Old Soul

 June 13, 2018

I hope my actions are captured in pictures-

without captions;

graphic mixtures of my biography and photography,

these ought to be my scriptures.

Oftentimes words won't suffice

to highlight our plights in life;

and I can write about what's right,

but you need to view my wrongs-

through dark nights of an Old Soul

that was renewed by dawn.

Where no light shines on darkrooms strewn with prints

and their evidence of innocence lost;

with unrinsed fingerprints on their surfaces embossed

by dirt and grime;

and hurt can wash away with time,

but pains gashes will remain.

Red eyes in those photos aren't caused by flash,

but by strain.

Those spots aren't printing flaws, they're stains-

my scarlet letters.

An alphabet of regrets framed by chains and fetters,

and if you rearrange the letters,

these pictures contain words;

and we've arrived full-circle on that mixture to which I referred.

Each circle bears resemblance to the circle of life,

and my narrative ends where it commenced

when morning blends with night.

When the end appears in sight- it's only an illusion;

but near this chapter's conclusion,

when my film's roll is removed-

I'm positive that my negatives will develop into proofs

that in each frozen moment, I've chosen my own design;

and it depends through which lens you view it

if it's blurred or shines.

Where my words have maligned,

that are burns left behind,

and cold-hearted actions

fueled by an Inferno's mind;

where thoughts race as fast as flames-

fed not by gas, but the names

of loved ones whom I've shamed.

The remains of this creation are cremated ashes.

The flames weren't abated by rain,

but tears shed through lashes

of their closed eyes;

because of years of my exposed lies

are easier not to see.

That's why out of sight, out of mind,

is where I prefer to be.

Then unkind words you heard from me,

and pain I've purposely inflicted,

would have never been depicted

and could simply be fiction.

Instead the script I've written 

is a self-inflicted prison sentence,

where I've cast the protagonist behind a mask of repentance.

Hence, my decision to create this persona;

I wanted a character with honor and integrity-

it was my attempt to divert all attention away from the 

appalling deeds that Peter did;

that kid pretending to be a man.

To rid my closet of skeletons;

P.J. was gelatin in my hand-

I could mold and transform him,

the possibilities were endless;

I could be normal and conform to a perception

and use deception as my defenses.

But these false pretenses were transitory,

a new character emerged in my story-

and I could sense this presence...

But common sense says God's existence needs evidence, 

and the prevalence of belief is a pipe dream of peasants;

I don't care--

I'm aware that God may not exist,

still I dare to believe.

Please don't be deceived, when I say believe

I don't mean religion-

that's man-made, and man can make believe 

he can see God in visions,

or a deity has arisen.

What defines God is not my decision,

It's that which defies description.

In my mind what's arisen are questions,

and their origins are not within lessons

from the Bible or Koran,

the Talmud- I don't understand.

This may sound rude, but I'll be damned

if I allow man, with pen in hand, to transcribe rules:

what can or can't do-

describe what I shall or shan't do,

or thee and thou...

it must be lost in translation-

the permission to speak for God

or the mission to convert nations.

That the use of persuasion or intimidation

is justified if we just evangelize;

it's not exploitation of the people; they're not equals,

they're non-believers.

Hmm...

It's worth repeating, when I say believing,

I don't mean religion;

which means my decision, my spiritual journey-

is - in many of your eyes - simply unworthy

at life's end of heaven, the promised land, or nirvana-

whatever you wanna call it.

That I'm fallen, I'll go to hell, I'm and infidel,

or not enlightened.

Some may say: "He needs the fear of God in him!"

Well, I'm not frightened!

I know, I know...

"You'll pray for me, I'll see the light, and everything will be fine.

It's all by divine design."

Well, where can I find the blueprints?

Why can't my path be mine?

I don't want to follow in your boot prints,

or march in step with your movements,

groups, and branches.\

If each had its own room, God's house would be a mansion,

and would still need expansion-

a plantation.

I propose a renovation:

let's bulldoze the whole foundation-

it's made of sand and can't stand the inundation

of wind, rain, and waves;

it caves and it crumbles,

but through all of life's stumbles,

that same sand cushioned my fall.

I realized - it's not for construction of His shelter,

but reduction of pain felt when we've fallen

and have to crawl.

Only then can we walk or run,

but never run from adversity;

learn from the hurt,

it's a universal university-

I'm sure that's why when we grade the severity of burns by degrees.

We learn the ABC's in kindergarten, then junior high,

as life gets harder we wonder why 

our grade card still says incomplete?!

Perhaps we graduate when we're deceased?

...or then the circle just repeats.

   

June 5, 2018  

Our lives are merely minutes, seconds and hours;

each year a petal from a bouquet of flowers.

Today, this world loves me; tomorrow's ugly-

she loves me not.

This monotonous movie plot - it's just me against her;

and I must convince her

to trust that my sins are just dust in the wind,

where once my footprints were.

Since my memory is a blur, I'm still unsure of the trail;

once the veil of dust settles, the breadcrumbs have gone stale.

My legs numbed by nettles - lost, then found in the weeds;

dyed brown by dirty deeds,

ands bound to die young and return to the ground.

These seeds grew new roots in an old hole,

the ripe fruits of an old soul.

Our life's role in the greater whole,

leaves with the breeze - forgotten.

But these leaves will change color, my life's tree is nearing autumn.

My drinking glass, though half-full, I'm peering up from it's bottom. 

Sinking in my past's pool of heavy thoughts and problems.

I'm tired of treading water,

my tire's tread is losing traction;

heading head-on at disaster,

and dreading that late reaction.

Better late than never?

Rather, better never late-

although I've never met her, I'm set with death: my blind date.

My days are numbered, a "short-timer" yeah I'm "close to the door".

Will it be heaven or hell?

I can't tell anymore...

Before my hourglass can reach it's end, I'll remove each grain of sand;

and one-by-one, through wind and rain, I'll build a beach by hand;

and when that task is finally done,

I'll bask beneath a setting sun,

a happy man, a brilliant tan, a life lived regretting none.

The sun can turn my skin brown, which technically-

is closer to black than white.

But black is not actually color, in fact, neither is white;

just differing reflections in the spectrum of light; 

and we're not "colors", just brothers, that look different at first sight.

If diversity breeds controversy, convert me to a believer;

because I believe, you and me, we-

collectively can look deeper.

Skin-deep is so shallow if we allow it to seep

through our pores, from our cores, where our values are deep seated.

How you treat it is your call, your ball, in your court-

you can score, draw a foul, or serve an ace,

because "race" is just sport.

This life is a marathon, a relay race; where's your baton?

What legacy will you pass on?

Correct me if I'm wrong, or if this sounds like the same old story...

They fly a flag, but it sure can't be Ol' Glory.

Tell me, when you flew the red, white and blue-

was that America to you?

America to me is no longer "Land of the Free"

especially when the B.O.P population alone-

could populate a nation on it's own!

The stars and stripes have flown and shown where it's colors are true:

Red Blood

White drugs; police brutality-

black and blue.

They're attacking me and you, knives at our back;

taking lives, breaking homes, giving life for grams of crack!?

Let's face the facts-

we're all citizens in peril;

they're pumping toxins in the air; concoctions that make us sterile.

Obnoxious programs on TV, so we don't see what really matters;

disguised with a veil over our eyes- 

a whole arsenal of cloaks and daggers.

Arsonists with their smoke & mirrors, stoking fires with our fears;

but who's to blame when we return to their flames,

surprised a burn appears?

Just numb the pain, dumb your brain, take a pill to cure your sadness.

It's all in vain, we're all insane, prescribed to medication madness.

Chose the red or blue pill-

an election with side effects;

on their Capitol Ant Hill - true to those who sign their checks.

Left and right, bipartisan, these politicians line their pockets;

we're left to fight wars they begin, and live in fear of nuclear rockets.

Drilling wells and bullet holes=

their war machine fills up with oil,

that spills into our oceans, while blood saturates the soil.

Decide who's loyal-

and simply decimate the rest;

designate it heroism, and pin a medal to their chest.

Retaliation's terrorism-

only our nation can sponsor slaughter.

Lady Liberty's sons and daughters have fought her war,

and brought her proffers;

and all to often, shipped home in coffins--

Stamped: Return to Sender.

.