Nothing lasts forever (hour 7)

He walked through the cornfields,

His hand grazng the tall crop,

He pulled his cap down, shielding his eyes from the sun,

 

His brother, less than three days young,

Had been born weak and sickly,

He had lived through fifteen winters,

He understood nothing lasts for ever, but that didn’t make him any less distraught,

 

He had woken before his mother,

so that he could clear his mind,

And prepare for the sorrow that was yet to come,

 

He heard a wail come from the house,

He ran towards the stone brick farmhouse,

It was time,

 

He burst through the door to the kitchen,

His whole family was there,

Crowded around their mother,

She crying, craddling the empty shell of his brother,

Maura was comforting her, but the tears were running down her cheeks too,

 

His father lingered in the back,

Purple bags under his eyes,

Shock covered his old, aged face,

 

He felt something ignite inside him,

A deep sense of mourning,

He had been expecting this,

But seeing his brother, Fern, an empty shell,

He would neverr get to talk, or walk, never feel the thrill that was life,

 

Three days old,

Three days of prayers and tears,

Or pain and misery,

He could rest now, Fern could finally breathe easy,

 

He wrapped his arms around Maura,

Trying not to look at the bundle of clothes that covered his brother,

Nothing lasts forever,

Noothing lasts forever

Sleep Deprived Defiance, Hour 20

No

No, I will not read T.S. Eliot
Nor submit to revisiting the age old themes
Of all the classics

Drives me batshit

A path well worn means safer travels
Means more traffic,
More regulation
More stupid people in the way…

I’m too impatient

Give me a machete and a pickaxe
I’ll blaze my own path,
Channel the Iconoclast

Bombastic self-expression optimized

No rules for the radicals
(Sorry Saul Alinsky)

No boundaries

Crossing every double yellow line

Sleep deprived
Reactionary
When I’m tired I get defiant

Nevermind

Devour the Peach – in answer to T.S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock

The universe is infinite.
And I am but a speck. 
So if I tip the scales a bit
is there some balance I'll upset? 

Or is it possible perhaps
that if you gave me half a chance
I’d disrupt the status quo 
and challenge what you think you know? 

And if you opened up your mind.
Might it be that you would find
the universe is ever changing
now and always rearranging. 

Becoming new and shedding old. 
In a state of constant growth. 
So come on, join me
if you dare- 
together let’s ascend those stairs. 

Disturb, disrupt, extend our reach. 
And for dessert devour that peach.

(more…)

The Longing

She stood on the street
With a bag full of memories
Here eyes were wet
And brain was dead
She didn’t thought this would happen
Her calculations were perfect
She had figured it all out
But guess no one knows Whats ahead

Her bag was heavy
She was ready
This time she will let the heart lead
Her brain was tired now

The stashed paint brushes
Longed for her to come home…

Hour 20:

Found Poem, from

Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

They will sing to me

Etherized Visions and revisions

I have known deserted streets

Squeezed the universe into corners

Each to each

Time to turn back, prepare a face

Almost ridiculous

A magic lantern

Hour 20 – Mermaids

Mermaids

From the line by T. S. Elliot in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

I do not think that they will sing to me,
these creatures of desire and love.
Songs of the deep are meant for other ears
in other lands, or in times gone by.
Though, and here’s the vexation,
I still wish to hear the melody, old as I am.
And so, I walk the beaches
at the turning of the day
when misty spray makes distant rocks unclear.
I fancy I see the flip of a tail,
the long hair shining on fish’s scales,
the outline of an upturned breast.
And, listening hard, I seek to tease out notes
from the washing of the waves on shore.
But, no. There is no song there.
Just a silly old man in rolled trousers,
alone, always alone, on the sand.

Dear Future Soul (2019 Poem 19)

In reply to Letter From The Future Poem 11

Dear future me aged forty-nine
Perhaps it’s time to drink some wine
I think I know just what to do
First thing on the list, ignoring you

Got this living life thing figured out
I can do anything, I have no doubt
Cute and shy, but I am smart
I won’t lose the truth that’s in my heart

Save your messages for those in need
I’ll find what I want with all due speed
Though I don’t know yet what I’ll be
It will be great, just wait and see

When Comes Old? inspired from J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot

I grow old…I grow old…

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Yes, I grow old…But have I grown cold?

I can hear my voice speaking words, uncontrolled.

I do not want to grow old, sad and crabby;

Lord, grow me in your grace, that keeps one happy.

Even though my end may be in full sight,

Still, let me find my joy in this world’s delight.

Let me see my blessings for what they really are,

Not critical of issues both of near and of far.

Help me see the little things that brighten up the day–

The sunrise; the sunset, and fluffy clouds at play.

Let me hear the sound of my children laughing,

And let me still enjoy an afternoon of napping.

Fill me with a spirit of joy found deep within

That hangs on to happiness; not fickle like the wind.

Yes, I grow old…Yes, I grow old…

I will wear a smile as my story unfolds.