Stillness

Can stillness be in life,
As life hurls toward decay?
Does seed of verve proliferate,
Or shed potency,
Until we reach that day?

No feat to gaze beyond the now,
Set mind upon horizon,
Then stare back from there- not bits but whole,
Fulfilment summed today til done,
Will grandeur nought set pang to soul?

The clock never stops,
'Cept once to expire,
It ticks and tocks,
It hovers like a shadow,
Wields vezuvias' wrath,
Unchanging in direction,
It mocks resistive path;

But nothing bound in calculation,
Can turn back or bring to stop,
The hands that move upon the soul,
Despite your cry creeps furtive toll;

To indulge and forebear destiny,
Abandon humble's hedge,
Take up life of expectation,
Where no falters proffer guarantee
Just race against the mirror,
With failure cold as fodder for a torture,
By desire's misery;

The other plate is substance,
To serve instead the void,
To live lifetimes by each action,
knowing bits trump the whole,
To colour fleeting moments,
As chances to be bold;

Nothings sour about awareness,
Mortality chocolate sweet,
Limit lets you savor, and
Find stillness in your beat.

Recompense

I sense but cannot move,
Unaware but to the past,
No reign upon the now,
Might I revile a helpful smile?

We lord over the indifferent,
Efforts spring benign,
To bring ordered naturata,
Shame to naturans;

The embrace I yearn to savor,
The kiss my lips to linger,
Bound by human nature,
Humbled human creature;

The outside and the interface,
Endeavors for us all,
But inward seek few navigate,
In darkness everfall;

Mechanisms in the night,
The turn of silent gears,
Imagined strings on puppets,
We've no hands nor inner ears;

Volitions t'ward the void,
Ships lost at sea,
The answers pledge allegiance,
To silence, not to me;

Whys marry explanation,
But courtship's time unknown,
Damn this empty progress vision,
We journey without home;

Yet ambition still aligns,
Despite logic's solemn lines,
Perhaps purpose to a betterment,
Instilled in few of kind;

To those soldiers of the soul,
That brave over-nature goal,
Risking intervention's disappointment,
In battles all alone;

Walking hand in hand, touchless and unseen,
Ventures each for more than reckoning,
No one meets but each one's beckoning,
Recompense for me;

Don Quijote de la Mancha,
Fighting windmills of me,
Save action from the instant,
Gain future-in-repair,
Can I convert a shadow,
Despite late being there;

Am I a being formed,
Or born to unknown mold,
Can I sketch a new beginning,
With a story never told;

Perhaps patience is the mettle,
Condemned conscience in between,
Bear true witness to your actions as,
You cull nurture from your dream;

Hope whispers that a mountain,
its permanence might dissolve,
to not weather determination,
Til' we move it by resolve.

The Fix

To follow sad's tomorrow,
Only leads unhappiness,
And trails defined by lights outlined,
Hide pathways to the rest;

The darkness holds the light of letting go,
That fear itself will never know,
There's a world beyond your circle and square testament,
With joy unreleased and lost happiness;

Just waiting for your fall,
And rise beyond walls,
To capture not behind then, but futures ahead,
Is to free imprisoned spirit of lost unled,
And take footsteps in the moment of destiny's caress;

Now breathe vitality,
Whence you brave the fix,
And wonder how ever,
You got on without risk.

Rings of know

I peer about the wood I know,
With trees I stand at station,
Warm light filters down on me,
Through canopies high relation;

The view mirrors for deposit,
Into my roving mind,
Collecting life's experience,
Building libraries with time;

Light plays upon the foliage,
That clings to the season,
We move toward the light,
In understood-unneeded reason;

The saplings of my youth,
Have grown in height and girth,
Not all survived surround me,
We'll all rejoin at dirt;

To those trees begot before me,
They highlight in my eye,
Still landmarks from my child's perspective,
Still towering toward the sky;

I train upon my favourite Oak,
A mighty elder stand,
Existing long before me,
It reigns upon the land;

This figure of securement,
That stood every storm,
Did guard me from youth's treachery,
And shouldered weather's scorn;

And now that I've grown skyward too,
And shed my childhood need,
What of the noble guardian,
Who gave with every deed;

Can I look beyond protector,
Look beyond the see,
And appreciate his entirety,
Including seed to me;

The sturdy Oak of childhood scenes,
Was once a sapling too,
Though I glean youth's persistent glint,
It once played in the nude;

Chapters of our lives,
Written formerly hide behind,
An opaque bark of settlement,
Severing history from this time;

We are the product of all before,
And only part of future's more,
Yet, to see ingredients of the potion,
Sovereign bits before the whole,
Tasty slices of experience,
Adds richness to the bole;

To image youth's revisit,
In stories often told,
Unwraps rings of perspective,
And brilliance to life dusted old;

It changes old's description,
In manifold ways,
Breathes intimate understanding,
Into once empty bays;

It starts when saplings yearn for light,
With eager stretching bold,
And listen to distraction,
The stories of the old;

What trickles entertainment,
One day floods understand,
And current's flow in youth,
Next forming knowing's pad;

The tree that grew before me,
Each new ring of know a band,
Of my father making whole,
My ideal of a man.

Copper Rain

Jobic and Francois' family farm lay, for about a 1/2 mile, adjacent to the town's train station. The farm also lay directly under a path taken by fighter planes going to and from the front lines of war. Often, when pilots saw action on the rail lines, especially valuable steam engine locomotives, they would drop down low and cut across the farm field for an approach. 20 MM and .50 caliber rounds would be fired to affect maximum damage- leaving the stationed locomotives bullet-ridden and, if the bullets hit their mark, with jets of steam hissing out from their pierced skins.

The boys would run around the field collecting the discharged casings that fell like copper rain onto their field with every attack. Boys will be boys and it wasn't long before the collection of these shiny sky-fallen leftovers became a favourite pastime. No sooner would an attack pass than the boys would be out picking up the war's still-warm leftovers. It was on one such outing that Jobic, while stooped to pick up yet another .50 caliber prize, heard the familiar drone of attack planes behind him. He'd been so excited by the chase, he hadn't noticed when the wane of the last squadron's engines became the wax of the next. He panicked as the fighters dropped down in their all-familiar approach and began releasing their rounds of destruction overhead. He screamed to his younger brother who, some 30 metres ahead, stood in between the triggers and their target. Francois threw himself to the ground as bullets overhead began riddling the nearby locomotive with fresh piercings. One pilot's approach was too low and his guns fired rounds into the field around them. Jobic froze as the firing path shot toward Francois and, with a moment that has forever etched itself in to his noble mind, he witnessed a .50 calibre round rip into the ground beside his brother. It peeled a large strip of soil and grass from the earth and sent it flying whole into the air where it momentarily hung, like a wrinkled green snake caught mid-pounce. The bullets continued plotting their line away from Francois and toward the tracks, though Jobic's eyes did not follow. He remained immovable in his fear until the moment Francois leapt up and began to run. Jobic eventually gave chase, once again running through the field, feeling the air against his face and most jubilantly, seeing the image of his brother running ahead.

There would always be plenty of casings to collect while the war continued overhead, though never again would the treasure hunt follow the action so closely.