dirt.

dirt.

agriculture backyard blur close up
Photo by Lukas on Pexels.com

tasked” 4/27/18

I paused

I stopped

to look around

I never noticed

-the sound

until now

at first a gentle scratching

scraping tapping

on the ground

I try to recall

when I was put to this task

a minute, some months

decades past?

I look up and about

from half ways down

try to estimate my position

and to what contract I am bound

to this

 

across the plotted fields

the very same sounds

a constant beat

against the ground

metal clinks

and again

same refrain

chanting thumping metal frames

penetrates and lifts a mound

metal, dirt, metal, dirt

always down

always down


notes…  I sort of was thinking of the Matrix scene where Neo is “reborn” and also the “fields”… a great metaphor for life, so I imagined that we are all just on this endless plain digging our own graves… because, in a sense, we are, we are all traveling in that way, I am not saying I like it, but it is the truth, which makes me understand suicide more from a rational sense but it is something I could never do… even though honestly, logically the equation is the same… can you really argue that ?  the only thing I can champion is maybe just maybe instead of suicide there is creation- of art, of life, of cures of disease, of inspiration of invention, of children… because the human experience tells me.. things are possible, the impossible is possible, death will never be cheated or defeated (everything has an end), but the fight… remember the fight and try to win even when you know you will not. that is the hope of humanity, at least that is what keeps me going, and my hope to inspire.  I am just a man but I want to be more. the question is… do you ?


Musical choice ?  I will not pull punches.. I think Anna Murphy is the goddamn balls…

Cellar Darling “Black Moon”

She is of course originally from the band eluveitie, and if you have to ask she is playing a Hurdy Gurdy… yeah, totally obscure mechanical violin instrument from the middle ages

fallen angels.

fallen angels.

statue angel cemetery
Photo by Ghost Presenter on Pexels.com

fallen” 6.14.18

so I know how they felt

the angels that fell

eternal cries

of pain

separated from your love

shattered

broken

cast into a dessert fire

sweltering heat

never ending sun

my skin boils

cooked to the bone

but this –

surface agony

compared to the realization

is nothing

the separation

the fall

for all eternity


Notes… I’m not religious (and hold no ire for those who are, more on that some other time as I have a bunch to unload on that topic) but you would have to admit (if you love a good story) that the bible certainly has some great writing in parts (other parts of the bible are just instructional and clearly written by clergy with a mission imo… I’m talking the sodom and gomorrah type of stuff here people!).

Specifically in this case, I love the play of free will vs. obedience to god… sort of a conundrum (if you have free will… won’t god know your choices anyway etc?), but also the fall… knowing you made the wrong choice and now you are confined to hell (figuratively) due to your own actions.  Now I am not claiming to be lucifer (the rebel leader)… more or less a lesser angel without that much pride to take on the big honcho in the sky but caught up in the moment… these are all the ingredients baking the cake in my head on this one… not sure if I conveyed it all in the poem, hey, I’m just a guy with a blog, cut me some slack jack.


Tunes… time for some blues, I got those lost woman blues, the I ruined the greatest thing I will ever know blues, I didn’t lose her – I screwed it up, so all I have now is me and my guitar.  Gary Moore “There’s a Hole”

guilt.

guilt.

grayscale photography of man sitting beside wall

“I am, Ruins” 7.18.18

can you forgive me?
can I forgive myself?

NO.

the guilt
like a captor
a cage
becomes familiar
a house
with common walls
closing in
circling
blinds the view
no windows
no doors
huddled in the corner
struggling against the bindings of my guilt
under the weight of stone
tattered clothing
barely covers
broken form
cold wood boards
floor creaking
talking
reminding

the key-
to forgive
out of reach
beyond my sight
I can not see,
my mouth, my mouth pantomimes
Help… Help… Help…
(and softer…)
…help –
until a whisper
then just a murmur
quakes across trembled lip
quivers
-help
a single tear forms
and draws
like a blade that strikes out against the world
(help)… (help)… help me, please… please…

 


No cute notes or music on this one.. I think I will let it stand for itself. -dmk