Through The Cracked Window (Revisited)
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One day followed the next,
And this life went on,
Endings became beginnings,
Times to be reflected upon.
Nothing was ever truly lost,
But everything had changed,
Each day was being built upon;
Shards to be rearranged.
In time, all will be complete,
Even pieces that never fit,
In this disorder of things,
In this fire that has been lit.
Stoic Poetry
When all around has turned to grey,
Past the sunrise to spend at play.
I but a little boy, and went my way,
Eyes of amber still enclosed in day.
Black secrets buried within my dream,
Into the glad day and the freckled night.
Beneath the sun in gold tinted beam,
Always the one who sought the light.
Stoic Poetry
When truth parts the draped veil
Combing the daylight for signs
Marketing another year for sale
Waiting to sign on the dotted line
Standing the ground, a last stand
Long life bent the broken man
Came the fire to break my hand,
They’ll get you in the end if they can.
Stoic Poetry
Curtained rain washing yesterday’s dirt
The last barren snow laid to final rest
Swift as a dew from the window at night
Every star slipping across the wet canvas
Everything goes so small without the light
Stoic Poetry
Freshest rain defines the day,
Blue as a bedroom to the dawn,
Wild for the way, the slender ray,
Yet never this light could be gone.
She said full of feelings and grace,
“The moon is just a black sky valley,”
Struck as by a hard hand on my face;
“Why do we wait so and dally.”
Swift as a stroke against the sky,
When I was young. I had the chance,
The leaves were spent with all replies,
Finding the last place to break its trance.
Stoic Poetry
Whose soul is that? I want to know
Its owner is sad and quiet though
The pain tells a tale of woe
As I watch him sway to and fro
He gives his soul a sudden shake
And sobs until the tears make
The only other sound’s the break
Of distant waves and birds awake
His words come broken and deep
But tells he has promises to keep
Until then there shall be no sleep
As he lies in bed with eyes that weep.
He rises from his bitter bed
Thoughts of sadness fill his head
There are times, fallen he bled
Facing the days so full of dread
Stoic Poetry
Before you can find me deep in the ground
The only place I am sure to go
When the final truths must become unbound
Sometimes there are pleasures in the pain
That’s the reason we keep on hurting
Maybe there is an angel who is lying again
Wondering where it came from, that first line
Knowing exactly where it will go
Lives and songs sung, but always out of time
Stoic Poetry
Creation, beyond thought
Beyond the image and word
It cannot to be communicated
It was never formulated
Often wrapped up in speeches
Never in complete awareness
It cannot be used or sold
In the market, to be haggled
Misunderstood by the mind
Without means to touch it
The sharp instrument of logic
Always misses the point
Stoic Poetry
There is a sense of vast stability
A power that cannot be approached.
Austerity that no thought can formulate
A purity of infinite gentleness
All these are merely words
They can only represent the real
The symbol is nothing itself
The symbol is without value
Stoic Poetry
As a collective there is more concern with the past than with the present or future
Trodden footprints give comfort
Mourning for the old days, so we keep repeating errors that should have been long buried, never to be revived and relived.
We have always been at war
Amongst aberrant moments
Peace makes us nervous,
Happiest when we uncreate
The world will boil and crumble
Some will carry their signs
The words will keep repeating
With others lives upon the line
Stoic Poetry
Through The Cracked Window (Revisited) 