End of Life Forever

If we are the only life
in the universe,
if we do destroy ourselves
and all life on earth;
does it really matter
if there is
no one
to remember?

If we are not the only life
in the universe
and there are millions
or billions
of other worlds with
conscious life forms;
does it still
really matter if we
or any of us
destroy ourselves?

What makes us so special
as to make our significance
any more than a single
Muon flung randomly
through
the cold emptiness
of space?

I think it matters not
after we are gone,
if we existed at all
but now,
in this moment –

it is Everything

it is
All that matters.

No matter how
worthless
and insignificant
we feel
ourselves to be.

It is each of us
in this timeless moment,
eternal,
without past, future
or remembered present;
it is this moment
which contains
all the joy love
and ecstasy
that is or
ever will be.

If only we pause,
open our eyes
hearts and
souls to be
with now.

Lingering in Oblivion

Last forgotten memory
still lingers in an icy fog,
waiting
screaming
in isolation.

Summer’s joys frosty and
frozen as the final tick
of time is silenced.

The comic story devoid
of funny humor,
sits poised awaiting
the punch line

Pursuits of a lifetime
fabulous and frivolous
who’s purpose crumbles away
from under them.

Oblivion’s fugitive
lost in fast forward as
memories blend into
taffy.

Wondering
as consciousness fades –

if some karmic debts
can ever be paid.

Black Hole Falling

Sucked in the center of myself
falling away from now

Light blindingly dark
compassion only a mask
of selfishness

Heart with half a beat
consumes all
as it falls
in upon it’s self

Sitting in an acid rain
a lone pauper
in world of prince’s
and princesses

Event horizon long since past
time, space and meaning
swallowed by the dark singularity

Always falling
in upon it’s self

Thoughts, reason, logic
cannibalize themselves
lost by time's decay.

Past without a present
future long since
devoured

Falling, forever falling
into darkness

The Silk Road

Theme from Silk Road - Kitaro

What ever we my find
journeying along
our own silk road
within it, is
a sublime beauty.

If not by its presence
then in the silhouette
of its absence.

If only we look and
listen to the silence
between our thoughts.

A Song of Joys

by Walt Whitman

O to make the most jubilant song!
Full of music--full of manhood, womanhood, infancy!
Full of common employments--full of grain and trees.
O for the voices of animals--O for the swiftness and balance of fishes!
O for the dropping of raindrops in a song!
O for the sunshine and motion of waves in a song!

O the joy of my spirit--it is uncaged--it darts like lightning!
It is not enough to have this globe or a certain time,
I will have thousands of globes and all time.

O the engineer's joys! to go with a locomotive!
To hear the hiss of steam, the merry shriek, the steam-whistle, the
laughing locomotive!
To push with resistless way and speed off in the distance.

O the gleesome saunter over fields and hillsides!
The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist fresh
stillness of the woods,
The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the forenoon.

O the horseman's and horsewoman's joys!
The saddle, the gallop, the pressure upon the seat, the cool
gurgling by the ears and hair.

O the fireman's joys!
I hear the alarm at dead of night,
I hear bells, shouts! I pass the crowd, I run!
The sight of the flames maddens me with pleasure.

O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena in
perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.

O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human soul is
capable of generating and emitting in steady and limitless floods.

O the mother's joys!
The watching, the endurance, the precious love, the anguish, the
patiently yielded life.

O the of increase, growth, recuperation,
The joy of soothing and pacifying, the joy of concord and harmony.

O to go back to the place where I was born,
To hear the birds sing once more,
To ramble about the house and barn and over the fields once more,
And through the orchard and along the old lanes once more.

O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks, or along the coast,
To continue and be employ'd there all my life,
The briny and damp smell, the shore, the salt weeds exposed at low water,
The work of fishermen, the work of the eel-fisher and clam-fisher;
I come with my clam-rake and spade, I come with my eel-spear,
Is the tide out? I Join the group of clam-diggers on the flats,
I laugh and work with them, I joke at my work like a mettlesome young man;
In winter I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel out on foot
on the ice--I have a small axe to cut holes in the ice,
Behold me well-clothed going gayly or returning in the afternoon,
my brood of tough boys accompanying me,
My brood of grown and part-grown boys, who love to be with no
one else so well as they love to be with me,
By day to work with me, and by night to sleep with me.

Another time in warm weather out in a boat, to lift the lobster-pots
where they are sunk with heavy stones, (I know the buoys,)
O the sweetness of the Fifth-month morning upon the water as I row
just before sunrise toward the buoys,
I pull the wicker pots up slantingly, the dark green lobsters are
desperate with their claws as I take them out, I insert
wooden pegs in the 'oints of their pincers,

I go to all the places one after another, and then row back to the shore,
There in a huge kettle of boiling water the lobsters shall be boil'd
till their color becomes scarlet.

Another time mackerel-taking,
Voracious, mad for the hook, near the surface, they seem to fill the
water for miles;
Another time fishing for rock-fish in Chesapeake bay, I one of the
brown-faced crew;
Another time trailing for blue-fish off Paumanok, I stand with braced body,
My left foot is on the gunwale, my right arm throws far out the
coils of slender rope,
In sight around me the quick veering and darting of fifty skiffs, my
companions.

O boating on the rivers,
The voyage down the St. Lawrence, the superb scenery, the steamers,
The ships sailing, the Thousand Islands, the occasional timber-raft
and the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars,
The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke when they cook
supper at evening.

(O something pernicious and dread!
Something far away from a puny and pious life!
Something unproved! something in a trance!
Something escaped from the anchorage and driving free.)

O to work in mines, or forging iron,
Foundry casting, the foundry itself, the rude high roof, the ample
and shadow'd space,
The furnace, the hot liquid pour'd out and running.

O to resume the joys of the soldier!
To feel the presence of a brave commanding officer--to feel his sympathy!
To behold his calmness--to be warm'd in the rays of his smile!
To go to battle--to hear the bugles play and the drums beat!
To hear the crash of artillery--to see the glittering of the bayonets
and musket-barrels in the sun!

To see men fall and die and not complain!
To taste the savage taste of blood--to be so devilish!
To gloat so over the wounds and deaths of the enemy.

O the whaleman's joys! O I cruise my old cruise again!
I feel the ship's motion under me, I feel the Atlantic breezes fanning me,
I hear the cry again sent down from the mast-head, There--she blows!
Again I spring up the rigging to look with the rest--we descend,
wild with excitement,
I leap in the lower'd boat, we row toward our prey where he lies,
We approach stealthy and silent, I see the mountainous mass,
lethargic, basking,
I see the harpooneer standing up, I see the weapon dart from his
vigorous arm;
O swift again far out in the ocean the wounded whale, settling,
running to windward, tows me,
Again I see him rise to breathe, we row close again,
I see a lance driven through his side, press'd deep, turn'd in the wound,
Again we back off, I see him settle again, the life is leaving him fast,
As he rises he spouts blood, I see him swim in circles narrower and
narrower, swiftly cutting the water--I see him die,
He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the circle, and then
falls flat and still in the bloody foam.

O the old manhood of me, my noblest joy of all!
My children and grand-children, my white hair and beard,
My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long stretch of my life.

O ripen'd joy of womanhood! O happiness at last!
I am more than eighty years of age, I am the most venerable mother,
How clear is my mind--how all people draw nigh to me!
What attractions are these beyond any before? what bloom more
than the bloom of youth?
What beauty is this that descends upon me and rises out of me?

O the orator's joys!
To inflate the chest, to roll the thunder of the voice out from the
ribs and throat,
To make the people rage, weep, hate, desire, with yourself,
To lead America--to quell America with a great tongue.

O the joy of my soul leaning pois'd on itself, receiving identity through
materials and loving them, observing characters and absorbing them,
My soul vibrated back to me from them, from sight, hearing, touch,
reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and the like,
The real life of my senses and flesh transcending my senses and flesh,
My body done with materials, my sight done with my material eyes,
Proved to me this day beyond cavil that it is not my material eyes
which finally see,
Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs, shouts,
embraces, procreates.

O the farmer's joys!
Ohioan's, Illinoisian's, Wisconsinese', Kanadian's, Iowan's,
Kansian's, Missourian's, Oregonese' joys!
To rise at peep of day and pass forth nimbly to work,
To plough land in the fall for winter-sown crops,
To plough land in the spring for maize,
To train orchards, to graft the trees, to gather apples in the fall.

O to bathe in the swimming-bath, or in a good place along shore,
To splash the water! to walk ankle-deep, or race naked along the shore.

O to realize space!
The plenteousness of all, that there are no bounds,
To emerge and be of the sky, of the sun and moon and flying
clouds, as one with them.

O the joy a manly self-hood!
To be servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known or unknown,
To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,
To look with calm gaze or with a flashing eye,
To speak with a full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest,
To confront with your personality all the other personalities of the earth.

Knowist thou the excellent joys of youth?
Joys of the dear companions and of the merry word and laughing face?
Joy of the glad light-beaming day, joy of the wide-breath'd games?
Joy of sweet music, joy of the lighted ball-room and the dancers?
Joy of the plenteous dinner, strong carouse and drinking?

Yet O my soul supreme!
Knowist thou the joys of pensive thought?
Joys of the free and lonesome heart, the tender, gloomy heart?
Joys of the solitary walk, the spirit bow'd yet proud, the suffering
and the struggle?
The agonistic throes, the ecstasies, joys of the solemn musings day
or night?
Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space?
Prophetic joys of better, loftier love's ideals, the divine wife,
the sweet, eternal, perfect comrade?
Joys all thine own undying one, joys worthy thee O soul.

O while I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave,
To meet life as a powerful conqueror,
No fumes, no ennui, no more complaints or scornful criticisms,
To these proud laws of the air, the water and the ground, proving
my interior soul impregnable,
And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.

For not life's joys alone I sing, repeating--the joy of death!
The beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing a few moments,
for reasons,
Myself discharging my excrementitious body to be burn'd, or render'd
to powder, or buried,
My real body doubtless left to me for other spheres,
My voided body nothing more to me, returning to the purifications,
further offices, eternal uses of the earth.

O to attract by more than attraction!
How it is I know not--yet behold! the something which obeys none
of the rest,
It is offensive, never defensive--yet how magnetic it draws.

O to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!
To be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can stand!
To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!
To mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns with
perfect nonchalance!
To be indeed a God!

O to sail to sea in a ship!
To leave this steady unendurable land,
To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets, the sidewalks and the
houses,
To leave you O you solid motionless land, and entering a ship,
To sail and sail and sail!

O to have life henceforth a poem of new joys!
To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on!
To be a sailor of the world bound for all ports,
A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air,)
A swift and swelling ship full of rich words, full of joys.

Again

It is Christmas,
again.

I’m getting fat,
again!

Just want to run
and climb, jump
high into the air

But, I can’t, so
I eat.

I eat because eating makes
me feel happy,
something
smiles inside.

Not the painted smile
I put on my face;
but, a deep silky
pleasant smile that
starts growing,
warmly
somewhere in my stomach
then fills my chest
soaking deep into
my heart.

A warmth soothing
the slashes made by the
chards of broken ice
slicing with each beat.

I would like to be thin,
again!

But, it is cold, empty and
my fat caresses me
warmly, always there
never departing,
comforting all through
the evening
and into the night.

I would like to feel alive,
again!

But, I don’t
and so I eat
I eat because
I can feel the flavors
intertwining with my tongue
like lovers
entangled in ecstasy.

I would like to sit
and watch a setting sun
on a warm summers day,
again!

But, it is cold, clouded
and dark;
so I eat,
close my eyes as the
orange glow of pumpkin
pie sinks slowly down
my esophagus resting
in a warm glow
behind my navel.

It is a large
plate of cookies
piled high,
which next I spy
then
when you look again
they are gone.

So ends another Christmas
with settling cookies
and pumpkin pie.

All to the accompaniment of
“Miracle on 34th Street”
playing on the TV
off in the background.

Presaging

I am like a flag unfurled in space,
I scent the oncoming winds and must bend with them,
While the things beneath are not yet stirring,
While the doors close gently and there is silence in the chimneys
And the windows do not yet tremble and the dust is still heavy --
Then I feel the storm and am vibrant like the sea
And expand and withdraw into myself
And thrust myself forth and am alone in the great storm…

- by Maria Rilke

Gum on Your Soul

I got the following quote in an email from a dear friend.

“God determines who walks into your life....
it's up to you to decide who
you let walk away,
who you let stay,
and who you refuse to let go.”

It is a choice each of us makes but, not a easy one.

Of course my mind stared working and had to see another side too, so I was reminded of a quote by Kahlil Gibran

“If you love somebody, let them go,
for if they return, they were always yours.
And if they don't, they never were.”

We can only choose our own actions and can, or should, never stop anyone who truly wants to leave and not be a part of our lives, no matter how much they mean to us and we feel we need them or think they need us.

Where do we draw the line between letting go with love and hanging on till the very end for someone who needs our unconditional love and support? The nagging questions asked; am I making their life better or adding to their crap; who am I to be that self appointed judge on how to better another’s life?

There have been too many times when I have felt myself to be only the unwanted wad of chewing gum, gripping tenaciously, to the sole of someone’s shoe, picked up as they walked carelessly through life. Had they been watching where they were going, most likely, I would have been avoided and given a wide berth and their life, far more pleasant or so I have felt.

Since we so rarely get honest and open communication; the question of “can the right choice ever be made?” is always most certainly no. At some level, I am sure I am just adding to the crap but, then again perhaps, it may also be true, on rare occasions, that I am really making a difference in a good way. Truth is, I never really know.

One thing is certain however, we are all in similar boats, trying to navigate equally treacherous seas, mostly without any compass, stars or shore to guide us; our hands frozen, unable to grip the wheel, even if we could see where to go. Life is experienced as an endless stormy sea bounded by perilous rocks between us and any safe harbor we may dream and hope for.

If you are reading this expecting an answer or conclusion, I have none, just more questions or a long list of verifications that I am a wad of chewing gum. But, that is the nature of the mind and critic who dwells within, pretending to be me or you.

Somewhere, for some fathomless purpose, something created that wad of gum (if that is what we are or I am) and then we were set adrift, apparently discarded. But, that doesn’t mean I have to discard who I am and, I choose not to. If we all be wads of gum, then we will, at some point, all get suck together as one limitless wad of soul gum in universal oneness as the cosmos chews. Then we will be blown into one gigantic bubble; with a new universe coming into existence with another big bang.


Perhaps that is how it all started…

Samurai Song

by Robert Pinsky

When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.

When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.

When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.

When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.

When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.

When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.

Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.

A Moments Peace

Buzz past an ear
serenity pierced
as if by a spear

It is all so clear
the theft of peace
and all my cheer

One tiny fly
who lights on my nose
all I want is it to die

Angry I became
trying to be calm but,
desired only to kill and to maim

To find my prey
I raised my eyes
and saw not too far away

Dangling in the air
undulating down;
without even a care

Celebratory decorations
from the ceiling flowed
most wonderful of man’s inventions.

Flypaper it is dubbed
hovering, waiting, silently
curly lips to suck the flying grub

Soon it lands and I know
I will be graced with quiet
and again peace will flow.

It tries to escape
from the deadly grip but,
is suck to that sticky tape

Squirm as it may
it will never survive
not again for any other day.

My peace restored
I sit with a smile
contending now with being bored