He believed, then doubted, then died it Creativity was his door to become more Poetry and prose were the tears that he cried, and he toiled with the question: What was it all for? Doubt was the dust infiltrating even his purest intention Now he lies spent like rain in the grass, tears on a tissue, lipstick on a glass Not even the universe affords him attention He always believed too much, and proof was never important as such If he liked it, he deemed it to be true, even if experts were cleverer and knew His world, perhaps, was slightly askew Belief was like a train: Up front the idea, creditability and fame …so far so good Followed by wagons of responsibilities, too many to name …that was the drudge Suddenly a yardstick emerged with which he was judged (his ideas) Yes, he believed a lot But, certainly didn’t want to be put on the spot for that which he called ‘the smoke from his pot’ It wasn’t religion or philosophy or such, they were ideas, life’s attempts at art with a smudge Believing was more like following a trail Not weighing each thought or step on a scale T'was an indication of an approximate direction, and was prone to frequent correction Believing and doubting were forever composing, One minute blissfully flying over harmonies crest, euphorically losing control in the zest and then, crashing into the trough of Wagner’s gloomiest best He was cog and engine in a perpetually opposing quest Shattered belief, triumphant doubt, sometimes one or the other acted out A farmer of conflict, a dreamer of hope, ever the next wave of life should puzzle it out Liberally sown by doubt the seeds of conflict abound That’s why believing in dreams is so very allowed But, dreams are also the food which conflict gobbles to sprout and once it has grown it smothers the dreams so they lose the belief in their own If life was nurtured by believing in dreams, no matter how irrational they seemed and doubt destroys them with such might undoubdetly, he thought, he had just died
here is the simplicity:
you fly as high as a bird, a jet plane, a kite, a bug, – simple.
…because you want your life to take off.
we don’t want to be stuck.
ever rocketing towards that desired direction,
the bulls-eye of our life.
‘no legs on the ground’ dear people while your prophecy takes off.
emphasis is on ‘our’ chosen direction, not some boring, generic default.
choice becomes our rudder, dreams are the wind caught by the sails of our imagination,
therefore, part of, or the whole of us, has to fly, to fulfill that prophecy.
the spirit will lift.
clarity is found aloft.
prophecies are fulfilled at height when we soar and glide.
imagination’s heaven is up high.
you get there when you fly.
problems arise when we veer off the ‘simple-life-about-everything’ prophecy.
it is simple! quite simply because the world has only seven billion Einstein’s.
along the way we stall, falter, fall and doubt in unpretentious and perishable ways.
some begin to learn. growing understanding and wisdom.
‘simple?’ = current comprehension.
hedonistically life enjoys doing what one wants to do.
of course, this premise is infinitely arguable – of what this is truly about.
a fire requires feeding lest you settle for cold coals and ash.
incite a bonfire inside of you and fulfill the energy spiral.
the more you give the more you get.
spiral to your focus point.
burn a hole to your new horizon.
and maybe there is no prophecy.
so make your own.
adjust it along the way.
call it your own philosophy.
name it the Philosophia Galactica.
rock it liberally with controversy, shock the established norms.
normality is the cushion where slumber intoxicates action.
a circle is the starting point of mockery.
waiting is the result of not doing.
imagination is the soil where dreams grow on.
believe in the crazy stuff. see with distant vision. know that you can.
the track you are in as a youth becomes a canyon with age.
change track and tack.
dream it indefatigably and
remain that successfully dreamt wish who lives in fulfillment.
imagine: for a caveman living AD, having a glimpse of today’s busy civilization must have been a fantastic trip into deepest utopia.
and vice versa when we look back at cave life. truly.
flirt with your far-out imagination till it blooms into a love affair.
I don’t know what and when
It is all hidden in my pen
Memories of forgotten days
are mixed with fears
of future’s ways
And even if the sun shines bright
I might not realize that it’s light
The darkness just like fire spreads
The night is glowing cold, the black I dread
This is the story of my plight
A mind so bent a crumbled string looks straight
Nothing, clueless, lost, I wait
Sometimes my dreams dream that I elevate
another force inside then subjugates
I’m told my worries are man made
The coffee cold, unshaven, and the purse deplete
A worn old shirt that screams of ironing that it needs
A figure sculpted by the thoughts the mind conjures
and by all events that life endures
Continuously I seek and seek
In this reality the hundred meters that I see
must stretch out of necessity
beyond that mark towards my ecstasy
unless I cannot choose my destiny
But, how then could I be me
Why am I stuck as if I’m planted like a tree
Forever in one place, I cannot flee
When I was born what words were put into my crib
“Go sail the seas but finally we sink your ship”
In the clouds I want to be eternally
A told me that I should be B
C told me that I should be D
Eventually then when I was E
They screamed and said I must be G
I turned around and went to P
Flashed them a sign reversed the T
Now I’m the Cuban Susans Whoman He
Nothing, clueless, lost without a key
I am sinking in some sea
To the water I will eventually return
Humans decided that I needed to burn
So hot even my soul in smoke evaporates
Escaping from these dire straits
I will not be put behind some other gates
Spill me, let me take another turn
I am not irrelevant but I have no say Life treats me like a fray It slithers down my spine ice-cold A cheek to be so bold Like wind purges foliage off a tree Your voice strips my soul from me Raging in its force, shaking determinedly A piece of wood without a fire I cannot be Stormy clouds race north to south, across the sky Sunlight is your makeup, impermanence your high Everyday you tell me that nothing stays the same You are the background, the thoughts I try to tame Incubated into a form whose shape has adopted me Parents, people, prophets, telling me who I should be Unique my spirit lies within the egg of cause A shape the universe has used with great applause Behind the shell an artist draws, a never-ending picture free of any laws A hunger gnaws to make it work that concept called the ‘living bit’ To find a way and have my say without this lifelong thought-delay And bring about a wonder-hit Board that private pleasure-trip A knowledge in the egg was heard. Thinking, waiting, spellbound by time An echo from the shell I hear The caller only I can be It’s not the answer, so I think To thought and waiting I return again An echo from the shell I hear Around in rhyme in time I be Life, ever partially in some control I’d be a liar claiming it's on a roll or thinking that I have it taped It blows with gale and sleeps with the wind A male drugged by a penchant for the scind Opposing forces and extremes attract The teaching is amok, it is a fact Eyes squinting through a frame and tint find written on my comets trail a goal and where I stand in the context of the whole Dreams, the unhatched eggs Soul food as they nourish me A potential waiting for the crack and light Mostly they define past my reality, and let me write Unhatched hatching eggs with fantasy Upright in the chair of thought a string of time some questions brought Five moments later as my breath abates the quiet mind with picture waits. Underneath a story reads: Vision: hot air for the thought-balloon. Imagination: the ladder to the moon.
Was life difficult?
It was a sheer unscalable cliff-face at times.
Was it sad?
It changed my bone marrow into tears and my blood into salty rivers of pain.
Was it lighthearted?
It was like the tumbleweed in the air and swallows playing in the sky.
Was it happy?
It was like falling in love, gaining eternal youth and winning the lotto all at once.
Was it consistent?
It was as mutable as the weather, as restless as the ocean, as jonesing as the flames.
Was it logical?
It was always way more or too little.
Why did I live it?
Because it had everything I ever dreamt of and all I never wanted, – till the realization that what I didn’t want I didn’t have to think of, and then it was gone and I was left in my dream world.
Could I control life?
I could never control it. Often I was a slave to my thoughts till I became their master, and I was the inventor of my nightmares till I became the creator of my dreams, and now life is forever in love and flirting with freedom. The less I demand from it the more it gives me.
Can I change my horizon?
Of course I can! I just fly higher; gain altitude; dream more prodigiously.
Then why do I cry?
Because I leave behind what I know, thinking that what lies ahead is less then what I had before.
As I am I will be and so I will be in every moment what I am.
What am I?
What I want to be!
When light shines from within and light is all around there is no shadow, that then is my life and dream.