Through the cracks
I feel the colds
Soft silk touch
Slow to draw
The warmth from off
My flesh
Outside
I hear it call
Telling me to hurry
There
Come see what has
Been done
I’m no fool
I see
Through those
Same old cracks
How the withered grass
Roughly bent
Blows
I see the hard clasped oak
Leaf
Trembling there
Like clothes
On the line
Even the snow white
Clouds
Begin to blush
Pink
As the setting sun
Bleaches hard
Across a barren
Sidewalk
I know
And I will not
Go
For only the brighter
Shades
And pastels of
Spring to come
Will pull me out
From this warm
House
Tag: #Coffee
Another Wakeful Dream
I’ve been here before…
This same dust filled room.
I have sat there in the same worn, mildewed, moth eaten chair, and watched the silent currents blow the cobwebs into movement.
I have watched the micro world’s blown about as dust in the light of each passing day.
There every page of life is written, collected, and bound. The work of a legion of unseen hands.
Every letter, every mark upon the page, created by a host of beings.
Beings that etch their knowledge simultaneously into the condensed lines of unreadable script.
My tired eyes have long ago grown accustomed to the wording.
Upon a shelf of magnitude…
There sits the great library.
Each volume a collection of time. Each traced letter a forgotten second remembered, recorded, and shared…
And each night I close my eyes…
Each mid day nap I close my eyes…
Each careless blinking of the eye…
Another leaf, another chapter, another book is added.
They lay scattered, disheveled from there proper place…
For but a short time.
Until leathery, age worn hands, once more lifts them into their place.
I know. I have been here before.
I will be again.
The Torn Letter, From the Book of Pat
Another Wakeful Dream
I’ve been here before…
This same dust filled room.
I have sat there in the same worn, mildewed, moth eaten chair, and watched the silent currents blow the cobwebs into movement.
I have watched the micro world’s blown about as dust in the light of each passing day.
There every page of life is written, collected, and bound. The work of a legion of unseen hands.
Every letter, every mark upon the page, created by a host of beings.
Beings that etch their knowledge simultaneously into the condensed lines of unreadable script.
Linking infinite worlds and paths.
Information and energy never disappoint
Recorded beyond the boundaries of forever
Relics of bygone years
Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, all things are vanity
Death in a deathless place
Life in a place of despair
There grows the knowledge
Torn from the roots of trees
Grown fruitless in the withering breeze
And when you look for what it is you find
It’s then you loose your place
In the endless fantastic we craft
Loosing The War
Late nights all alone
Staring out into dark places
Listening more to forgotten voices
Than a person should
Shadowy death clouds the sight
Some nostalgic musings
Remembering long walks in open woods
The distances between school and home
Forgotten rides to and from
Sudden rains and freezing cold
The wants of being needy
All those hand-me-downs
Ill fitting shoes from musty closets
Going without and not knowing it
Growing up
Wanting to give what I didn’t have
Finding out you can never give enough
To wipe away childhood things
Unable to change any of that
Staring out into dark places
Remembering you use to call it home
Broken Mirrors
There are things you’re not supposed to say
Emotions that you’re expected to suppress and hide
There are moments you are supposed to not make eye contact and if by chance you accidentally do
You pretend you didn’t and quickly turn away
Change the subject
Quit reading because that shit bothers you
And if you don’t
If you have the courage to get all sucked into that drama
You somehow manage to pull someone back from off that ledge
Hell…
I reckon that makes you a hero
The world needs more of you.
A Morning Walk
A Sunday Morning ConfessionDirect from the Book of Pat
When I was a kid. I wore hand-me-down shoes a lot of the time until my feet grew bigger than everyone else.
Then I got one pair of shoes.
You’d think as an old man I’d buy more shoes but instead I find that I now just don’t throw old pairs away.
I set them by the door and try using them until one day glue and plastic bags no longer work to hold them together. Then I toss them in the garbage.
There are some days I get in a hurry and forget to take off my good pair.
I feed the chickens and ducks getting muck and gunk caked into the soles and tread. Large sticky mats of hay, feather, and bird poop clumping up usually in the arch and flicking onto the laces.
It’s horrible.
On Sunday morning as I prepare for church I inspect those shoes.
I see how well I did in keeping them clean during the week deciding on just how much effort it’s going to be to wash them clean.
Sometimes I can do it in the bathroom sink where under the bright lights every little speck can be seen clearly. Most times it’s so bad that I have to stand over the kitchen garbage can and scrape off the “shit”. (I tried not to say shit but it is what it is.) Then moving to the kitchen sink I use an old worn toothbrush and wooden toothpick to scrub with detergent and pick out the treads all the filth I managed to pick up through the week. Then when I think I’m satisfied I go to the bathroom, under the bright lights to see the grit and stains left behind.
If you skipped the body of my true story, just reading paragraph speaking points, what I’m saying is this…
All week we/I try very hard to respect the foundations your/my parents taught you/me. To cherish and value what you/I have. To worship God and follow His commandments as best as we/I know how.
Many days, weeks, months I do him honor and keep myself worthy to walk into his house. Yet it takes but one unconscious decision for me to fail for there is no righteous man who walks upon this earth that does not sin.
No matter how often I wash those shoes clean, I’ll get dirt on them as I walk through the churches parking lot.
I’m glad God understands and forgives.
… sometimes I just take my shoes off at the door and go barefoot because I know I am walking upon Holy Ground.
Praise God, Praise His Holy Name!
The Rain Upon the Windowsill
Quiet words echoing
Silent thoughts repeat
Shadows run through empty hallways
Whispering currents blowing dust
How loud the fluttering moths wings sound
When emotions become numb
Scraps of Paper
Just a bit of broken poetry
Cast aside – abandoned upon the floor
Words I’ve written
Their meaning lost along with their purpose
Each life carries their own tiny bits
Torn and tattered scraps of paper
Scrawled with half formed thoughts
On the backs of old receipts
Amongst the creases of crisp folded napkins
Beginnings fade
And sentences out of place wait
Until in their own time find a little light upon the page
Paper and Pen
False Promises Nouveau 