The Marrow of It

What leads a man to where he is in life? What has lead me here? I am 27 and what have I done? What have I accomplished? nothing...

But what does that mean? Where is that balance between self loathing and that acknowledgement of my failures that act as a driving force to move forward. Both stem from the same thing. It is difficult to stay on course to a pure motivation when that same motivation is based in the much and soil of time wasted.

But we cannot let this impede us from moving forward. Whether it be in career, personal accomplishment... in love...

To embrace all we are and all we have done. To learn from each misstep and fall in the dirt. Making it easier to stay clean in the future.

I have been told that sinners make the best saints. Perhaps this is true, but even if not is not that ideal the important thing?

Hope...

That I may find salvation within, not necessarily in a spiritual or metaphysical sense, although that may certainly be applicable, but that all my mistakes, lessons learned, things done or not, may in their own way be the foundation for a more perfect me.

I must reach into my very marrow and turn my sins into virtue, to create a more complete weltbild, understanding of myself and the world, and turn that wasted time into something else. Classroom in the gutters of life that may bring me more success in my endeavors, career, and in my soul. Bring me closer to my true image and all I can become, and in that closer to God, closer to love

Aesthetic Rambling and Thought of Trees and Hearts

Gently falling, slowly slumbering,

   the temporary death of trees

in Autumn and fall,

   That loss of green and

color, of vibrant growth,

turned silent ghost, uncanny

   cold living for a spring

warmth and birth, and all

   the sadness of the leaves

      that fall to the ground,

   all those things tumbling down,

Feeding life after winter's chill,

   fertilizer as we begin within,

The temporary death of love 

   and trust, through winter's slumber

     until the melting frost.

Till the sun growing higher,

   growth and understanding, increasing

     our capacity to desire and share

   in another's heart, branches

entwining, connecting the towering trunks,

All the dead wood and leaves from

   year to year,

All that has fallen back into the ground

   to reappear, in limbs ever climbing 

towards the sun, growing closer. 

Till at last they entwine and find

    another soul of your kind,

   

Morning Rambles

I cannot but wonder as
to each their every morning
"go". Where to and from, their
history, buckets of fleshy
culture, each moving to their
goal.

Every day the million of this
city rise to dress and stress,
to compete against each other,
trading gold for that eight
hour rest. Each person,
each cell, an organism,
a sphere of influence, sectarian,
rival beasts get up at dawn
and take to the streets.

Strife and fight, pain and sorrow,
we each cast upon one another
in a thousand different ways.
And a thousand more more
voices, sarcastically donned
"common sense", cry out in
horror at this main stay.

And all the evils that surround
us, shouted about and pointed
at, overcast our progress,
filling us with bitterness and
contempt.

But what about the
journey and how far we have
come? Does our failure as
people, and every fault in every
creature, out way all the
good that has been done?

Why do "god" media voices
and our own guilty features
always tells us change must be
faster! On and on! Ever in-
creasing, heightening in forceful
obedience to create a self-
prophesied  social norm.

The Sea Within

The water beating gently
 upon the boat, rocking us-
    side to side
As I move out towards open waters

The surrounding skyline disappears,
   the rolling surface stretched
    out, broken only by the breakers

The excitement of my soul,
   The feeling of perfection, the
     universe, infinity surrounds
       me

Freedom,

I am awake, alive, part of
   all that is. Birth,
     the surging of energy,
       within me and upon the
           rising and falling crests.

The same,

Together, at home, at peace,
   basic, like being held in the
     arms of one's true love

That perfect love, I have
    known but once, entirely
     consuming, transforming,
       elevating the soul,

Like a soul mate She may be
   kind, yet also hard, rough,
     and unforgiving,

Just as the waves smack
   into the hull past the wall,
     tossing about, chaotic, dangerous,
        and thrilling,

Heart pounding, even in Her anger
   you could not be more alive,
     aware, passionate, and in love

Till at last those same waves
    that battled, threateningly,
before carry  you back to shore.

Home,

Tied to the peer, methodically
   swaying on the river,
The affair with the sea over
   for a day but never done,
for I love Her forever,
   as I will always love her,

Both my soul mates,
   bound by the universe, intrinsic,
     eternity...

Farewell to a Dream; La vie en rose

   "Loving is so short, Forgetting so long",

                                                                                                La vie en Rose

The Not So "Miserables"

      Blues with pool balls; one of us had played the song to smooth out his nerves after the long evening of work. We sat around the dark wood table, in the dark dingy bar, wearing our oil and soiled work clothes.
      We were a boisterous bunch but no one seemed to mind; a little extra energy always did the place good. I never saw ourselves as regulars, though we visited often, but just tired souls looking for a spot to make our own when we collectively sought the company of other "miserables". As it may we had become accustomed to the caricatures that always seemed to be there.
     The regulars, kindred spirits to ourselves, were middle age lives as erratic and irregular as our own. Sheltered by the same roof, warmed by the same liquor, it was a communion for those who are awake at night.
     These gatherings for us were moments where we could talk and unwind; our joviality not so much a genuine emotion but a necessity. Our jokes not too funny or wit that great but after some mental lubrication it mattered little, even the most reserved would eventually partake.
     But tonight things were different; we talked little and looked at each other even less. No conversations could be heard. Only the dull thump, then thump, then thump of the dart board pounded through the room. Maybe it was the music that made us so low, or that the last few weeks of overcast skies and harsh winter winds had taken its toll; no matter what the cause each of our number felt it the same. Yet we were happy, exchanging pats on the backs and words of good darts. It was good to be with friends who worked as hard as you. It was especially good to have friends at midnight.
     The laughing was steady, the beer good, and the melancholic spell over us continued through the night. It seemed the evening would dwindle down, and we would make our own ways, when one of us spoke. His words solemn and slow. His eyes reaching and grasping all our attention.

"So is this it?" a pause "Is this life?" his eye brows raising with his questioning voice.

There were no replies around the table, only the repetitious raising and lowering of drinks, covering the awkward silence of our voices.

     Then as if all at once chuckling began around the table, then turning to laughter. The mood lifted. Somehow we all knew.
      Our songs ended and the jut box cut back to the radio, dropping us in the middle of some auto tuned vanilla trend of the month. After that no one left and we were able to have fun, becoming our usual boisterous selves until they kicked us out at bar close.

Sketch

A Sketch, something fresh, Not just poetry and a bluesy lament.