The Bay

The Bay is at fault 

Lines of many persuasions,
Blue in its soul,
Grey in its jacket,
Curved and built like a knight,
Gallantly rising ever westward,
Into the great wide open Pacific,
Under the Golden Gate drawbridge
And full of heart,
Like stories of old, renewed.
  

The Relativity of Now

 

(Written during a “Mind Travel” performance by Murray Hidary in Denver, CO.)

The relativity of now is
All but now and all things,
We find waves both large and small,
Focus in and we see the smallest,
Is the same as the largest,
One life is all lives, now and forever,
As Einstein said, past, present, future is all an illusion,
We stand fixed – utter illusion,
Color and light playing its tune,
Improvising metaphors for all
To hear and be with.

Night

Voices and footsteps wake the dog.
He lazily barks, muffled like an old man mouthing discontent.
The cricket-chirping idle breeze makes its entrance through the open window
Coaxing the summer sun heat out into the street.
My cooling bones and heart, like the sidewalk, will soon follow.
I really should be working,
Tasks hiding in the shadows, like feeble stacks of paper.
The dog returns to droning slumber, amongst click clack keyboard drumming…
It rained today. What a similar sound.
And I continue my meandering conversation with the morrow
Borne witness by the foolish night owls
Hooting on about the wisdom of yesterday.

Gold

Prospectors once flooded these mountains,
In search of gold and riches,
The lucky few found as much,
And luckier found more still –
The gold of the sunset,
A gold more powerful than metal,
The kind that imbibes your mettle
With the peace of a flowing river,
With the aqueous rustle of aspen leaves,
With the whisper of the pines,
And the great wide open blue sky.
For it’s in that golden hour,
That the rest of your life unfolds,
That time stands still and solidifies,
Into a nugget of intention
Casting the Midas touch onto creation.
And here by the river side,
We are rich beyond our wildest dreams.

Taking Notes in the Rain

Into the night, storming like usual,
The humid air takes notes,
Jotting them down in clumsy lines,
Blurs into the vision, a city’s call,
Unable to separate from the soaked ground,
What I tried to peel back,
A prideful statement, one of lightning and thunder,
Of grey city light-lit skies.
For here in the Windy City,
The times, they are a changing.

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Days by the Bay

Wind blowing salt air,
White houses, shining like beacons,
Endless kingdoms, explorers, adventures.
Brown water, a lasting murky impression,
Wandering woods, bike trails, concrete coastline,
Hot days, broken up by pools, boats, and storms,
The Bay constant, unlike family, finances.
The moving tides, carry expectation, hope,
Hurricanes, real, imagined, and emotional,
Optimists daydreams, sail ’round,
Legacies and fallacies pass by like seagulls on the breeze.
Pretend worlds, full of dungeons and dragons, turtles and more,
Peppered with Brooks, Academies, and Shady Groves,
Divergent paths, reach out in different directions,
Tears falling like plentiful rain drops, flooding minds.
As a car drives away, creating the space of distance,
Phone lines and hamster tubes connect dreams.
A hop, skip, and plane ride away,
And years pass, like seagulls on the breeze.
The open ocean of experience, seasoned stretches…
And those summer days get left behind, Old Kids on the Block,
Yet, somehow, a phone call, a chance meeting, a message,
Send the optimists sailing, the sunfish railing,
Into the other’s mulberry existence, reminding
Of those days by the Bay in the white houses, white caps rolling in.

This is My Church

This is my church he said,
In his thick Latino somewhere accent.
I come to this weekly, are you an engineer?
I answered no, blindly, unthinking,
In hindsight, yes, yes I am.
I’m an engineer of thought,
Of words, of great yawning cathedrals,
That stretch up into the night sky,
Walls adorned by lyrically stained glass windows,
That shine with the light of the creative soul,
Colored by experience, telling
Stories – myths, creation.
I am an engineer of sorts,
The kind that erects monuments,
Tearing them down in the same sentence.
This is my church he said.
And yes aren’t we all engineers?
Aren’t we all architects?
Aren’t we all experts in our own hallowed halls of imagination?
Yes, on a daily basis I build walls so great as to be called China,
China like the brittle porcelain of perception,
Yes, this is my church too then,
My church, my creation, my prayer, my mediation,
And this is my sermon to you, friend.
For I say, if you find peace in this,
Keep building.
Who knows, this may be a church they write stories about.

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As if I were to die tomorrow

I lay here thinking,
About how I would say farewell,
To all those that I care about,
And those I know less as well,
As if I were to die tomorrow,
As if it mattered deeply that I
Spoke my heart and poured
Out what I’ve held in.
As if I only had a couple sentences
To say you are amazing,
That I see you and your struggle
As the most beautiful thing,
That you are all potential and all
Human as the next,
That you and your heart’s game
Are a game I’ve enjoyed playing
More so than you’ll ever know.
I lay here with a feeling of gratitude,
With a feeling that no matter what,
If I were to die tomorrow,
That I’m glad to have known you.
That is how I feel right now.
And that is how I wish you to feel,
Like anything is possible and life
Is a silly game full of joy.
Don’t be deafened by your own doubt,
Go out and have the affect you wish to have,
For you are perfect and ready to hatch,
The egg shell, nut case, cocoon
Can hold you no longer.
Goodbye and I love you.
That is what I lay here thinking.
I’m looking forward to morning.