, reflective solitude.
I refuse the temptation To seek my sustenance at empty wells. Deep, dark, musty dryness. Emanating in anger, and soul’s Unquenched thirst. I shall not tarry there, No. I instead, shall seek the waves, The sudden downpours of Life giving water. The fleeting moments of joy Rapt in gleeful aspirations of The wonderful what ifs. The dusted pains of sadness and depression have no place here. Fill these vessels with The dreams of thought and inspiration. The aroma, the taste of kindness Sits on the palate far better than the bitterness Of virulent wines And vicious diatribes Find this well spring of joy and Condemn these bitter wells. Seek and drink until your heart is full. Grace, the partition between Love and hate, forgiveness and anger, color this slate.
White or black; dependent on choice, too softly speak, or use bellowing voice. Testament, tirade, bullet, or branch, the choice in the voice, between Love and hate. So easy to follow the well-lit path of deprecation’s call. So easy to follow bullets flight with that of another, again and again. Full automatic it seems to me, that we fire first before thinking, that words and intent are always hell bent to discourage, maim, and scour. Often I wonder; what pleasure does this bring to the purveyor of alienation’s design, Unkind, indifferent, lost in hate, feelings that love hath eluded? Partitioned from the sensibilities of Man, of men who seek the “Macro”. The sense of loss for those who do not understand who sadly, will never understand the tally of microcosmic thought. The partition between Love and hate, where in some places the line is thin, in places with battlements breached, where hate flourishes, and Love seems lost. But have faith dear friends, have faith. For Love is not lost, nor has it waned, it simply waits… It waits upon the fertile plains of enlightenment, it waits upon the shelves of lost causes, it waits in the memories of the peacemakers, and it lies in the hands of superior powers. It waits in the hearts of crying Mothers; it is remembered in the memory of dead Fathers. It waits in the downy wings of injured Doves. It waits, it waits, and it shall never die.
There are those who at one time or another have placed me on the shelf of lost causes. Those, who have not been able to agree with the path that I had taken, It does not prove them wrong, nor does it prove them right. It is more in the fact with regard to my growth as a human being, as a mere man. We have all utilized that dusty shelve; gazing with disdain and disapproval on people and things that do not sit right with us. It is in our make up to be judge and jury; more so it seems when the facts elude us. Facts have little to do with opinion; facts have no place in a preconceived notion of right and wrong. A moralistic sentence is the derivative of these judgments’. And upon these contemplations, I have viewed myself as one of these perpetrators. I have concluded that my self-righteous actions have been just as heinous as those that have exercised their judgments’ upon me and placed me on that shelf. One might ask however, “Do these moments, these circumstances allow us (upon reflection) to reassess our positions, our motives? Is it the overall result that counts more than the initial placing? I for one more than anything, realize the past and have taken myself to task to understand and attempt to analyze my reasoning (at the time) and my thought processes that led me to such decisions.
“Decisions” In those moments when one stumbles into that abyss of misconstruction it can hardly be categorized as a decision. In the terms of this it can readily be defined as a choice, and according to those relegators; a poor choice/ choices. The ease with which we condemn one another to surrender is not only heinous in and of itself; but it speaks to the deeper question, the ability of each and every one of us to deny the common flesh and blood of ourselves. I included am guilty of this. You, we are guilty of this. The ease with which we condemn one another simply by the fact of our misunderstanding and insensitivity, speaks volumes about us in terms of a people. We are quick to act, expedient in our resolve to remove the suspected malady that invades our sense of right and wrong. It is a term of indifference that each of us speak loudly. For in our minds we are just in our convictions, for our convictions are who we are. But really, who are we? You see it in many places and for this, one need not look far, In the urban expanses, we see it in the ghettos, where we have abdicated our compassion’s and left the (less fortunate) to fend for themselves. “Less fortunate” is a rich man’s term, it escalates him to a believed seat of power, one of perceived control. The rich man’s self-soothing rhetoric allows him to brush the poor man off without a care… So then, I am at that point of a decision. Will I place these perpetrators upon that shelf of lost causes? I ache for the true compassion that each of us are meant to have and display.
While I sit here and tap out these lines, I know that deep down inside, I am no better; I am just as weak as the rest of the world. I would consider a physical rebirth if it meant that I could acknowledge this within myself right off. It is but a poet’s naive dream, the disassembling of this shelf. But it is a dream worth recognizing at least in the form of concept and philosophical possibility. I am condemned to be a man a human being., filled with these preconceptions of myself, of you, of they and them. It is not an attribute, far be it. I pray for the continued understanding and insight to at least convey these paltry ramblings to my brothers and sisters with the hopes that at least a voice which has recognized that something is amiss with us in these terms. These shelves; sagging under the loads of self-righteous behaviors, it is sure to fall, and tumble at our feet, these cascading walls of indifference and unfounded contempt. Who is mistaken, who is correct given the tapestry of this life and its many colors it is by far, not an easy undertaking to discover the truth about ourselves as a whole. The realizations of a young man do not come in youth, Epiphany’s call comes much later. It is where he finds his eyes in the experiences of life. The lessons much more appreciated, the “realizations” Finally seen for their truths,
Wisdom’s voice is but a mere whisper in youth, A distant sound of far off rumbling, It is the island where upon, a bright beacon shines Lighting the way to future endeavor, future insight and knowing, This call to truth is universal, this beacon, universal… Time and space are but minor barricades, For in time all things will show themselves It is but a waiting game, it is but a duty of vigilance Where sentient thought already exists; Where realization will surely follow. Minds enveloped in self-serving folds, the ego is in control once again. Such things are in continuity with humility and braggadocio. It is the malady of the human condition. Where we seek what we ultimately abhor. Our gluttony for pain is self-perpetuated. In certain conditions however, we truly become the victims of other’s Diatribes, and physical assaults. Still, this self-perpetration of alienation and disheartenment lies within them and ourselves. Our sense of fair play for whatever reason becomes splayed; resulting in these attacks against the body and spirit. instead of “fair play,” it becomes a thing of vengeance, a thing of attack. These are not natural occurrences; however common they may be in today’s societies.
This “Society” has become reticent in its ability to communicate commonality with their brothers and sisters. Flags that delineate geographical lines have become more important than the very blood that flows in all men’s veins. What are the beginnings of these mindsets, these learned and accepted trespasses, In our capacities to learn and love, to be able to function in higher thought processes, Why is it that we have not found commonality in the basic rights of each and every man, woman, and child.? Such subjects in most cases cause the eyes to glaze over, and retreat once again into those self-serving folds; pulling denial’s curtain to the common sense of this thing. Political agendas and the quest for power… Personal agendas and the need to dominate through humiliation, physical and spiritual abuse… ultimately, perpetuating injustice upon the unenlightened and enlightened alike. Christ was crucified for his enlightenment, for his spirituality, Gandhi for his love of his country and compatriots. Yitzhak Rabin and his quest for peace. And then there are those who have suffered under the hands of the so called leaders, the Christians under Rome’s rule, the Jews in the Warsaw ghettos and other like places. The innocents in Darfur, Haiti, Somalia, Nicaragua… To what ends man and his self-serving power are willing to go? In many cases, we retreat to what we know, to what has been previously learned. There is very little
advancement towards that realm of new ideas; in terms of coming to a common understanding between man, countries, religions, and doctrines. Doctrine being that of a conceived idea whereby many prescribe. These doctrines and the fallout from them have created many victims. The foothold to power sadly, is most often on the backs of the defenseless and innocent. Should we not advance ourselves, and strive to eliminate this ignorant, deplorable mindset of violence? It baffles me at times to think that such things are readily accepted. That the continuing message of the day is simply more violence, more alienation, more bigotry and injustice. There must come a day when all men shed these things and realize that commonality is more common than that of the differences perpetuated by the leaders and religions of this world. Common tactics in defense of the status quo, accuse me of naivetĂŠ, of being a dreamer in the real world. Without dreams there will never be change. Pursuing them however, must be a communitive effort. I am saddened to see that in spite of our technology , in spite of our knowledge and wisdom gleaned over the centuries, that we truly refuse to see the folly in violence and war and these misconceived ideas of power and justice. So many causes can be attributed to this state of man. And as with these causes come the excuses for justifying them. We have lost sight of common simple truths. The imperative should be to regain this sight; To let all see humanity as a right bestowed on all and not just the few.
The concept of self and survival. Wherein lies the concept of sacrifice and giving? Generosity rather than that of charity, There is a difference. Concept of self, Ego, self-centered, monotony, Boring really. Strike out for the rare, the unpopular position of peace, love, and harmony. Enveloped within the mind’s eye at last, to render the greatest gift of all, Kindness. “Free will” is the downfall of man... That is why I write about Micro and Macro mindsets, it is in Man’s nature to exercise the Micro mindset. Macro, The larger view, to be more like God, to follow a more spiritual path. Aye, therein lies the challenge, therein lies the salvation, to transcend ourselves and become one with God. Alas, there are those who will never recognize it. In addition, even sadder,
those that do will be too fearful to shed their earthly robes and walk the spiritual path. Perseverance in the eye of ourselves, meaning even though we know we are mere and weak mortals; the attempt to transcend that malady should never wane. We should never surrender in gaining our footing to higher paths. Why then, do so many of us survive in this “Micro world?” We are an adaptive species. Our peers insist that we follow in line and keep pace with this societal march down its dark roads of self-absorption, greed, and hate. Moreover, most of us fall happily into line. Large two legged lemmings, stampeding towards an open abyss of self-import and a prepubescent need for acceptance. Like children, we struggle to understand. But then again, let us surmise that “Free will” is a tool. That it is our ability to use this “Free will” to reason, to learn and make informed choices of whom and what we are. That by exercising it we are slowly brought to the Macro, albeit through fits and starts, Replete with mistakes and emotional pains and regrets. That through the grace and wisdom of our higher powers, we come full circle to our beginnings, and we are privileged to reflect upon them.
Is Man not meant to transcend this human condition? Are we left then to suffer from our mistakes and continue to repeat them? I think we are destined to journey, we are destined to at least learn and grow, and attempt to transcend to a higher path that may, for our purposes only exist beyond the grave. The effort and that which becomes known, our inherent abilities as human beings to discern right from wrong. The question that I have always posed to myself, do I have the strength and the fortitude to travel in a world where the Micro rules and the Macro is worshipped, and dreamt about only on Sunday afternoons? The answer is “Yes�, I have survived the ashes, and I have found peaceful, reflective insight. That each day is a blessing, filled with the gifts of God. In a heartbeat, comes a story of lovers. In a heartbeat, dried tears are found. In a heartbeat, comes the realization, that all blood flows red, that all souls, love, and hate. In a single heartbeat, I know that ink is my soul mate, My brother, sister. The parchment, my life.
In a heartbeat, rendered. In a heart beat that spans close to 50 years now. What will I do when the ink as the blood ceases? I shall rest, and leave the ink, the parchment, my soul mate, to the next lover that comes. Yes I shall rest, and be at peace. Yes me, with the ink, the blood, and sleep… Loss, acceptance, and growth. O that we become stronger, If we had our choice, would we have chosen not to become as such? For strength is the child of misery, aye, it’s a humbler of man. A visual, emotional, spiritual, heart rendering fact of life. That sadness plays such a pivotal role in all of our lives’. None of us want it, none of us dream of it, but still it comes, not at our beckoning but with its own timetable, its own agenda. That upon its arrival we become sidelined, knocked down, taken to the brink of insanity sometimes.
However, we survive it, we pull through and are much stronger, more aware, more vital in our own purpose to life and love and peace and serenity. Plight of the Blue Monkey And the Blue Monkey rested beside the road, licking his wounded knuckles, road dragged, bloodied, and blistered. Upset at the wounds, blaming them for his pain and suffering. Scratching his ear with his left foot he wondered, "Why my finners hurt so much? Why me bloody?" I came upon him commiserating, licking those wounds angry and detached. "Blue monkey what finds ye on the road today?" With a last lick and grunt he sneered at me. "Who you and what you care upright man? You no want my answer, you just no-zeee, you go now away." I looked at the poor beast, feeling somewhat sorry for him. I had always heard of the blue monkey and their kind but had never actually met one in person. however, for some reason this one looked somewhat familiar. He had a common look about him. "Blue monkey, do I know you? Have we ever met before?" He glared at me with red fiery eyes, rising slightly to his haunches. I could tell he was surveying me more closely now.
"Hmmmm, he said, let me see , open mouth upright man, let me sniff... he rose and came closer, pawing at my hair with those damn bloody knuckles. "Upright man, yes I know ye, you see me many year ago now, you upright man that was my... how you say... naaaaabore," "Naaaaabore, oh, neighbor, huh! whatever do you mean? I have never lived next to a blue monkey in my life!" The blue monkey looked at me with sad eyes and said, " I was not Blue monkey then, I live there before I go to war, before the killing, before my hands were bloodied, I need bandage, you got bandage upright man? I fell back, shocked realizing that this blue monkey, this thing, was my childhood friend, Jeffery. "Jeffery, My God man, what has happened to you?" We all thought that you had died in the war! I was a bit unnerved he had called me by my name, he did know who I was after all. "Jeffery gone long time now, I am all that’s left. Me, the how you say... reezult of conflikt, when we make no peace, only war, We become Blue monkey, Knuckles dragging... he paused, and looked at his hands slowly raising them. A tear forming in the corner of his eye. He seemed to have come to some sort of epiphany, a realization... Authors note: How easy it is to drag our hands through the fields of war rather than raise our fists to the cause of peace.
The Blue Monkey Manifesto I am the past and I am the present. I am the digger of graves, and the conveyance to them. I am the string; manipulating the marionettes that wield my blow’s. I am the thing they call, “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey. The key to my cage that which sets me free is your disinterest, your apathy, and hate. My freedom to roam unabated is your ignorance, and retribution’s bloody slate. Man’s violence upon himself is my ignorant inspiration, and I revel in the thought of his decreation. I can be found in city and town, In far flung reaches around the world. I can be seen in newscast scenes, In the pale light, And upon the hearths In bastioned homes filled with blind rhetoric. reflecting in the eyes of a starving child. My name is celebrated in ball ammo flight, and the pungent aroma of smoke and cordite. I am the flame set to irreverent crosses; Lighting the sky with racist delights. I am the tailor of white sheeted banners so bias. I am the unjustified 13 knots of retribution, Fashioned on the lynching noose. I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey. Complacency is my friend, Revenge, my whore.
Blood-letting my delight, To even senseless scores. My hands are soiled with the lives of many, And I have been given freedoms in place of your outrage. Look around in farm and town, In village and city streets, My presence is everywhere… Keep sleeping; keep sleeping, For when you wake, I shall have to go. I am the vehement articulations of opinion and rhetoric, And in spite of your diatribes, it is they that give me wing. I am the developer of future battlefields. I was the architect of the Auschwitz oven, The builder of the Berlin wall. I was the sharpened blade of Tutsi, Hutu cleansings, The mix master of Jim Jones’s cool aide. I am confusion; I am disassociation, Alienation and empty pride. I am complacency, Prejudice, bigotry, and hate. I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am The Blue Monkey. You will find me in back alley shooting dens, on skid row’s bleeding pavement. You will find me in lonely fields and dark forests, The digger of the graves of the murdered unknown. You will see my reflection in broken mirrors, for I celebrate their fall, And I have reveled in the screams of your unheard call. They call me destruction; I am your neutron bomb.
I am the wings of the Enola Gay at thirty thousand feet, I am the thought imposed in political superiority. I am the IED on the path of Man’s sacred journey. I am travail and tribulation. I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey. I am the summation of all your perceived wrongs, and yet you tarry about, You see, but you are blind, You listen but do not hear. Instead, you wallow in the pits of self-loathing, And determinate fear. And in that fear, it becomes quite clear that indeed your hearts are closed, For to open them wide would cause your heart to collide with the awful truth about me. Yes, keep sleeping; and sleep well, For when you awake, I shall have to go. For I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey…
The dove, On wing and wind, Whispering, Calling my name, To soar with her Through heaven’s gate. To find the arms of peace, Embraced by angelic frond, Lit upon with forgiveness, Grace, and glory; Aye the winds, The wings, Calling, Calling me Home‌
When it's all said and done, Really, I know nothing. Opinion only, The buttons on this, Life's vestment. No man of letter's Am I, No laureate of word Or song, Molded by the corners, The flats, and crevasse's, Of my life, I know how to breathe, How to eat, drink. There are times when I Wish that I could have learned, To cry, openly, unabashedly, With great star swept emotion. Alas, I am numb, Numb to life's way, Old hat, worn shoe, Crumpled bed, Tis I, tis me, aye me. However, joy abounds, When pen comes to hand, When uneducated fingers play across the keyboard.
Sharing these thoughts, these words.
Spool of thread; Fabric line. In the right hands, It can do wonders. Creating beauty, Style. People, Friends, Enemies, Loved ones... Stitched through time. To weave our garments of life, Our glories, Our mistakes, Love. Heartache. All piercing our heart At some point. Weaving our thoughts. opinions, Tailoring our hearts
To life's patterns, Pinned in this, In these, in those Moments. Where we rise from lethargic mannequinisms, Becoming animate in our resolve to love, And be loved. To take up the threads, And sew life's vestment around us; Creating souls garment, To weather life's storm.
Soup The pot, Racism. The spoon, Indifference. The Ingredients, Ignorance, hate, and despair. The Chefs, Those that perpetrate All the above. Sad that such a soup, Such a vile concoction, Still steams on the world's table. Finding Finding That in all things, Love is the brilliant trumpet, Shattering the silence in, Me forever.
The Journey Standing at the water’s edge; A mere reflection staring back, Like the skeletons of pines, Hanging their lonesome heads. The journey; My life, A meandering current, That touches both banks. Seeing, Feeling, All that can be, In myself. The ragged ridge is hazy, My future is there, But unseen, Curious; That its ok though, Assuredly, The new day comes, Spring, When Pines return, Renewed, And life, As the water, Rolls on.
Painter's Brush Those that come to us in moonlit serenade, That become the sun's glimmer in our hearts, That become at times, The clouds of disdain; Are like the bristles of the painters brush, Individually leaving their mark; Creating human masterpieces. Of love and loss, New found ideals and dreams, In that, If such things never occurred, We would be but mere blank canvasses, Stark and white, In framed incarceration.
The Days Gift A feather fluttered down to me, Free at last, From some branch or tree, I held it in my hand so slight, And let the sun, Play with its light, A tuft of moss; Its passenger too, Doubling the joy this day, On wing and feather, From where did it come? A phoenix of beauty and sighs? A nested bird, In flight per say, Never the less, A gift this day, Feather in my hand so light, Another beauty of nature's sight. Drifting, Floating, Coming to me, O, that we could be so free, Like the feather, That fluttered from the tree.
Stick Pins Chrome plated steel; Smooth. How they glide through cotton and wool. Fine point, sharp, With a surprising bite! Insignificant? Nothing to bother with? Always has, always will be there? Aye it has. Better to be pricked by this pin, It knows its job, That is what it does, Carrying out its mission, Whenever called upon, Why do we want to take its place, Its mode of being, purpose? Let the stick pin do its work. Leave it to them to puncture and perforate. We should know it for what it is. And not imitate its cruel point.
Awakening To stand alone in an empty room and envision what you once had. To know, but not except what the cards in life had dealt you. To feel that deep in the pit of your stomach feeling, that you had been forsaken by all you loved and adored. Forsaken by all that you thought you were. All of us, Men and Women alike; live in the crystal places that our minds conjure up; little kingdoms that we ourselves create, for our own pleasure, for our own self being and awareness, in that, we harbor security; the same small town, on the same city street. It feels comfortable. So comfortable we grow accustomed to its normalcy. However, we are in fact sleeping with our eyes wide open. It takes powerful forces to wake us from this selfimposed slumber, maybe a divorce; possibly a death of a loved one. Or hitting bottom from drug or alcohol abuse; why is that? I have no answer; save to say that I once was that type of person. Secure in my own little world, until it came crashing down around me. I did wakeup never-the-less, what I had gained in my proverbial sleep was gone, My wife, my children, my earthly possessions, along with my self-esteem and pride. I was indeed a broken man; or at least I thought so. Imagine standing in an empty room, alone, seeing a beautiful sun rising in the eastern sky. That sunrise being the first one you had seen in three years. It had risen and set every day without fail, but you did not notice it, for in that crystal palace that you had
built around yourself; there was no room for such things. However, in my self-imposed despair, all it took was the sun rising, the dawning of a new day to bring me to an awakening. The brightness of its wondrous light, the warmth that embraced my cheeks, like my Grandma did at Easter time, Pinching and lightly shaking each one until they glowed a rose colored pink. That awakening released me from all that I had been. It washed me clean so that I could start a-new. Don’t wait for your world to fall into darkness. Allow yourself to watch the sun rise now and then, greet each day with fervor. Bring yourself to an awakening; an awakening of your heart, your mind, and most importantly, your soul.
This Palette We come to this life squeezed, pushed, Pulled into existence, red and screaming, Helpless, nurtured and fed from Areola brown and white Mothers milk. We grow and become aware of blues skies, Yellow suns, and emerald waters. Dark days visit; We see the pallor shades of gray, We learn, we see the envy greens in the eyes of those Who have stayed too long in those gray places. I have seen these things, but above all my color; Passions Red! Of life and it's many colors, this palette of never ending beauty! Pity for the man with the color blind heart and soul! He needs only to surrender to life's rainbow, Allowing himself to be blessed by these; Life's colorful hues.
Victory! When the eagle of war fly's; Talons sharpened against enemy steel, We all lose a piece of who and what we are. When the fog of war; Wafting over bloody fields clear, We find our brothers lying dead and maimed, And we all lose a piece of who and what we are. So the victory is not in winning the battle, It lies in never having fought it to begin with, Discourse and engagement of human kind, Finding life's dynamic that’s makes us all one, Then, We will gain so much more, In understanding who and what we are. Victory then, For all.
Hush In the framed corners of my memory, Angel wings and serenity, She comes. The tears of the world cast upon her vestments clipped wings and she fly's no more Asking with sad and sullen eyes What now; That my conveyance gone, Will I do? And I say, "Come to me, I'll take you under wing, Together; we will soar amongst star swept memories, And moonlit beginnings, Aye, under wing and wind, We will fly No more tears now, Hush, hush, hush..."
Two Separate Thoughts The path ends Eventually, But first it must be, Traveled. For if it were not for the journey, The end would mean nothing.
ALWAYS KNOWING The water, The wind, Never ending, Always flowing, Always Blowing, Continuous, On and adventurous path, Never seeing the same place twice. Always growing, Strong, Intense, Building to a crescendo, Of sight and sound. Cleansing the pallet that we use to paint and pin our hopes on. A new day has come, With the warmth of the Sun, To melt our petty cares away. The heart, The soul, Always knowing, Always feeling, Always changing, Like the wind
Epiphany Epiphany loose the chains that bind this incarcerated brain knowledge wisdom insight set me free teach me the lesson of these links enlighten this dark cell of life
The Probability of Love The probability of Love Becomes more clear; When love is felt from within And practiced in the terms of self-worth. To love another, One must first love themselves.
A Survivors Inspiration This Blessing, Life, That we at times Take for granted. Waking fitfully, Eyes open, When illness, Or life's pain Visits. Those that have traveled, Cancers ragged path, That have found hope and healing, Knowing that strength, New found awareness, Of each breath, Each Kiss, Each smile, Means Everything, Is everything, Blessed with Second chances, Blessed with Higher purpose, Knowing the true grace of Fighting, healing, and surviving.
Realizations here, By me, Of one who has seen this grace and joy.
Peace, I Hope Cacophony! Screaming discords, The soap boxes built high into the night winds. Gatherers of societal serenades The healers of the world’s maladies Gathering. Discourse, engagement, Where will it lead? Peace I hope, Peace. Ideas a plenty in the fields, the towns, the rows, In the halls, the bars, the shops, the stores. Fanning winds of change, change from war, pestilence, To peace I hope, peace. From the barb wired babies in Darfur, From the Baghdad and American Mothers screaming, From the children; unable to read, eat, meet, work, live, love, enjoy, High tech twenty first century respites. I hope all, yes all find peace. Greeting it as a young child greets their father, with joy and adoration, with awe inspired love and devotion, loyalty. Yes Peace needs loyalty, we must have faith in it, we must tarry to achieve it, Peace given is a gift, peace earned is at the sacrifice of many, all too
often; the innocent are the first to donate. With blood, tears, loss, poverty, sickness. Aye, peace, I hope peace, will rise in all Skies, will shine through the foreign windows of thine enemies, that grace will shine on us all, and deliver, Peace, I hope, Peace
TERNS Wide eyed and weather beaten, the tired terns rest on winds of a calming gale. They have given up the fight for now, The struggle to head south in the face of northerly winds. They dance from wave top to elevation, altitudinal displays of winged struggle. Turned back to their starting points to beat incessantly again, some sit resting atop bells buoyed, amid boiling brine and swell. Saving strength for the moment, when the winds begin to quell.
The Song of Gilgathane O Gilgathane, you sing in meadows of sweet spring choruses. Rhythmic waves of tall grasses swaying. Crescendoed trumpeting of white swan’s songs… Within the blossom of Summer’s cheek, You rise to meet their glories. Storied past, all but forgotten, A hopeful future awaits ye dearest girl. And come day’s end, you rest upon a bed Dreaming of fountain heads rapturous end. Serenade of water’s fall. Loons call, Cicada’s click, The white noise rustle of night things dancing… Gilgathane, sing to me of Summer’s caress. Give us this gift again, of renewed season, and warm melodies, of a balmy breeze across our brows. Gilgathane, great gift to man. Continue to sing in meadows of sweet spring choruses.
These things of the heart These things of the heart, Some sustainable, Some not. The rhythmic beating of the souls voice, Pounding in the ear of he/she, Who lays their head upon the chest of a lover. Who seek to find the caress of serenity In the arms of another. Who, after days and months of discovery, Find that things are not, were not as they seem. Where this true love was but a dream, Replaced instead, with vileness, and anger, These things of the heart, Some sustainable, Some not. When the touch of lips to flesh, Sends the body into nervousness, Spinning and flipping, Like a wild, wanton, dervish. O, Yes, these things of the heart, Some sustainable‌ Some not.
Thoughts on ignorance‌ The lack of enlightened hearts and the tapping of a blind man’s cane. Brought to light in fits and starts, crushing souls and hearts along the way. The piper paid in recompense, and finally, all good senses brought to light. Yes there is hope even for the least of us. There is poignancy to ignorance, The fact that it challenges those who know better, To think, and reassess, and not act in those manners. life after all is a lesson. And the ignorant? Just another page in the book... We all contribute to these pages in one way or the other. For none of us see all, hear all, of feel all. Our empathies, and compassions, Differ as much as infinitive grains of sand, Each with its roots, All without foundation. But the grains, mixed with the glue of wisdom and enlightened joys, Can build ramparts to guard and protect us from the ignorant onslaughts of These engrained dido’s. That we shed them finally,
is only for time and yes, mortality to tell. The Toothy Bite Emerald carpets, under day lit dapple on leaf laden paths, I wander. To wonder and ponder the sounds of this wood, to lay in beds of serenities embrace, and sleep the sleep of privileged kings. “Tis a restful place to lay a weary head. And dis-associate the dark and dread of citified worlds, and the tumble and the din Where havoc lives and festers in, The hearts and minds of all chained men. Chained to walk a narrow path of lignite lines And paradigms, hobbled to a singular gait, A singular view, Rasping with mycodal breaths, Making excuse for senseless deaths Of lamenting throngs of the innocents. I do not run, nor hide my view, But seek to make sense of, and eschew these forms of darkened matter. Today I shall rest, and tomorrow jump in, Back to reality’s Toothy bite..
What the sign said. Blinded by conviction to the point of bad behavior. Rhetoric of the, “we said, they said, she said, he said.” Ego and pride fly in the face of what should be, Peace, Love, and Harmony. In spite of perceived familiarity of a person, or situation, one can never truly know the heart of another… Sad but true, for each of us carry a shadow in a dark corner. And sad again, that we enter therein, To condemn and allay our love instead. Fractourous farrago’s. Infectious myco’s, A sense of eye for an eye justice, wherein, when all is said done, each shall be blinded by the letting of such a thing. Reactionary renderings of a long drawn out tale. O how guilty I am… But the salvation and sense comes in the recognition of this, And to pursue and continue,
shall result in an empty recompense. So , today, I shall open my eyes once again, And I will listen with an open heart, I shall think my thoughts for good or naught. For in the end, it is for each to contend, with the shadows of convictions, and bad behaviors‌ When the Horses Run And under a blood red sky, The horses ran. They fled in panicked confusion Against Sand choked winds, The desolate expanse of greens pastures, now desert Carried with it an infinitive view. The green was gone, Parched by a wild sun, A blood red sun. Cannibalistic Hungry for fare skinned maidens And innocent children They ponder within naive mindsets that all will be well, that all shall pass and the rains shall come once again
To refresh and renew Yet within the mindsets Of man’s Mycotic sleep They refuse to renew themselves in The rains of refreshed knowledge and wisdom Asleep under a blood red sky while the horses run. Searching for an escape that will not come. Wind Teachings Better to bend with the breeze rather than stand against it. Rigidity lends itself to fragility. For to stand against that which you have no power over, shall surely do you harm. Brothers and Sisters, tend your leaves with love and caring. Let those things, those divergent winds of humanity‌ Let them blow on by. Tis no harm in being ruffled, and somewhat windblown by them. Our roots run deeper, our branches, much thicker. Tend to them kindly.
Let no breeze of darkened ilk beset itself upon you, upon your foundations. Why does the ancient, mighty oak still stand, and the maple break and fall? Better to bend with the breeze, rather than stand against it. To simply let these winds pass and finally, exhaust themselves, falling upon fertile fields of new shoots rising. A new forest, a greater wood, where lignite winds have no power.
I knew her when You see, I knew her in a more innocent time, when we were children, too young to know about real love, real life. Fantastical ideas about what it was supposed to be, via the big screen and night time TV. We spent that summer under the gaze of fantasia’s blind eye. Using youthful alibi to deny the end had come. , Such complete error in the minds of these two. Not knowing Love, not knowing themselves, and who they would, or could become. Upon reflection now, distant days gone, such lessons learned in naïve leanings. We once placed value on those tears we shed, the end of things, emotions bled. I know of her now, she still survives, innocence wrought so long ago, lost. Strewn among labels of peeled beer bottles, foddered and lost to addiction’s laughter. You see, I knew her when…
The Gift of Greatest Possibility How shall we speak of glorious days to come? After the bones of winter have retreated, The clattering gaggles of ignorance… Their rattling’s ceased? When the culmination’s of future dreams Are finally realized, and we look forward yet again. O, new day, you are there waiting, Patiently waiting to greet me with your Gifts of bread, and sustentative realization, That time, when I shall cast down my cane of blindness, And see with new eyes, all that you have to offer. Such a gift, such a time, when I shall ponder and look forward to The rising of a new sun on a distant, future horizon. When the gilded coins of tomorrow Offer up the treasures of new days. When my wealth will be counted in the blessings, Of my heartbeats experienced. O then, in delirious , raptured joy, I shall sing of these things. My celebration of new days as yet unseen, All those future things, the gift of greatest possibility.
Light and Dark The light and the dark, The dusk in between, Gray matter wanderings ethereal dream. Night smoke wafting, blown away, clearing the visions of a new day’s horizon. Silver shards of sunlit beam Cast upon kings and ancient diadems. To seek the way To be the way To blaze new paths In reassessed journey ‘Tis the means to set a flame Upon the light and the dark, and the dusk in between.
The Mirror All too often, humility eludes us, staring into a mirror, a blank reflection. Subjection, instead of genuflection to our faults. Re-assessment is not doubt. It is so much more the other. Strength in viewing with clear, open eyes. Knocking ego down to size. What proof to another man must be laid to justify another’s worth? None my friend, none at all. A man made, self-serving exercise in the summation of one-upmanship. I shall not dance this jig, I shall not fall to the slippery slope of bigoted mindset. I shall seek my true reflection, even in the face of my faults.