18 August 2014

Two Hundred and Eighty-Eight


As yellowed and tattered and brittle as they well may be,
No writings ever scribed have any authority, any power, any use,
But through whatever meaning you discern within their point and purpose.

* * * *
Yet another perceptive observation,
Another witty thought, another clever story,
And not much more to show for it but a fallen garden
Covered with cement, asphalt, garbage, technology, and conflict.
It is far, far too obvious there will be no stopping our kind
Until we slam into the mountain of consequence
Towards which we every moment race.

* * * *
What an amazing thing it would have been
To have witnessed this wondrous, inexplicable garden world
Before humankind descended from the trees,
And wandered onto the plains.

* * * *
Allow time to play its game without you.
Eternal life is a many-are-called,
Few-choose-it sort of thing.

* * * *
One is sure it is a he,
Another is sure it is a she,
Still another is sure it is an it,
And all seem so sure it is not them.
So much sureness about so many things
About that which cannot be known.

* * * *
All stories are equally born of imagination,
And all are eventually, inescapably forgotten.
Whatever life survives us will not remember us.
A collusion of make-believe, nothing more.

* * * *
Everything is born of the same source, even god,
Were such a deity to be fathomed by the quantum ether.
So, of course there is god, and it is in all things small to great.
Each and every one, including you, sovereign witness to the mystery.