after losing ego and id

i am the tragic artist, the noble saint.

i feel a bit of both in me.

nobody talks about the lukewarm,

the in between dreamers,

the ones who chose neither yes nor no.

did they discover more about the divine

than those who seemingly tore themselves away?

or did they lie awaiting the end?

were they projected from the cosmic mouth?

did the creator spit them out for want of ice or steam?

am i more than just a weed awaiting the harvest,

the goat lost among the flock,

or am i on a journey to limitless wisdom?

timelessly praying for a heavenly treasure,

i await the inevitable; growing beneath the son.

letting the light bend me across the dome of the sky

with the wobbly rotation of the planet.

like the corn we are harvested

every hundred years,

before the frosty death of eternal winter.

we experience the plucking away,

picked by divine fingers from our earthly flower bed,

our death bed, our market fresh sale bin.

besides an ant farm

we are an organic extension,

a cosmic arm of eternal life.

i am a spinning strip of the milky way.

and you are seeing me from the dark of saltless earth.

random curious thoughts

iceberg melt

this is an urgent note
no burning piano could sound

as satisfying as a glass of water
during a midnight rush

feeling sympathy pains
in the corners of my mouth
from the strain of your tightened reins

bumming for change
at an overnight cafe
just to catch that 2 am train
if i had any say
i'd find a new way to get home

when i'm walking with you
staying calm is so easy
make me feel so lightheaded
i just might catch the breeze
like tops of the linden trees
on my way home from your house

waking up next to you
in the morning light doesn't feel right
the sight of your pale white skin
against the quilted blanket bonds
frightens me

you know how
you think love won't last
well, that feeling has passed
and i'm worried for no tragedy

----------------------------

invisible eyes watch me
in their trembling sockets
making sure right is accomplished
sight is not for the blind
rather for the weary and watching
stitching the pieces of
shadow and light together skillfully
willfully holding back the hidden meaning
like a tattoo healing, peeling back
the layers of dead, skin-deep searching
would it change your opinion of me at all
if you knew how i really felt
jealous for your love
selling my son for a rebellious bride
buying back my prize
time and time again
only to find a deeper need for grace

flowers of the field

i guess i was just kidding...

if i'm writing for recognition i'm doing it for the wrong reason.

------------------------------------>

late in the summer
a ripened sunflower of the field,
just past it's period of awkward wild growth,
dropped a seed into the ground

it watched in amazement and pride
as a single, beautiful tendril,
a tangle of green life,
began to shoot out of the soil

the young sprout, unaware
and unspoiled in it's growth,
came not up against disease or drought
but healthily thrived
in the shadow of it's wilting womb

delicate and innocent, it seemed
the season changed,
and was unkind to the late bloomers

ripened sunflower, it sees
a struggle to survive and to flourish
with its offspring's roots gasping for rain

the blossom does not understand,
cannot recognize its own former state,
wildly producing buds and new shoots
in a desperate attempt to reach the light

it forgets the cut of the wind
and the frost creeping up
in the dark night of the soul

ripened sunflower and tangle of green

the light will take them both one day
round the globe cross ancient seas
équateur champs sans gel
eternal summer of the soul