A Guided Stroll

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You watch and determine day from night

You linger past the moonlight’s afterglow, well into the promenade looming behind a crested pounce of wave

Evenings are but intermediaries to you

And your centurion’s cage is, at most times, evenly divided into quadrangular partitions of sky

You watch A hour half past six or a

Five months from now—wherein, affixed the

Light stays as strikingly as ever remembered

Or if noncommittal, than your alternations harp accordingly—

To where a number of factors alit the present face, to which, of course, your eye catches each fractured toil and fragmented stint,

You are born

You are beneath

You are besides

And you’ve always been between

Yet it is here where you allow your form to follow form and not in that “some other time of year,” where flesh glistens by moonlight, dances it’s hypnotic tides across the serenity of it’s mystic shores

It isn’t always always fair, just, deserved, proper, adequate, moral, ethical or right. Yet you evaluate all things as if they are all cut from identical tapestries

It may not even be considered plausible to the well-magnified test of eye. You not only understand this, but appreciate it as well.    

You always seem to deliver us the current’s time of day

You notice and then proceed to oversee the fourteen lights and you remember that twelve of these originate a lake; one from a river and the other is a long and winding stream.  

You hear a swift sound.  It scurries quickly across the rocks

You hear the rasping quicken but do not inquire upon its source. 

You are not curious, for you are fully aware. 

You know it is but a sound.  You know rats abound this place, as they nest their families near the grates of drains.  You fear them not and understand them completely.

You declare that they’ve been unjustly defined. Your posture alleviates apprehension.  Your loving tone quells the fears that may have otherwise stirred within.  You indicate that while they are truly a rambunctious lot, it is only that they are consumed by restlessness and are but solely happy to be, invigorated by a life that does not ignite until only after darkness has fully blanketed the light of day.

You bend over slightly.

As you do, your robe sways softly in the salty air.

You reach down and return aligned.

You are smiling as you hold the smallest of them.

It fits within the palm of your hand.  It is malnourished.  You provide it the sustenance it needs.

You take hold of me.  Your grip is firm and strong.  It is comforting to hold.  You lead us down the break-wall, taking us to its very point. You see my reluctance and whisper to my soul, “follow me and you will not fall, for I love you as I love each and all.” 

You disappear, yet I still feel your hand in mine. As the surf tickles heel to toe, you’ve filled me with all I’ll ever need to know.

Later today, stop on over to D’Verse where the exploration into point of view continues with this week’s Meeting The Bar.

The Grecian Urn

A Grecian image repressed below

Hollowed and obscure repetitions

Bellowing the bellicose corporality

Of the enigmatic fourteenth leveled floor,

With marzipan appraisals, an arousal grows to form,

A delicate and well endowed schematic,

Full consisting in prosody, amongst

The revelers and pick wielding, self referred gentle men

Caustically surviving respite, while admonitions favoring valor, cluster honor  

In calypso flavored vanity as the soft arrivals fashion their consensus plan

Rapt upon pleasure, a depletion cost by birth, lost long before any chorus began its song,

The rise of historical significance breeds forth,

The demise of sensibility we watch now,

In a land of corruption, the voiceless sketch a face,

And the condemned, the blasphemed, the martyrs, silent as the elliptic; a cost of conscience

An urn, ornate in style, structure, indeed in form,

A once proud relic of tradition, a well played

Marker towards societal acceptance, a pawn which

Dictates the importance of traditional subjectivity

The symbol tells the story even when the contents are never exposed,

An urn today holds no meaning, speaks in convoluted story,

A special ignorance developed through chronology,

 Our foundations are much more delicate than those basins that came prior

A Fact

A fact’s a fact, but there’s more than that,

It is not alive, yet sometimes made to be,

Always built with precision, certainty and certitude,

 It can be correlated, filtered or fleshed out,

Depending upon the contour its designers choose,

Advertised in various aggregations, collections and clusters,

Where the larger groups contain many analogues,

The more obscure hold very few,

One can arrange data by infinite design,

From the basic and primitive,

To those with high degrees of interconnectivity,

Conversely affinities, at times, can be seen,

 Promoting chaos and the absolution of scheme entirely,

Then there are those that ignore context,

Taking words from their proper home,

Tweak, tune, buff and hone,

Distorting tense and destroying meaning,

Offering up this amalgamation

The mind is tricked and duped, deceived and lied to,

 Coerced into accepting the authors’ contention,

 Unwittingly conspiring with a fallacious point of view,

But the fact of the matter cannot be skewed,

When held in the framework from where it grew

Stutter-Steps

Flakes of cold meander about,

Floating calmly through the air,

Strange to see snow in this desert fare,

So peaceful, even as it dwindles south,

Not concerned with the ground below

Refreshing to see, the beauty of the melting snow,

People stop and people stare,

So much to take in, so much to be found,

When definitions are turned upside down,

The pacing slows, depressions pare,

Life is full of unexpected pauses,

No such thing, I have learned, as lost causes,

For some a new start,

A second chance can be seen,

Awake and open to deeper meaning,

The unexplainable seems to touch the heart,

Out of oddity and within irregularity,

Life is filled with countless possibility