Thursday, July 23, 2015
What the Master Calls a Butterfly
Metamorphosis brings pain
A necessary pain perhaps that transforms the chrysalis into
a butterfly
But pain nevertheless
The stone block must needs bear the sculptor’s hammer and
chisel
The empty canvas the sting of paint and turpentine
The virgin page the scratch and scrape of an ink-laden quill
The passion of creation emerges through pain molten and frozen
in shades and layers
As our love for each other
Built with blood and tears through new moons and high noons
At what cost does the soul watch each filigree fall to the
vagaries of time and tide
Each aspect shed itself as does a chrysalis
At what cost does one learn to let go
And let the butterfly soar…
Saturday, July 11, 2015
Prototypes like you and me
Are you still alive or
Have they been holding up your effigy
Stuffed with straw and smoked with
Adulterated petroleum droplets?
Are you still alive or
Have they subsumed you within
Their gigantic system as a cog in
The Great Wheel that churns out
Miniature prototypes like you and me...
Do you think we lead our double lives in peace?
As faceless, mass produced ball bearings for them,
And writhing with unuttered inner conspiracies for ourselves?
Rebellious or compliant, do you think?
These prototypes like you and me?
Have they been holding up your effigy
Stuffed with straw and smoked with
Adulterated petroleum droplets?
Are you still alive or
Have they subsumed you within
Their gigantic system as a cog in
The Great Wheel that churns out
Miniature prototypes like you and me...
Do you think we lead our double lives in peace?
As faceless, mass produced ball bearings for them,
And writhing with unuttered inner conspiracies for ourselves?
Rebellious or compliant, do you think?
These prototypes like you and me?
