Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Silent Observer

was the time
when rivers knew my stones
from troubled fingers,
the wiggle of my bait
from greedy want, and
the trespass
of my feet, all five-buckle boots
trample and clang

and too, the woods of September
knew my stick
in crooked drag
and daring poke

I swung at the clouds
challenged the storms
sang to the moon, and
danced to ideas
stolen from generations
of long forgotten fools

but not now
-not today

today I ghost,
a watcher, mere
silent observer

this I do, with tremble and quake
seeking a new brand of comfort

the stones I threw
and side-winder skipped
chased herons from the quiet, and
birds became mimes
to my terminator steps

and choir to the moon
draws only the applause of sad dust
while the clouds I swing at
water another man's tulips

but now, maybe,
if tenderly I step, and
carefully I observe while
reaching into my ribs
to stretch my soul wide
to the quiet placement
of motion without man,
then perhaps,
a new comfort will find room,
more five and dime
than taco laced strip malls

so hush, says the gentle river
gliding the day
says the quiet woods
laying me upon it's
canvas of paupers carpet

let us paint you
in the light of concede
to a way you need know
to truly know us

let us drift you, say they, to
a new language
that rush can never learn
from passing clouds

we will be your gait
as we blend your thoughts
into dreams you can't see
and songs you can't hear
in the silence of your noise

I know,
this silent passage
will not grant me
my hearts desire
nor make my moon fuller

it will not be alchemist
to my stew of mistakes
nor keep me
from tomorrow's fresh madness

I simply choose to accept
the peace it offers today
if only I shadow it
a silent observer

I surrender the sword
without ceremony
or honour
to be silent observer,
the careful watcher, one
naked in spirit, needing
the ancient wisdom
quiet might bring