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Open Poetry #33
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Of Butterfly Fantasies and Lessons of Life
| Open Poetry #33 |
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Of Butterfly Fantasies and Lessons of Life |
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EagleScorpion Senior Member
since 2000-03-08
Posts 1644Here, Now, Forever 
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..fantasies fleeting.. Of living things and otherwise, What daunting mystery remains yet, Under these wild blue skies? And what of the death that awaits? and what of death's absence do I fret? Nothing as long as there is change. What of the change that awaits? Things will change. Cold and distant skies. Are we the lost children? A new angel is born, this fantasy's sunlight.. One of an appealing, attractive visage, That reminds you of a moon, a hearkening call, to that which you take for granted. For all we have was taken. Taken for granted. In these hallowed halls.. these bitter horizons. I taste the local Aurum, and still prefer that of my native variety. ..Barely recalling the beauty that was and will be.. in gestures of clues of a whisper of a thought.. In a world where daily, the unsung masses pass.. Dearly on, they pass.. "Remember me", you say.. Remember me when the sun falls dearly from this forgotten sky. When the stars are your new home, Remember me. When you taste the freedom.. Your ultimate freedom.. when you taste that freedom, Alone. "Remember me", I say.. ..That cottage in the wooded mountain high.. Overlooking the valley of colors below.. These beautiful scenes.. the magic to see.. What more is there but you and me? The ocean waves..where the sand meets the sea.. What of the others.. ..of you and me? As real as you want them to be.. These others you look on who you are.. Love is a moment, Butterfly wings frozen and floating upon the air, So you can see thier beauty, in spring-time sunlit life.. and not while they lie tacked onto a museum display under glass. Butterflies. Yes.. We will never be apart.. But yes, one day we will be.. Blue and turquoise moon.. in yellow, orange twilight skies.. I see how it reminds me of her eyes.. Long ago on a rainy day.. Never yet did I get to say.. "goodbye." :'( CONFUCIOUS SAY: YOU STAND ON TOILET, YOU HIGH ON POT! |
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| © Copyright 2004 Joseph Alexander Knob - All Rights Reserved | |||
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DavePage Member Elite
since 2003-12-21
Posts 2917 |
Talent Dave |
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Enchantress Member Empyrean
since 2001-08-14
Posts 35113Canada eh. |
Excellent write! Well done. Hugs~ ~Autumn..the year's last, loveliest smile.~ |
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Huan Yi Member Ascendant
since 2004-10-12
Posts 6688Waukegan |
AFTER THE REVOLUTION FOR JESUS A SECULAR MAN PREPARES HIS FINAL REMARKS What the blind lost when radio gave way to TV, what the deaf lost when movies stopped spelling out words and spoke, was a way back in. Always, this desire to be inside again, when the doors are closed. On the other side of the doors our friends and parents and grandparents work and eat and read books and make sense and love. The thought of being disconnected from history or place can empty the heart; we are most afraid, whatever else we fear, of feeling the memory go, and of exile. And death, which is both at once. Still, as our lives and the inhalations and exhalations of gods we ought not fear those things we know will come and ought not hope for what we know will not. The dogs that waited for soldiers to come home from Philippi, New Guinea, Pennsylvania, are all dead now whether or not the men came back to call them. There is no constancy but a falling away with only love as a temporary stay and not much assurance of that. The desert religions are founded on sandy ways to set ourselves free from that endless tumbling downward. Thus we endow ourselves with gods of purpose, the purpose of gods, and do their battles. We are sent to war for money, but we go for God. Prison is no place for living but for reliving lives. I remember a quarrel of students proving, reproving the world; a woman taking love she didn’t want, but needed like a drowning swimmer thrown a strand of barbed wire by a kind stranger standing on the shore. Imperfect love in that imperfect world seemed elegant and right. Now the old air that shaped itself to our bodies will take the forms of others. They will laugh with this air and pass it through their bodies but days like ours they will not come again to this poor planet. I am reinventing our days together. A man should be careful with words at a time like this, but lies have some attraction over the truth; there is something in deceitful words that sounds good to the ear. The first layer of paint conceals the actor; the second conceals the paint. By which sly truth we have come to where we are. I can hear brief choruses of rifles. Inside my head naked women wander toward my bed. How gently they lie there, loving themselves to sleep. What do we know that matters that Aeschylus did not know? I do believe in God, the Mother and Father, Maker of possibility, distance and dust, who may never come to judge and quicken the dead but does abide. We live out our lives inside the body of God, a heretic and breathing universe that feeds on the falling of sparrows and the crumbling of nations, the rusting away of metal and the rotting of wood. I will be eaten by God. There is nothing to fear. To die, the singers believe, is to go home. Where should I go, going home? Lord, I am here. Miller Williams |
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EagleScorpion Senior Member
since 2000-03-08
Posts 1644Here, Now, Forever |
You speak of true harmony with God, as I know we always are one with Him. Quite an impressive reply to my post, good man. You make me think. |
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