Friends come, friends go,
summer’s warm, winter’s cold.
In your heart where the winter’s warm
fires are burning hot
you find yourself standing under a starry sky at night
in the empty snow in an empty field, head up
looking at a million hot pinpricks and wondering:
if one of those pinpricks is looking down at you.
from friendly fire
which takes place
behind enemy lines.
Madness I Am, for
friendly fire is not
if you’re in their aim
and you’ve gotten shot
by love’s betrayal of desire.
like the bullet wounds
of my heart’s desire.
I want not
but the betrayal of the soul is the heart’s desire,
and betrayal of both sets the mind afire
with thoughts of what you want
but cannot have.
Peace be with you.
Filed under Matthew, Poetry
Time is what we are giving,
time is what we take.
Times when we should be living
we often waste and forsake.
Time is bought and sold,
traded for tomorrow,
given until we’re too old
it becomes a source of sorrow.
With its burdens and its sorrows,
happiness, joys and ways
time dissolves all those tomorrows
into our yesterdays.
A beat without a season,
a string we walk in life,
wondering if there is a reason
til Death cuts it like a knife.
Time we sell, time we trade,
we give it to all our things,
and sometimes when we sell it
we wonder at the worth of the things it brings.
What is the worth of it.
Intangible to the fingers,
invisible to the eye
time is constantly flowing.
Have you learned to fly?
Have you had enough? Can you get too much?
Is it easy going or has life been tough?
Is all your time spent making time
so you can run to someone’s touch?
Or have you traded time for possessions
that really don’t mean that much?
Slows down when you have too much weighing on your hands.
(Thought there is no such thing as too much, I hope you understand.)
Time speeds up when you face too many of life’s demands.
Time is what you steal,
time is what you spend.
The question is will you keep missing the point
until your bitter end?
Or will you take the time to make some time
to enjoy the time right now
and realize with time, your most valuable asset,
its not if you spend it, but how.
The Blue Horizon
The blue horizon stacked like sheets of glass.
Clouds, too, flatten out as they pass.
The empty desert lies before me, slowly shifting sand,
erasing tracks behind me, presence from the land.
The horizon, across an endless plain,
calls with a mournful whisper
promising happiness and or pain.
The horizon, blue,
whispers and gibbers to me
pulling me ever onward
I take one step, two more – its as distant as it could be.
That forever horizon that I reach for eternally.
The horizon, blue meets blue again,
like time frozen, with no beginning nor an end.
Always retreating before you,
never quite in your lonesome grasp,
that blue horizon may be what you see
when you breath your last . . .
The blue horizon.
To give up wants and desires,
to give up hopes and dreams,
to give up ambition’s fires,
to give up all your schemes,
to give up all you are
and all you want to be,
to give up on everything
is learning to be free.
Free of wants and desires,
free of worry’s pain,
free of tomorrow’s fires,
free of loss and gain.
Free to be who you are
and not who you want to be
freedom to aspire
towards truly being happy.
Filed under Matthew, Poetry
I’ve been hanging around, you see. The days are hot and the nights are cold, and I’ve gotten to know a few of the odd birds that come around.
Comes from hanging around, you see.
I watch the clouds drifting over, a brittle blue sky beyond,
and the ground below me looks inviting and warm
and I’m so tired of hanging from this tree
bones ensnared in the branches.
Hanging from this tree
my bones grow weary.
Why won’t the rope break
dropping me to the grave
that I slaved to dig?
The Raptor’s Scream
free of the pain,
drifting across endless skies
over seas of grain
through mountain valleys
on effortless wings
with no thought for the past
or what the future brings.
Knowing only base hunger,
instinct driving us along.
No thought to express,
no concept about going on;
no distant memory of dying
in a distant land,
no fault, no guilt, no feeling
just the wind moving across my face
the feathers on my wings
the coolness like ice on my eyeballs
as my throat gives a raptor’s scream.
A Forest in twilight, its limbs stripped bare.
A land, torn; branches reaching, grasping at the air.
Ash on the wind tastes like the ash of your own soul
as you wander this rolling land
with the trees all stripped bare.
Leaves blowing by your feet; scuttling away in the wind.
Whisper their tiny secrets like a clutter of scuttling friends
scurrying away from you
while above gray skies, plated like glass
stacked grayer on an endless horizon
greets your open eyes.
You are walking there,
Looking endlessly for something,
anything not dead and bare.
Something you lost long ago;
you ignore the whispers in the air
and the eyes that are staring at you from the hollows
of this distant land.
The wind blows: cold, yet eerily quiet
through the grasping trees,
yet not so quiet you can’t hear whisper of the whispering leaves
scuttling across the dry cold ground
bound for an unseen horizon
with a hushed and solemn sound.
They gather in burrows and boles
and among the roots and holes
of this forgotten land.
Those whispering leaves
which drive you mad
with the remembrances of times and places
where even the good times leave
you feeling empty and sad.
The autumn wind blows through the barren forest, stirring the dead leaves resting there.
Whispers of memory fill my mind as I breath the wintery yet dead air.
Of ancient memory and forgotten places,
persons that I loved.
Cold gray clouds like stacked glass panes rise into a striated sky.
I wander the hidden forest, watching those leaves blow by.
Each one whispers their secrets
as the northwest wind howls from behind.
Shhhh! Listen carefully
to these whispers from my mind . . .