it happens (haiku)

no rhyme or reason

bumping heads with sudden thud

now ringing so loud

if I worry as a first thought

There is this reoccurring window in life.

I find myself standing there once again.

The views are always somewhat different

yet generally the premise is the same.

Looking out through this window

into the lives of ones near and dear.

They are there always wherever.

I am removed from their immediacy

but privy and aware as if I was with them.

And somehow this is so.

I am equipped with expectations for them.

I have anxiety for them.

If allowed,

I blurt out a fountain of common sense.

I could offer to help.

I could sort of step in.

I could take over

out of frustration, damn it.

But none of these options

really happen

or change my window view.

If I act out

then my window feature

might be eliminated all together.

I guess I am appreciative of it

from time to time.

Having this window at all

surely beats

an unexpected knock at the door

or a phone call deep into the night

from a stranger’s voice

or a rollout identification

at the county morgue.

They have their lives

but still I have this window.

I have come to not only look through it

but also to look directly at it.

I have began to ask myself

about the window itself.

Where is it from?

Who made it?

What purpose does it really serve?

And why do I use it so often?

Is this where I come to worry?

To worry(?), worry about others, really?

Has worry become a window to my life?

If I am here that often

and it appears to be so,

then this window

slowly becomes a measure of me.

It is my construction.

Now, one of my private sacred rituals!

And yet, it undermines me.

Worry is not an action of support

to anyone.

Worry is in some ways a sabotage

to everyone involved.

It is an assertion

of a false sense of control.

It is a lack of true acknowledgment.

It does not allow for their spirit,

for any spirit to dance their dance

and fulfill their destiny in doing so.

If my destiny appears to be one of worry

then I am not addressing myself

but living through others to complete me.

If I incessantly worry

then I teach worry

as I distract myself

from the real worth of all of us.

I then am coveting them

as a commodity of my frame.

I want my best for them

as my expectations negatively infer,

as my projections falsely return

to complete me . . . ouch!

This is an avoidance,

a cultivation of fears

as my fears should be theirs

as they are an extension of me.

I blind my spirit

in an attempt to bind others.

Worry does not entitle me

to worth for my efforts.

As sincere as it could come,

is not the spirit buffed

by the adversities of life?

Is not character chiseled

by challenges?

Is not worth by presence

rather then possessiveness?

As worry layers and preoccupies

what is the gift?

If I worry as a first thought,

let that die of itself

in reminding me of spirit.

Reminding me to share

in the crazy wisdom as we are,

to permit myself

a deeper soul of silent sight

and the feel for a secret embrace

that sets us all free

so that worry is never the bind . . .

inflamed ear (haiku)

to an inflamed ear

the sound of your blood’s passage

drums a constant beat

loose but most excellent

How to describe

a conscious being:

Giant paws of presence,

a fierceness about the head

without the display of teeth,

the quiet growling of primal soul . . .

all are a possibility

when eyes are sky cast and open,

revealing jaw lines of gentleness.

These embodied Kodiaks

of the Bodhisattvas

are as keepsakes of one’s remembrance.

Outside of the homespun of this life,

They are the one familiar collective.

Under the cast of these watchful eyes

that bear down upon the refinement

of us as a conscious species,

these are beings on the path.

They will take semi-domestic meals

of shared communion

out of dumpster’s humane with situation.

They are peripheral

to the temporal human beat,

always on the scent hunt of spirit.

Instinct before logic is in their eyes.

Voracious and predatory love

before the path of right or wrong.

They are ravenous but twice shy

defended by their hunting responses.

They are keen for the soul-light,

dwelling in each other’s den

by vibrational means

yet these as so called bears

live without winters.

Any two of this species

cross dressing their androgyny.

They are always effortlessly cellular

for the scent of another,

weaving through one another’s field

towards the one common soul.

Privileged to be a witness,

an escort, a mentor, a guide,

as it is . . .

A best description of them,

“loose but most excellent”.

They are electric

before acknowledgment,

hyper-vigilant to a fault,

roaring in the silence

of each other’s company.

They are offensive by nature

to the night presence of lies.

Loose and most excellent . . .

Kodiaks of the Bodhisattvas,

giving of their presence

as a disguised blessing . . .

Somewhat randomly distributed

through the people array.

There seem to be more

than ever present from before.

Loose but most excellent . . .

Gathering towards the one . . .

Inborn beauty (haiku)

clothes could wear meaning

as words do yet know first hand

nakedness’s beauty

Abandonment

This atmosphere of a sunken feeling

is always already upon me from within.

Everyone around here

has consensually agreed

that my eventual death

should be caused by my isolation.

It is being repeated continually

as a background murmur

easily within ear shot

but nothing said directly to my face.

There are no faces to face me in here.

The barometric pressure

in my solar plexus

is increasingly compressed

even though I feel like

I am being dragged

through a quicksand of sludge,

contributed by my own making.

There is movement in my person

as if the first response is to realize.

I am in

an emotionally spun straight jacket

though not for the first time,

for there is a closet full of like apparel.

There is my inner resistance

in almost every response

coming out of me.

Even a quickening of intent

as my thoughts find me more remote

and more tightly bound.

I am reduced

to claustrophobic thoughts

of a repetitious nature.

No more striking back at the events

that introduced this.

But there is an undercurrent

preoccupied with unnamed doom

that is pouring in to submerge me.

There is a cast of gloom

meeting me all around

to internally grapple with.

My muffled pleading

is for a kind of suffocation

to take me away,

to end this frame by snapping it.

But no,

everything offered,

soon becomes goop.

A goop that separates me,

a goop that surrounds me,

a goop that closes in from all directions,

a goop that floods to overwhelm me,

a goop that comes out as my feelings,

a goop that maybe I discover is mine,

a goop and no self-thoughts that impede it,

no life-vest of a thought

to save me from sinking

ever yet compressing me from within.

I am going nowhere

with shallow breathes.

This is a life and death

of apparent circumstances in paradox.

All attempts at any other familiarity

other than this, fail.

Here I am,

my numbing constant

with no distinct handle

to pull myself out of . . .

a-ban-don-ment.

This child cries

into a dense fog of agony.

This sorrow is suffocating

amidst all the outpouring

that has sound.

There is no comfort

from an abound of alien self.

I am myself that foreigner within.

I am amnesia to a face saving past.

I am comatose to a person

I used as myself to face others.

This is redundancy.

Did I just say that?

I am licking deep interior wounds

as a small self-gesture of comfort.

I am in shock

but without the physical evidence

to impress others.

The buckle-down confinement

of a simple pseudo conscious breathe

and I am looking for what comes

as first thoughts to follow

yet still unconnected.

Frozen in a stillness

of serious inner attention

as a hope for distraction.

This is the way a deer,

I would imagine,

settles in

after fatally being struck by a truck

alive yet still dying.

But I lack the hard evidence

for empathy or medical attention.

A-ban-don-ment,

enough said . . .

(and then it recycles)

Who cares to know this first hand?

And to what degree

of trust rudder ship

does it have influence

on the course of your life?

age expectations (haiku)

I was the oldest

others feel the loss harder

way more than I do

I am only every moment

My every moment is asterisked

without exception

by human’s referential world.

I am further set aside

by an advocate of and for them

that intercedes on my behalf,

and a social network

of representationals

who will orient and leverage

to fill me as a projection

and pretend my current

second to second status.

It is as if

my agent is meeting with your agent,

my broker conferring with yours.

Yet I am as dormant

as a garden bulb

in an endless season

between winter and spring.

I am then the burlap

over inner conversations

often muted to myself in passing

and basically unheard

by other moments in their passing.

I am layers removed

from the surface of sunlight stimulation

and the face of earth

stares back at me in my essence

as if I am a decomposing billboard

underground in passing.

They have dressed me up

in inference and implication,

and refer to me

by vacant and sketchy memory

as coming back to belonging here.

I dry-lick at the air near by

in hopes of the impending

through a state of expressive permission,

but in other scattered moments,

I am only an isolated beach

within an hourglass of you.

The repetition of these grains

as perceived in bottleneck passage

only instills monotony’s ceaseless act.

I am a burning candle

in a sightless style

where by the life among shadows

infers un-confirmable truths.

Messages do come

but not hand delivered

yet mutely displayed in the shades

of darkness before and after me

in solemn and silent passing.

I am the innocent hands

of a mischievous child

in mittens of restraint,

shaking the hand of every human,

maybe sometimes it will be yours

in well-meaning mittens in return,

for the mouths of our hands

are gagged and bound

in attempts to

reach out to each other’s.

We are always ships departing

yet looking back for response

to cut through this curtain of time.

I know of spirit to spark and ignite

towards where there is a life-path

besieged by opportunity’s mirth,

yet when for now, my ever now,

there is only the flood basin

of expectation in representation

and the gut check

of a potential symbolic transference.

I come at you as spattered blood.

I am never dry to that task.

If I was bludgeoned

then know of me as seconds passing

by the fading body heat

and close quarters, still in the air.

If instead I am dripping

of vital juices

far beneath the spatter

then call up your spirit through me

and raise your eyes towards that source.

Even a timely glance may have the force

to set me free to assists you.

Please, send no sympathy

as your agent

that trick has been tried before.

Send me soulful kinship aligned.

Send me the D.N.A.

of how and when

you were lead into the light through me.

Laugh out loud to break the curse

of a well rehearse reality on demand

as I have fallen through

the mesmerizing cracks

to only resemble to you what I miss.

I am thirsty for an in-breath

of steep waterfall or thick forest air.

I am as starved as a recycle dump

for native ground to present me.

I am as heavenly as any religion

could invent for its future,

but I am only every moment,

displaced by symbology,

by the load bearing momentum

of symbolic animated gestures

crawling inside of you as me,

mutely through

this laborious measure called time.

Yet, and freshly so,

I am only, as you refer to me,

your every moment,

basking in your presence

and yet, constantly bathing you . . .