Sunday, September 25, 2016

What You See

Take a look at yourself,
What you see's what you get,
What you get's what you accept in yourself,
What you accept's correct,

The paradox is what you see mayn't be,
What it is that you want,
But what you think others get when they see,
Which they then assume is you, but it's not,

If you'd see what you get, which you do not,
What kind of life is that?
The kind where your eyes see not what there is,
That's illusion, not fact.
That don't feel good,
You know what you're doing,
You're relenting on being your true self,
That's the last thing you should be eschewing.

Saturday, September 24, 2016

Serenity Now

Things are e'er what they are,
Despite how you may hope,
Yes, they may change, but in a thousand ways,
The way which you want? Nope,

Or rather, it is not impossible,
That's life's magicalness,
But no alterations can ever pass,
'Less you practice radical acceptance,

Not talking 'bout the Serenity Prayer,
'Least, I hadn't planned to,
But, really, if God were alive today,
He'd probably slap you,
And say, "wake up!
"Do you think you're dreaming?
Stop dying, wishing things were different,
And live facing the way they are seeming."

Friday, September 23, 2016


If this is putting off,
I don't want to be right,
The movement of ev'ry limb that I see,
'Skey to locks out of sight,

Existing in another dimension,
Just theoretical,
Putting into question your sensations,
Whether it is there need not be settled,

You must take that taste with a grain of salt,
Feelings, too, are suspect,
They'll only help you with the chimera,
Of all that you expect,
But it's not there,
It's on the horizon,
A backdrop, for sure, sunlight on your dreams,
But it is not in the world your eye's in.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Off The Freight Train

In the nineteen fifties,
Entered into New York,
A young man wishing just to play guitar,
That music they called folk,

Because it told stories and captured hearts,
So what, it didn't sell?
You sing your soul, get paid if you're lucky,
Happy if you play well,

E'er in front of people or not at all,
Else there was no feelin',
He'd meet his idols and they'd ask his name,
He'd reply, 'Bob Dylan',
The song was his,
They'd always ask to hear,
It was obvious to all he had it,
That's his reward for conquering his fear.

Sunday, September 18, 2016

The Music

You are music to me,
Carrying me through time,
Your calm tempo replacing the seconds,
Mundane becomes sublime,

The sounds of the street organize themselves,
Like they were meant to be,
Oh, would that all the world just understood,
That in the cacophony's harmony,

But the melody comes from in not out,
The peace must be in you,
Only then you see the dance of others,
And so, too, their world view,
Is it the same?
But it don't mean a thing,
Once everyone's dancing to their own beat,
All your body will wish to do is sing.

Saturday, September 17, 2016

A Heart's Test

The single stage pump drones,
'Til its work's met by flesh,
A membrane layered on a blood jet stream,
Packaged in the man, Pietch,

If the world were diff'rent, so'd the readings,
So, too, expectations,
Three hundred years, now, this force has been known,
The heart's not just the source of affections,

The machine stops now, the retreat's slow hiss,
The reading's what it is,
A moment in time, 'mongst infinite more,
Each a correlative,
But, yet, alone,
Is ev'rything function?
What 'bout those ev'nings side-by-side in bed,
When our blood feels like they're beating as one?

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Blacksmith Hands

I don't know these people,
Eyes wide, skin clean and fresh,
Not constrained by their lack of cash in hand,
They face a diff'rent test,

Minds focus all day on unhuman things,
In that, we are the same,
Put them in a tower and knock it down,
It wouldn't alter the rules of the game,

Maybe it is just their colorful socks,
A whimsy I don't know,
That despite there is no point to it all,
We're still in one big show,
That's the secret,
You can't control outside,
But create your own world to exist in,
And what's out's in's what's there until you've died.