We may have it the wrong way
intellect being a dirge
for the cat carrying its kittens
does not question or consider
why do I torture the rat and flee the fox?
simply nature propels her onward
no coincidence then
the more we are aware the greater our potential for
grief and a disconsolate ring
with the emptiness perceived
we seek in our fervor
more out of this plain life
standing watching the first seasons’ dragonflies
wishing for meaning or distinction
spelt out in philosophy books empty of bottom line
who made us? why? why?
the infernal hum of internal conflict
I recall a russet haired cousin
born with the mind of a child
never to graduate or spell correctly
her smiles always somehow less
she delighted in as the young foal
spring filled fields of flowers and thick hedgerows
buzzing with honey bee mastering his lust for nectar
not considering all the pain
held in the wetted weight of world
hers inhabited moments
living under sun without query
heart unable to contemplate
greater or sorrowful fates
I dearly envied her that
for every year closer to increasing reason
intellect building artifices as often
as truths
without faith or illusion
clearing our eyes and seeing
the way the nest falls from ash tree
all offspring dying at the hand of passing predator
the way women walk with their
purses clutched to their sides and heavy tread
this is only nature or maybe perversion
yet we grieve attempting
change where none should exist
as well as those never-changing
each generation learning shared impulses
to destroy because they can
I planted a tree once
it grew without question
I married a man twice
he needed no religion to know
the sun would come up the next day
nothing was worth worrying about
when certainty took her carriage across
emblazoning sky with greater things
than our imperfect longing minds
we who fitfully seek
higher elucidation
writing out descriptions of existence
with punctuated heartache
as the blind man must fathom
his colors
we walk in darkness believing
ourselves electric
until the storm wipes out
all trace of our absolve
for we are ink running on a page
leaving time before even the imprint
is deep enough
impermanence our greatest torment
such is the grind of egos want
to matter
we who think and believe we feel
perhaps cursed by too much awareness
ironically know less than less
no more than the rabbit pricks up his ears
thinks he hears a sound, could be all of us
crying out
we cannot follow the wild
for our modern natures are muzzled
behind the weight of thought
as if consciousness were an apple
eaten and consumed behind library books
taking root in liquid storm
Genesis bequeathed us knowledge
to know suffering and our part
in the fragile glittering stage
at cost to inner peace
we search fruitlessly for purpose
whilst those who know less
sit in the sun and feel
the certainty of
nothing’s blessing
(I often want to give-up writing and thinking in favor of life beyond the social spectrum, where we learn to make things again, build and grow in basic and lost terms. Sometimes thinking can be a curse, much as I must covet it, I see the down-side. Moderation must be everything but it is hard, usually we are either thrown over to one side or the other, I have long valued words and reading, but I do see their potential fallacy just as I do, the bliss of unknowing).