One-Hundred Years From Now

One-Hundred years from now, what will I be?
Hopefully remembered in grand-child’s strong memory.
Two-Hundred years from now, things are different.
I am a faint picture on the wall, whose quality they resent.
Three-Hundred years from now, the picture off the wall.
Forgotten and laid to rest, yet do you know the beauty of this all?
For this inglorious succession to happen, to even begin,
I must exist. I question the beginning not, for I understand the end.
The end undeservedly requires a beginning and a middle.
The beginning we learn to walk and finger fiddle;
The middle we learn what it means to live;
The end we learn what it means to give.
We give our last breath to this world.
And with my knuckle curled.
All I ask of my descendants,
Is to be remembered.

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If many spiders unite

If many spiders unite
Spinning their thin webs
They can make a rope overnight.

If more spiders combine
Aiming for lion’s legs,
They can trip with this twine.

They intend no harm for the lion they keep.
They only wish for equality
Not for themselves, but the sheep.

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You call people worms as insult

This is a variation from another poem I once wrote that can be found here.

You call people worms as insult,
Yet in all its wriggality,
That which eats dirt,
Feeds nations.

From dust you are
To dust you return
Where the worms reign
In the dirt which you rest.

We all try to escape the truth
That someday we return.

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That Cracked Fallen Tree

In my woods, only about ten feet
Off the path lies a tree.
Fallen and cracked, covered in peat,
It works as a seat, big enough for three.

It was there that we ate dinner
Taco meat, made in a gray teapot
If I could choose anyone, it would have been her
To sit and make a fire, and possibly be caught.

I cannot forget that day we shared.
It is burned into my memory like that scar
We left on the forest floor we swept bare.
Someday we will travel back there, despite it being far.

Now we sit in our kitchen, far from woods.
The teapot in storage, waiting for us to leave.
We cook on electric stove, improving our goods.
We will return my dear, to that cracked fallen tree.

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Sunrises and Sunsets are Cheap

Sunrises and sunsets are cheap.
An easy display of colors
Plastered as crass metal in sky,
Textured by puffs of vapors.

To think, you were created
With more care than some sunset.
More intricate details lie in your freckles
Than a sunrise I will soon forget.

I tell you the truth, the God honest truth,
They got nothing on you.
When God created the sun it was for all,
When He created you, it was for few.

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Art’s Gravestone

Power is like bourbon stinging the tip of my tongue.
Swelling to sweetness as it moves.
Warming as it sinks to my stomach.

There was a time where the heat did not work.
Where I used bourbon to move warm my fingers
So I could rattle my keyboard a little more.

I wonder if this induced heat did more than warm.
If it awakened in me the pain that I could spew
Onto the paper in quatrain-couplet unconsciousness.

Like Hemmingway, but in the wrong era.
Alchohol is still glorified, but the product of it-
My induction to art, is dead in the grave.

Burried only 4 feet deep, a shallow grave
It’s not too late to dig her back up.
On the gravestone it reads in mossy chisel:

THE ABILITY TO CREATE
CREATION – 1961
MURDERED BY SENSATIONALISM

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Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

I watched as salty water
Repainted her pink toenails.
Gray sand stuck to them
Like ten fingers intertwined.

In a sea of faces red,
She is the wave above all.
Roaring with power, yet-
Graceful as she moves.

She has no idea her significance
No idea how she washes over
My skin, leaving trace of salt
With every gentle lap.

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The Pine Tree

Tall and prickly, it gains weight
Slowly as white dust lands on it.
The strong trunk supports,
While the small branches sag.

It has no legs, but those underground.
It has no arms, but those which absorb.
Never moving, but always pushed.
Never changing color, except for branches hushed.

I have legs, always moving.
I have arms, always grabbing.
Always moving, but never pushed.
Always changing, but never hushed.

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Cows have taken over my camp.

Cows have taken over my camp
I tried to take it back, I advance
On them, but stand no chance
Against that original leathertramp.

They mean no harm, they are curious.
They wonder what I am, what I do
Just as I wonder, “who are you?”
Though this is inconvenient, I am not furious.

There are other camps on this property,
They require more hiking, sure.
But they all offer ground still pure.
Something that has become a rare commodity.

The cows may have my campsite.
It was theirs before it was mine,
I stole it from them from their treeline.
I know they would run, there is no need to fight.

I have said before, nature kills reason.
Perhaps reason beckons a different call.
That this land was created for all
There is no reason to commit treason.

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Nature Kills Reason

It is nature’s intent to kill reason.
Hell bent on destroying that
Which colonizes nature.
There is a war which will never end.

A cabin sits in the forest.
It was once the home of a man
He thrashed the grass and cut
Choice logs, but could not contend.

While he won the battle
It seemed at odds he lost
The war for the space
As Queen Anne’s Lace crept in.

Brick buildings make for cold shelter
Heated by the the spy of nature-
Fire boils our tea and cooks,
Seemingly a friend, but only pretend.

Nature did not pick this fight,
We did. With our ill intentions
We decidedly chose to kill
That nature which threatened.

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