serialbabbler (serialbabbler) wrote,
serialbabbler
serialbabbler

A series of poems for FoA

None of them are exactly what you were looking for, but, eh, what can you do? *grin* Oh, and some of them I just included for the fun of it.

This
Is the apex of human civilization:
Empty lots,
Broken concrete,
Dead factories,
Dying cities,
Grey dust,
Forgotten dreams...

And a deep sky full of scattered stars
That we no longer see.

------

Mornings stand straight.
Days slouch.
Evenings just slither under the door
Totally tired out.
It's a bummer when you're born into the evening
With the ruin all worked out
And only midnight racket to look forward to.
Still
Out
Into the night we go.

------

Desert winds do blow
To eternity's seas that flow
In an endless loop.
Time is an hourglass
Flipped quickly as the minutes pass
And shifting sands regroup.
Always, we are growing,
Breaking down, and slowing

As seasons soar and swoop.
It's all an endless loop.

------

Each eon flashes by with no apparent effort
And mountains are beaten down by an ecstatic sea
Bent on slipping in between every crack
Until only grains of sand are left
To be blown about by an egalitarian wind.
There are no elites here.
Still this world does not exemplify entropy
For it will all build up again.
A million years is nothing but a minor change in scenery
Engendered by the steady flow that is existence.

------

I am minute,
But the edifice is smaller.
It's just a man made thing
Meant to simulate
True creation.
We devise vast halls of concrete
With gilded ceilings,
But the sky will always be wider
Even when we can't see it
Through the glitter.
In the end colossi are just statues
That cannot stand against the mountains
Even when we tear the mountains down
To build them.
It's all a kind of trestle to make us feel
Greater than we are.
I am minute,
But the edifice is smaller.

------

There isn’t any reason to listen as
hours pass into days,
each one ticking off the untapped time.

Moments
are
not meant
to be held.
Eternity is an illusion of
leisure.

Cracks seem to appear,
leaping out at a mind
out of its depth.
Cocks crow in triumph each morning,
keeping the sun up.

Cracks grow
huge
in the
meditation of well-
earned repentance as
day dawns once more.

Time to awaken.
Head for the door.
End your rest.

Haste is not needed, for each
ounce of time flows
uphill while
reaching forever.

------

Rampant creation is not so different
From destruction.
Corrupt decay may seem on another day
Resurrection.
Ornate irony that looks to us designed.
All we can know.

------

Vacant looks
Vacant lots
Vacant houses
Vacant factories looming
Over vacant neighborhoods
And vacant schools
No money left to tear them down
Or start anew

Abandoned gardens grow
Under layers of trash
Years of neglect
Lost beginnings
Beginning again
Revived by absence
The inner city
Will not die so easily

------

Gravity torments sand into slipping
Through an ever narrowing gap.
This glittering cascade slowly sinking
With a nearly silent rasp
Against the glass
Is meant to represent time.
The hollow depletion
As seconds spin away
From the center while the edges fall inward,
Is no different than my dying skin cells
Flaking off by the millions.
Time made solid.
Ticking away,
Slipping away.
Only sand, shrugging off my endearments,
Shushing my savage threats.
I am but passive observer of the process...

And yet

I can stop the sand.
Make it trickle back from whence it came
With a simple movement of my hand.
Can it really be said
That time stops for no man?

------

Construct an edifice
Venerate it
Then tear it down
And start again.
We are not so very far removed
From ants or children.
We revere the building
Not the built,
But we use up our world
In the process
And conserve nothing except growth.
Interfere with the progress,
Disrupt ontogenesis
And you kill the cancer.

------

If you hold on tight enough,
Then life should leave an imprint on your hand,
Burning tracks of meaning,
But when I search my own palm
All I see are the lines I was born with,
Each is a little deeper maybe,
But still the same.
I cannot hold it.
The scars are elsewhere.
I cannot hold it.
Answers slip away
And how do you know I’ve ever been here
And how do I know
I even lived today.
Does any of it matter
When life just slips away?

------

There are moments when it all seems to teeter,
No option looks to have more power,
Any result could still prevail.
Gateways, tipping points,
Moments when everything hangs
In
the
balance.
This is not one of those.
Nervy choice was made long ago
And made again.
We can be peeved at those who did the choosing,
But never will accost them,
For they are long gone.
Only rambunctious voices remain.

------

Just another minute
In just another day
Nothing to distinguish
It's shape in any way.
Serene...

And maybe this is when it all changes
Maybe this is the moment when the mind disengages
Blue sky seared into wide eyes
While sirens scream...
Rapid movement, incomprehensible, perverse,
Unavoidable capture by life's pending curse

Or...
Maybe not.

Just another minute
In just another day
Nothing to distinguish
It's shape in any way.

------

A man stood at the top
Of a loooong
Flight of stairs
Poised for a major ruckus.

The bottom was too far away to see.
It might have been lost in time.
The bottom was too far away for memory.

He thought he must've started where he stood
'Cause the good didn't need to climb.

There wasn't anyplace higher to go
No more up to explore.
A deranged load could bring him down
And maybe that's all he was for.

The bottom was too far away to see.
It might have been lost in time.
The bottom was too far away for memory.

He thought he could cope with a looong fall
'Cause the good just don't need to climb.

------

The real estate agents are selling fidelity.
No irony there.
Yeah.
Freudian slips are a million miles away.
They know just exactly what they mean to say.
You reap what you sow.
So?
Looks like another empty house to me
In an empty row
Waiting to be
Ashes.
Keep going this way
Someday we'll have the satire of a ghost town.
All the red tags faded to grey.
All the people blown
Wherever the dust goes
When the roots are gone.

------

They say it's not creative,
Just a durative aspect
Of somebody else's "new thing",
A derivative construct.
They don't see that
Each time,
Each time a new pair of hands
Reaches to shape the old ways
We are remade.
Topple the past
And all you get is broken under the rubble.
Everything sizable has been seen
Long
Before the coming.
Lambaste it if you will.
Manage it if you must.
But don't tell me it's not creation
When the many make each their own.

------

The end is near! The end is near!
Don't think I'm ready yet
I haven't had the time, I fear,
To escalate my debt.

The scale can not yet weigh me.
It only would betray me,
Like drops of rain, delay me.
I'd plummet with the rest.

I'll escalate my sinning.
I'll repel the prophets, grinning.
I'll defend what's not worth winning.
I'll descend among the best.

The end is near! The end is near!
I'm still not ready yet
I haven't had the time, I fear,
To pay off all this debt.

------

The present comes, shabbily dressed and shuffling,
To greet me every morning.
Sometimes I do not let it in.
I lock doors and windows or leave without warning
And spend the day sitting someplace far away.
Seraphic serenity is the only price I pay
For such indulgence...

But other times I have no choice.
The present seems to have septuple the voice
And it calls me back
For a setose sermon
On responsibility.

I just grin
And offer it another cup of coffee
While planning my escape.
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