The first 4 poems are constructed from exit signs on I-70 across Kansas; the rest are thoughts on that same long, lonely, less than interesting trip.
Quickly the minutes- slowly the miles
Under a blue-lidded sky, stretches as wide as highway stretches in front of me
In my little prison
No one needs my company but of their's I wish
To the right, to the left- fields of corn and sunflowers carpet an endless plain
Endless- even mile markers are an unwelcome sight
Radio fuzzy, phone quieted- alone against my will.
Viviacious pioneers
Over empty
Discourage not
Anticipation of
Realized
Dreams.
Never breathe
Every
Second
Seems
Casually chaotic
Instead
Take a breath
You are able
Reach beyond my eye's talent
Into a part of the world I will never see
Green hazed contour
Air dusty and atmospherically tinted
Reserved for a few
Drive on the rest
You
only
care
every
moment.
I
Only
Need
To
Care.
Left too long
with reminiscences
leaves a girl astray.
My mind plants seeds surreal.
My thoughts grow a world incomprehensive.
Alone.
Realities run rampant.
In a physcial prison with anticipation of approaching spiritual freedom.
Steeples and silosRadio towers and water towersSorghum and sunflowersMiles of rows and miles of roadSky and field stretch from horizon to horizonPower lines and gas pumpers.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Sitting in Chair
(Written March 2006/Downtown Kansas City)
Sitting in chair in bedroom.
A house is a shelter,
But it is also a prison.
It protects me from the cold, the damp, the rain,
But it also keeps nature from me.
It’s a sterile and boring box
Necessary for this life.
I am grateful for it,
But at the same time,
I resent the way my window only opens a little.
The way sunlight has a hard time escaping in.
The artificiality of materialized life.
The way beauty is stifled by industry.
I dream at night that I can see the stars.
I dream at day that the clouds
on the early morning horizon
are mountains.
I long for unaltered purity of nature.
For fir trees poking up from a mountain saddle,
Like excited quills on a porcupine’s back .
For rivers, icy and chilled,
Dancing down quiet mountain curves.
For skies so wide, so clear, so barren,
Even clouds refuse to clutter their expanse.
I sigh in sadness for fresh air and the silence of
An industry-less existence.
I resent car alarms as the sound slices through walls
Through blocks of buildings.
My conscience mind is never at rest.
I no longer know what it feels like to feel completely safe.
I wake each morning, holding my breath,
fearing that night has brought inevitable evil to me.
I see houses, their walls warped and sagging, draped over invisible strokes of paint
From Dali’s brush.
I see cardboard signs covering the remnants of what once was a man.
A man now reduced to servitude,
A slave to survival,
A prisoner to circumstances that have washed from his brain all hopes of anything more
Than going to work each day, his hand out on the corner.
Cars pass by with people safe inside.
Many want to help but just don’t know how,
And so they keep driving,
roll the window up as they approach,
busy themselves with imaginary tasks to avoid eye contact,
to avoid the guilt and helpless they already too feel.
I know this,
Because I am those people.
I see the windows of my neighborhood,
Blinds never open, window always sealed.
I watch cars come and go,
I see people all around me,
And I see the way we all avoid each other.
When did we decide we were so much different than everyone else?
I hear sirens,
The way they scream,
Announcing yet another painful call for help.
A world is breathing,
A world is calling out for help.
I hear bells tolling,
Announcing what?
Another hour has passed,
A countdown to death.
Or a countdown to life?
Depends on the way you see the world,
The way you see yourself,
The way you see all that which you can’t see.
I hear the constant hum of the city.
The trains clanging, exchanging goods.
The air conditioners, the heaters, the generators, the cars, the sounds of industry.
Man’s music.
And this morning, I hear the rain.
The way is creates a calming percussion as it joins the creations of man.
God meets man in a culmination of raindrops upon artificial surfaces.
Subtle alterations in pitch levels depend upon the surface they finally meet.
The birds are singing yet again.
In the middle of the city,
As I cry for my home and the nature I know,
The birds are my constant comfort.
I don’t know what kind of birds they are,
But they too sing a song.
I hear a deep cooing bird, constant in the morning.
I hear smaller birds.
I hear them all, and they are a small gift to me,
Their song the most beautiful and yet simple sound I hear right now.
Again the bells toll.
Time is passing away
And I sit here, writing words that will pass away too.
Thoughts that will pass away.
Why do I sit here still?
Because the words are my comfort.
The way I see the world,
The remembering of these moments,
These are the things I want to remember right now.
Want to remember later.
These thoughts, my friend and companion.
My mind.
My heart.
The way I perceive life.
These things are important to me.
Time will pass away no matter what I am doing.
And so I sit here but a bit longer.
Today has begun and I will get up soon and see what it brings,
But let me be with my thoughts yet a moment longer.
We are still enjoying the conversation the rain has brought to us
This morning.
Sitting in chair in bedroom.
A house is a shelter,
But it is also a prison.
It protects me from the cold, the damp, the rain,
But it also keeps nature from me.
It’s a sterile and boring box
Necessary for this life.
I am grateful for it,
But at the same time,
I resent the way my window only opens a little.
The way sunlight has a hard time escaping in.
The artificiality of materialized life.
The way beauty is stifled by industry.
I dream at night that I can see the stars.
I dream at day that the clouds
on the early morning horizon
are mountains.
I long for unaltered purity of nature.
For fir trees poking up from a mountain saddle,
Like excited quills on a porcupine’s back .
For rivers, icy and chilled,
Dancing down quiet mountain curves.
For skies so wide, so clear, so barren,
Even clouds refuse to clutter their expanse.
I sigh in sadness for fresh air and the silence of
An industry-less existence.
I resent car alarms as the sound slices through walls
Through blocks of buildings.
My conscience mind is never at rest.
I no longer know what it feels like to feel completely safe.
I wake each morning, holding my breath,
fearing that night has brought inevitable evil to me.
I see houses, their walls warped and sagging, draped over invisible strokes of paint
From Dali’s brush.
I see cardboard signs covering the remnants of what once was a man.
A man now reduced to servitude,
A slave to survival,
A prisoner to circumstances that have washed from his brain all hopes of anything more
Than going to work each day, his hand out on the corner.
Cars pass by with people safe inside.
Many want to help but just don’t know how,
And so they keep driving,
roll the window up as they approach,
busy themselves with imaginary tasks to avoid eye contact,
to avoid the guilt and helpless they already too feel.
I know this,
Because I am those people.
I see the windows of my neighborhood,
Blinds never open, window always sealed.
I watch cars come and go,
I see people all around me,
And I see the way we all avoid each other.
When did we decide we were so much different than everyone else?
I hear sirens,
The way they scream,
Announcing yet another painful call for help.
A world is breathing,
A world is calling out for help.
I hear bells tolling,
Announcing what?
Another hour has passed,
A countdown to death.
Or a countdown to life?
Depends on the way you see the world,
The way you see yourself,
The way you see all that which you can’t see.
I hear the constant hum of the city.
The trains clanging, exchanging goods.
The air conditioners, the heaters, the generators, the cars, the sounds of industry.
Man’s music.
And this morning, I hear the rain.
The way is creates a calming percussion as it joins the creations of man.
God meets man in a culmination of raindrops upon artificial surfaces.
Subtle alterations in pitch levels depend upon the surface they finally meet.
The birds are singing yet again.
In the middle of the city,
As I cry for my home and the nature I know,
The birds are my constant comfort.
I don’t know what kind of birds they are,
But they too sing a song.
I hear a deep cooing bird, constant in the morning.
I hear smaller birds.
I hear them all, and they are a small gift to me,
Their song the most beautiful and yet simple sound I hear right now.
Again the bells toll.
Time is passing away
And I sit here, writing words that will pass away too.
Thoughts that will pass away.
Why do I sit here still?
Because the words are my comfort.
The way I see the world,
The remembering of these moments,
These are the things I want to remember right now.
Want to remember later.
These thoughts, my friend and companion.
My mind.
My heart.
The way I perceive life.
These things are important to me.
Time will pass away no matter what I am doing.
And so I sit here but a bit longer.
Today has begun and I will get up soon and see what it brings,
But let me be with my thoughts yet a moment longer.
We are still enjoying the conversation the rain has brought to us
This morning.
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