Who do you know?
Who beckons to you
When the waves are too high,
When streetlights are few?
For in our moment
Of memory
Sweetness so delicately
Ready upon thy tongue,
Who do we know?
Who shall exalt
Our being so readily?
Author: ned
Golden Dreams
I cannot remember my golden dreams of yesterday.
Will my words be understood tomorrow?
Each of these laid with patience
Upon flat laid twenty pound unlined and rounded corners
Shall surely carry dust until curiosity reveals,
But the binary figures carried on electricity
Floating lazily upon some unknown bandwidth
In a region East of the Alps
Well, those messages remain vague.
Those messages may die without a subscription fee paid,
And the backups may need debugging or rerouting,
Ciphers and codecs may no longer be backwards compatible.
Our graceful new line of important thinkers
Good looking important thinkers
Looking good getting there
Are too busy to see through the mirror.
What has been forgotten (by them)
Is no longer opened.
All expecting return on investments.
The new band copies the old band
But the old band wont fight back,
The old band has been to that rock show
And lost a tooth there.
Youth are changing
Renaming, rewriting, shaming,
And forgetting
At too quick a rate
To remember yesterday’s golden dreams.
The books aren’t borrowed anymore,
Libraries replaced by computer zones.
Just an endless scrolling in dark mode
So the blue light wont effect
Brain’s melatonin tonight
Because now we know too much
And what we know is unimportant
Logos lost our gravitas.
Inner Bird
What is the real reason for my inner voice?
Is this ego?
Have I whispered so loudly
To all Grandfather trees
That my echo and sensations
Are no longer my own?
Has my inner bird
Whistled alone
In surrounding scenes of chaos,
And called home
Mother Hen
Whom I sit under this great canopy with?;
Oaks and Elms and Maples.
Does my voice match my vision?
Do I see sky blues,
And earthy browns,
With forest greens all around?
Or have I become muddled
Lack of colour:
Grays, black, and cement.
Words of the Universe
One cannot sway the Universe
Simply with words
This merely annoys those who must hear
And frustrates those who cannot speak.
One can speak to hear one’s voice,
Or speak-up to be a voice,
But to think a voice
Can change the world
Must take a lot of idle convincing.
So Long Ago
What is the hardest thing?
A glowing orb at an unending tunnel
Flashing lights in otherwise darkness
Moments of stillness broken by reality
A whisper one still remembers
Sun so long ago
And a night that must end.
But how soft it can often hit
Like haze on a full moons glow
Orbs opening
And a bead of sweat upon thy lip.
Pain can remain
And lost within thy brow
A handful often mistaken rashly
Just as this lingering upper back kink.
Bernie
Laid flat
The cat
Sat back
To count each minute
Awaiting his feeding
That came never too often.
White paws
White tail
White ears and nose
A starking vision
Against Autumn browns
A house cat hardly saw.
Morning Drawl
Slow drawl of a morning
Crinkling paper
And ever building list
Of tasks I wanted to remember
Last night
Trickling in
As my coffee
Trickles down
Bamboo lined pour over
Where my awaiting mug,
Earth tones of pottery,
Catches the mud
My memory unearths.
Soul
What is my voice?
How does it come from within
But it is not of myself?
Would I have been wrong
To have heard it?
I bring my soul to the earth
Both by sitting upon it
By feeling it within my toes
And by listening to it
Sweet songs of assumed innocence.
But then if I stay
How long do my thoughts stray
What ebbs and flows within?
Can I settle down
Upon a dear limb
And become like green foliage?
Setting sun
Reminds me of home
So my home is where I shall roam
And here I slip back
Into my routine
Soul, still here,
Accompanying me.
Lonely
Lonely
Like this ghost
I whisper my secret stories
Unwilling to chill
My nervous twitch.
My veins have begun to bulge,
My forecast is for rain,
My tulips are still
A long cold wait away.
So this whisper caresses
My ghostly remains
Turning effortlessly
Against swirling wind,
And painting my brightness
Gray, weathered and stained.
Dried Pen
My anger soaks me;
Leaflets floating to ground
With script precisely writ.
Daggars fly;
Pen dries and is again dipped
To lay out my pulsing veins
That have taken hold
Each cumbersome breath,
Each suffocating exhale,
And filled my hand with poison.
I dare not touch again.
Yet yearn I do so much
For even a deadly touch
So soaked in yearning’s pulse
That I feel
Faint throbbing at my neck
To gasp at last
A breath so soft
Anger’s taken leave
My life.