Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Stained Glass

through stained glass, peering

shades and hues that shift like the wind;
seemingly arbitrary directions to us,
mathematically precise according to
barometric laws,
pressurized systems of neural connections,
more complicated than Freudian hydraulics,
simpler than an fMRI scan
would have us believe.

the greens sometimes seem greener
when the sun shines brighter,
yet the lake feels warmer
after a cold rain

in a realm where logical formulas break down,
only keeping relevance insofar as they are applied
in perfectly appropriate fashion,
impossible when applied by imperfect creatures
trying to navigate the ocean,

trying in vain to predict the currents of the wind

Monday, August 12, 2013


that I might have the audacity to dream again,

something a man said about the audacity of hope
still echoes in my head,
something that the people embraced
but didn’t run too far with

perhaps it was just a seed
cast into the wind,
to land on either fertile soil
or solid rock,
a fate up to the currents of the air

that I might again give form to the formless,
mold from thoughts
something that can be heard, seen, felt,
even if when cast into the wind
it ends up being a pebble
flung into the ocean

at least I’d make a ripple,
at least I’d move matter,
at least I’d do something that could not otherwise
have been done

that I might find the will to create