Stasis (Ephemerality)

There is no such thing as time.

Never-ending.  Never-beginning.

Always There.  Ever and Ever more.

What is now, is also then and that is also what has been.

{Cue the neat opening credit theme music.  Something that gets the audience in a particular type of mood, say unexpectedness, something that preps them for what’s to follow, and we want them to think that the future is profound and deep…if only to eventually slap them across the head with what comes next} 

But of course, only if what comes next is

Something that’s happened since.

Infernal Curiosity

Got an itch, got an itch

Fire-red brightly shines

Like a shock of culture in a

Numbing state—Quake

Erupt, embellish the truth and

Watch it rust, flash to dust

Watch it rust, flash to dust

Nightly neon, galactic dolls

Shake their triumphs down the halls

Broken record, playing loud

Blasting forward, dismissing sound

Got an itch, got an itch

Scratching the fever from beneath the skin

Digging deep, deep down in

Digging deep, deep down in

Flamethrower, nitro-sun, blazing bright, blazing bright

Elapsed inferno, tin-tied tongue, shedding light, shed it’s light

Conflagrating fire, burning flames within

Heat is rising; sky’s ablaze, blackening earth, searing skin

Waiting on salvation, praying, that this bug’s been tamed

Waiting for salvation, hoping it’ll end this infernal pain

Temperatures are rising; smokescreen’s filling frame

Hoping for a flashflood, a drowning man’s beckoned

Hoping for a flashflood, to quench the thirst this fire’s sprung

Praying for the rain to come, MAKE IT RAIN, MAKE IT RAIN

To wash away temptation, to alleviate the flames

To damper down the charring and drench the thirst we crave

Douse and spin, Douse and spin

Heaviest downpour, Ferocious wind

Takes away the fire, absolves us from the sin

All comes to a standstill, a silent time for all

Everything’s grown quiet, no motion, no more calls

But it only takes one spark to smolder

Just one drop to light another, to ignite and stir

The accelerant at play, erupting forth, riling up flame’s astray

All to burn and burn again—for mankind’s fire’s yet been slain

Time is a Caravan

Time is like a caravan,

Sometimes toting monuments,

At other’s chipped and broken pebbles,

Released prematurely from it’s elder stone

Times Turn into Times Turned Over in Future Times

Can you remember back to a time when you were only mere days removed from getting high praise for walking on two legs?

Can you recall, those early moments in the kitchen, when you’d stare up high at those marble countertops and dream of seeing what exists beyond its aerie reach?

Have you forgotten, how disappointed you were, when you found out it wasn’t all you’re imagination painted it to be?

Whatever happened to all the comparisons?

     “Oh, how talented you’re child is, he’ll be the next Hemmingway or Hawthorne for sure”

“Oh, what amazing athleticism you’re kid possesses.  When I look at him I see the next Jackie Robinson, Walter Payton.  He reminds me a lot of Ty Cobb, as if they themselves were around to have watched him play”

“ You’re little boy has such an imagination.  He’s so entertaining. I see a younger version of Bruce Lee, maybe Errol Flynn”

When was the last time your scribbly-scrawled blots of crayon were hung up on the fridge?  When was the last time you’re great aunt called you her little Picasso or Van Gogh, not even considering what their backstory’s were?  When was the last time your grandfather pulled a quarter from your ear, and you thought you were witnessing something bigger than the world itself?

Life gets in the way.  Doesn’t it?

And you close the door behind you.  Scuffing the snow off from your dirty boot soles, greeting those inside, warmly, yet complaining about the travails you endured to simply make it to their house.  And then, you see the little one, and you say, glowing from ear to ear, “How’s my little Marilyn today?” and she shyly shrugs her shoulders…. that’s when you pull a dollar from her hair, as if it had been hiding out in those blonde curls all the day.

Over at D'verse, for Meeting the Bar this past Thursday. Victoria offered up the discussion about exploring childhood and it's memories.  I've been really sick this week, just feeling a bit better upon waking up a few hours ago, so I'm hoping the meds are working.  In any case, I missed joining the party, yet thought I'd still take part in the prompt.  I actually had a piece that I had started a long time back that fit this theme rather well.  

The idea of how children's perspectives change and how their expectations alter upon finding some answers interests me.  I wrote the second question/stanza a while back and filled in the rest of this piece from there for this discussion.  If you haven't already, I urge you all to stop on by D'Verse, read Victoria's article and check out the poems shared, as you can do for the other linked discussions as well.  

1…2…3...

Stylized. Chic. Logistically situated atop a precipice that has yet to peak. We are alive, fully functional, yet inherently winded.  We live as we live, ignorant and often ignored.  Flourishing in a sad derangement of philosophy, a tenor trembles, the trebles high, the bass is broken, and the backsides collide in slates filled by worthless plights. We are clustering in collapsible rings, and so the relics flicker to a new decree, instilled anew in 1…2…3…

A high-fructose dichotomy exists. The bling is sated on the side of outdated radio.  There’s an alto sax playing, a barometric drop a-glow with pressure. With the weather here who can know?  Forward marching so shall we go?  Alive, aloof, we are so disbelieving, always looking for that definitive shred of proof, without, it’s all but din and cacophony, a wasted sound spins in 1…2…3…

After and before, before and after, centers of attention, mid-points for disaster, high-strung, low brow, tensions mount, tackle box without bait, we can’t wait, we can’t wait, to be free, to be free, never begins in 1…2…3…

Hi-fi, new wave, Wi-Fi enabled sense of shame, a sentinel, vanguards of tradition take the fall, are decorated with blame, a livewire flickers in the rain, shocking, shocking, mounted atop the roof of mind, finding shelter beneath a tree, electrocution starts in 1…2…3…

a stack of smoke breaks free life’s soot, in stereo, in stereo…history beginning once again, do you believe, can you believe, streaming live in 1…2…3….

Algorithms.  Anomaly’s.  Stars, bars, lines and code, cracking, breaking free, a dynamic apostrophe relates in 1…2…3…

A variety of translucency bleeds light. A latent vibration echoes a shiver. Illustrations and details, set a sail as elusive, it is nature this is not conclusive.  The words are but representations of what could be. They are only symbolic remnants, ruminations of sound, shattering, stinging, stringing bolts together lightning fast, from which an atomic breeze is distinct…sparkling strong in 1…2…3…

Eardrums bleed with potential. Insinuations label the disturbed and mental, a domination of the populace speaks to the decibels herein found, loud and proud, pounding pavement without the soles of shoes ever once touching down to the stone of ground. Lies start their spree in 1…2…3…

Pride, mounted, jib to spar, cards dealt near and far, gonna let her ride, gonna double down.  With a bluff so strong, you’ll have to have the cards to match or else victories pronounced in 1…2..3…

A fire-fight on planet Nero, golden bricks amassing zero, half-life dwindling, flashing fast, quicker than a video blast, sub-cultured species, harnessed-reined, these are but men, yet still heroes of a different dream, sandman strikes in 1…2…3

Another place, another, realm, cast iron, zinc-plated, breast-plate smell. Glistening, gleaming shapes, photons, protons, electrons swell as a neuron’s beam berates us well, pattering upon the trip of wires, higher, higher, the pikes backed up, there’s no way out, doubting the magnitude of what has just transpired, anarchy.  Rioting in 1…2…3…

A turning zephyrs tail-spun wisp, whipping round, made to shift, retching trees up from root. The severed cracks spanning the ground, all is lost, nothings found.  In a place so high, like Kansas singing from the sky, Carry on my wayward friend, one day soon we’ll make amends.  Until then, the past must persist as long as our breaths still mist, gone again, gone again, marching orders coming quick, dialysis is pronounced, the bile’s thick, black in nature, mankind's sick, the bile’s thick, grey-black-brown-green cultivating this damaged scene, action cutting back in 1…2…3…

A serial apprentice in a frost-bit state, alleviating a pressure mostly high, it’s gonna blow, it’s gonna blow, anxiety trembles as tension grows, flames ignite and the tragic flows, every swiftly, ever long, the pastures are a plenty, the iron-work is not as strong as we thought.  We were wrong, we were wrong…our actions erred, our plots are lost, we’ve been caught, red-hands bleed green.  Disgrace curtsies in 1…2..3..

We twiddle our thumbs and hum our tunes, pass the buck and shoot the stag.  There are those that believe in life yet quickly opt for death. These are the yellow that we see, climbing so high up into trees, scared stiff like cats with claws exposing themselves in 1…2…3…

Little green men are arming up. They live below ground, underneath the craters of the moon, some live in fear, others change their gears, holding signs, praying to, whatever probes they will soon find.  Ineptitude reaffirming in 1…2..3…

A lulling gaze is cast, it shines down upon me and you, you and me, and there we are and here we see, a fallen society, reflected upon in 1…2…3..

Fear swims into and out of mind.  Some gets broken; some are bound. Some lose sight; others are slighted before ever being truly found. Numbing in 1..2…3…

 There is true evil in play. It does exist, in the arbors and the groves, in our biases and the hate that grows. It’s danger dangles in the wind, it’s hounds are hunting, the scent is strong, lost soon becomes found, humanity is digging their own plots to lie, worldwide evacuation begins in 1…2…3…

Shingled, shackled, neon sight, jingle, jangle, brilliant, bright, final, finale, fragments, finite, tragic flow, traffic flow, oh so slow, all have stopped to watch the world have itself a go, fireplugs, arsonists, jitterbugs are juking jabs and shuttling stabs, we are as one here in this plan, painful… pain, Houston called.  Problem’s been solved.  Another acronym bleeds another sign.  Abbreviations activate their launch.  They start the clock that’s ticking free. Countdown’s commencing in 1…2…3….

Fireflies in the sky, burning through the night, galactic tumults sure shine bright. The comet’s tail is trailing nigh.  See the ripsaw shredding through its test.  Violating it’s own principles for the camera.  So many are all too eager to show who’s best, itching to dominate all things in view.  Close your eyes and deeply breathe, this may get ugly in 1….2…3…

A conditioned response rings that bell. Sounding chimes, pealing well. The heat, it grows.  The sweltering spells a new communion steeped in heat.  In every nook a glutton hides.  In every shadow there lives a knife.  Greed’s apace in 1…2…3…

1 to 3

1, 2, 3.

One to two

Two to three,

all is changed, yet nothing has. All is through, all is done. Escape routes hatch. Eyes now see.  Eyes believe. What a view, what a view, yet never realizes, it’s simply the same sights they’ve always been accustomed to. Reframing stirs a new beginning in 1…2….3…

For all that’s happened, for all that’s been done, we can only pray something positive from this comes.  Hope commences in 3…2…1…