Saturday, March 22, 2008

Leben Trabant

a leg of a route,
a part of a vision,
a fragment of dream
half-remembered on wakin'.
closed in a closet
with a small window out;
only half-seen,
everything that's about.

a blind dead-end corner
or a half-open eye--
even with both wide open,
theres no thing that can't hide.

a shattered ancient vase,
a tatter of lost text,
with but part of the picture,
who could see what comes next?
thru frosted glass
and shrouded in fog,
but a short distance
can be seen in life's bog.

an excerpt of story
of long-forgotten glory,
brought partly to light,
only seen with insight,
can't be known in its whole,
for the soul that composed
has decomposed in a hole.
but body is fleeting
and his mind is what's missing,
tho in part resurrected
after ages neglected.

cities seen through a crack,
a field of no depth photographed,
lack but one thing
and breadth is its name,
existing now but lost to sight
by virtue of just being bright
wide and expansive far too
to be comprehended by you

a cloud hidden moon
or a half-submerged spoon,
the sound of a tree
with nothing living to hear.
xenos: source of fear,
the creator of monsters
and nightmarish dark,
illuminated by spark
for no more than a second,
you blink and it passes
unnoticed in silence
of one unknown moment--

like inspiration that's lost
in a stupor of thoughts
too distracted to know
what's important to think,
unclaimed, left forgotten
ideas gone to waste;
too slow to react to't
drunken minds fail
to grasp at a chance.

a conversation through glass,
seen but unheard,
lips pronouncing each word,
lungs tongues lips without sound
projecting to air
unconnected to watching eyes;
only discerning minds can interpret
else are lost voices, each perfect.
still one who thinks he has all the picture
may err in his culture,
may not understand
though he hold words in his hand.

comprehension may bloom,
grown piece by piece,
harvested woven, as if on a loom,
in the spring of the mind
pushing frigid winter aside,
these new green shoots
emerge, no arrive,
on the sea of a season of being alive

And life's more than a sea,
all connect to an ocean,
seen for a second's commotion;
life is much more,
springing and falling o'er many a season,
always a cycle but seed-to-tree moving,
age the illusion but a showing of movement.
blossoms realized 'long with grooves,
rings of growth that emboss them.
whole of body and mind
feeling youthful, divine,
healthy all times,
there's much more to find
than be found light and easy,
tho fun, distracting it may be,

the diligent seeker
may learn more being meeker,
patient rather than eager
to know deeper truths,
see beyond shrouds of youth and folly,
arrogance temporary
--even so seeing the path is not easy
nor simple to walk;
the difference of knowledge
and action don't balk.

complementarity saves us,
views combined and lives intertwined,
put together display us--
make selves more than single
when many minds mingle,
and true interlock,
leaves more pieces grokked
and wisdom unmocked.
such harmonious sounds
will one day be found
as all our potential as people unlocks:

and in such a day,
heard distant away,
will be sounds to disquiet
all ill or violent
which stands in out way.

1 comment:

Bryan said...

a thought I had after writing this:

this poem was hard to end as my own life,
harder to write than growing up twice
from babe to grave,
to free man from slave
--but I wrote it one night