Impermanence

The poem

Making love in the afternoon Glorious and free. Free from the fading lights, And a world drowning in gloom. Caress and light humour, Wine and beer — They take the weight of the world Off our shoulders, If only for a while. Fear, momentarily forgotten. Life changes so quickly — No tomorrow Will ever mirror today. Our consciousness Skating on thin ice, Along the membranes Of what we once called humanity. Making love in the afternoon — Reality left outside This comfortably numb room. Joy. Expression. Passion. Pride. The final echoes Of a free humanity. We skate freely On this thin ice — No resistance, Falling back on touch, On animal instinct, To mask The loss of something greater. Dignity now a privilege Of the rich. Comfort — Once gifted by the Creator — Now sold at a cost Too high to pay. Love, No longer accessible to all. And somewhere in the dark, The people of this world Sit in silence, Whispering quiet prayers. So I make love in the afternoon. I shut out the world and its sadness — The crashing of thought, Impressions, Worldly collisions, Pounding at my door With a loudness I can no longer ignore. Let me make love While the ice still holds — While indulgence is not yet A death sentence.

The poem

They cut you down today My fir tree the song of my heart The wind sang through your beautiful pine needles Your strength and resilience Ended by a selfish human Because you were 10cm too close to a fence I will remember you on stormy nights Your sound with the winds Your solid stature The scars on your bark The rings of your experience Evident on the parts of your carcass As they carried your remains Chopped and sawn To some graveyard Of insignificant realm Tearing at my reliance The sweet knowledge of your presence no longer breaking my heart You were here long before us Probably the last of a once forest of your kind I miss you and the wind does not have your flavour any more The storms don't give me your peace But those quiet nights that you connected with me in a way I never understood until now will live on Past this being of mine

The poem

Stones on old-fashioned tarmac, still resident beneath the overlay of newer technologies— vibrating to a world unseen, and still forgotten. Papers lie on the ground, waiting for the wind to make them lost or found. There is a world waiting for me. Just one stroke, and I would be free. But I know I could change this world— a slight adjustment, set everything at ease. Yet what beauty would that be? For nothing unearned is ever gained. So I float across this river of me, dance on the stars, talk to the moon, like another man from Mars.

The poem

The good ones we carry with us, until the weight of memory begins to slow our progress. The bad ones we try to discard, yet they shape our direction, shorten our stride, teach caution before exuberance, question before belief, still us mid-step. These harsher moments, where the pendulum pauses, allow an inner wisdom to catch up— to amplify the ear we were meant to listen with. Every moment then, good or bad, held close or set aside, rests in an unseen knapsack at the centre of our backs, waiting for the day we look again with a more accomplished eye. We remember with a doubled vision: the blindness we once lived by, and the sight shaped through failure, accomplishment, sacrifice, and acceptance. Meanings once protected begin to dissolve into something wider. Pain, hate, and fear released back into the energies they were always meant to be, no longer anchored to us. Ambivalence follows. Detachment. A loosening of importance— like a darkening cloud on a far horizon, draining colour into grey, cooling the warmth of touch, quieting the constant noise of the mind. This is a kind of death. Not of the body, but of an imposed self— an untrue structure asking to be redefined in truth. Redefinition is received, never taken. With the unguarded sight of a newborn, as former perceptions pass, their outward forms stripped, unmade, and dissolved. A rocky road of nothingness. Just as it has always been.

The poem

There is a place in time Where we let go— Of impact or consequence, Of growth, or just the simple unfolding of all things— And it carries us beyond the point of return. Memory becomes a movie Of a past that no longer belongs, And resonant behaviours in others Become studies—detached, Observed without emotional weight. It feels like a death, A loss. Thin membranes of reality Keep us from reaching— Yet still, we reach. Sometimes with vigour, Like careening into unknown space, Where the unknown becomes Our only known reality. And yet we lament the departure. Questions rise. The will to stay is strong. But acceptance is the only release From the gnawing lament— Of someone, something, Or simply the illusion That was our perception Of this ever-shifting reality Called impermanence.

The poem

Days blend into weeks, Months repeat themselves In the time of a heartbeat — Life passes by Like flashing images Out the window of a high-speed train. Sitting in this chair, Afternoon sun fading early On a winter Saturday, Showing me the unsettled dust, Drifting down Like an epitaph To the slowing vibrance of the day. Familiar sounds on the radio — Lighting up memories Of when the song was new. It is the memories we gather, Carry forward to our destiny — A pouch full of aspects: Growth, joy, pain, understanding, sorrow. Capsules of sound, smell, color, taste, emotion — Relived in a single thread, A chord sequence. Memories stop time. The world becomes still. We are in the capsule As it happens and is created, Knowing it is happening — Hearts race, Adrenaline unconsciously raises Our perception, our awareness, Recording the moment In all five senses — Whether we like it or not. But in this chair, I am transported. It is real — Real as if it is here, right now, today, And also a part of tomorrow. Eagles wrote this years ago: "When you're out there on your own, Only your memories will find you." Those lyrics stood with me As I grew into the man I am. Now I understand them. I strive to make one memory every day — Whether a gesture, Or a dive into an aggressive or loving feeling, Stimulated from the outside, Resonating the well of memories within. Touch with grace. Accept your love — And give freely. Hold negativity in your fist — Dive into it with love, Resolve, Forgive — And most of all: Accept everything. Witness your life change. Breathe in the quiet — Let the weight of memory settle like soft snow. In every moment lived and loved, There is a seed of peace waiting to grow. Hold this truth close: Life's flow moves through you — A river of grace, Winding through pain and joy alike. And as you walk forward, Let your heart be open, Your steps steady, Your spirit free.

The poem

Desert highways forged by sand particles and tumble weeds Broken wings and cowboys Sweeping winds on their backs Souls in full flight Winds driven by an unseen force A part of a destiny in motion For all the multitudes of aspects of the earth that respond to its force and flow to the ultimate and unknown With faith… Or fear Or both So wind of destiny You blow through me I see you deviating my plans Showing me the truth of my decisions Good and bad I have tried to harness your strength Get you behind my desire Yet your unchanging meanings Constantly and consistently show me To be true to my heart To hear your soft sounds In my inner ear And wait with faith For my simple destiny To be a part of your great unseen meaning Good and bad Faith and destiny Intertwined with patience and understanding A path to joy Without the corresponding pendulum Of pain That my egoistic happiness Is balanced by I let myself dream now On your plane Like I did when I was young Prior to being deviated By misconceptions And the projections of the aberrated people That resonated with my own They served to provide me With the painful yet beautiful perspective That I now hold so dear Beings driven by a misaligned force To create a resounding validation Of their own realities Their force of destiny Driving them through their own canyons Trying desperately to find your meaning and clarity Yet failing desperately Like a spider in a wet bathtub Desperate and angry But resolute I was just acquiescent and impressionable What a wonderful construct you provided Unconsciously impressed pain Consciously expressed… Gained perceptions Increased energy flows We live in a mish-mash Of energies and vibrations In a rotating, flowing vortex Designed to be chaos But actually simple In its direction and meaning Gold to the spirit warrior Once the heart’s chambers Are unlocked, realised, and understood Humility just one of the keys A recalibration of pain and suffering A transformation And a personal witness Of the alchemy promised in sacred text Yet one millimetre away From our vibrational realisation At every instant Seen as the holy grail And as a secret to only the enlightened Yet happening In a graceful, chaotic pantomime Right before all of our eyes But yet mostly unseen Promised to the brave Or just given easily To those who have An open And forgiving heart

The poem

Wind traversing the plain Obscure areas of the beautiful world Still undiscovered Flowers bending to the force Of the movement of the air Spreading the seeds of their future To be appreciated by me A Soul flying in this field Untouched and just being In their original purpose Benignly beautiful In their consequence of gravity And one aspect of the world We float above Sun riding the horizon Dew on the petals Hope just an expression Love just an existence Words have no meaning unless you Stand here in this field Untouched but bound by gravity To a single expression Just a consequential part Of this pantomime Called life And its obvious meaning

The poem

Transitory love... Like the leaves falling From the branches— So easily Let go. They float to the ground, Unresisted. Become decay, Soft surrender In the transaction of release. Is it the season? Or simply nature's way Of moving on— Toward the destiny Of a once vibrant, Synergistic leaf. Once catching the light, Feeding the tree With its luminous energy. Then— Dropped from existence, No longer lit, Nothing left To transform.