PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Willing at the start

We believed we were ready

But the insecurities came flooding in

Like a bird let out of it's cage

Flying high, soaring low

Damage was being done and I didn't know

Feelings were felt

Confused and without direction

Unrewarding activities occurred

Awkward the days became

Further pushed away

All intuition was lost at sea

When it was new

It was exciting

But there wasn't worth to be found

Freedom was dangerous

When abused,

You could lose all

The unexplored will remain a mystery

Acceptance of that is the key

Honesty sits like the carriage

swinging gently side to side,

hanging beneath a hot air balloon.

Only this balloon is alive,

and pumping with hot blood.

An honest person at the controls

will skip sleep to pull that cord

all the night through to get his

carriage over the steep mountains.

At the same time, an honest person

would admit they had met their limit,

and find a quiet beach to land upon.

For a good while each resting place

is temporary, because who knows

what’s over the next hill?

Perhaps one day you will find your

perfect place to rest and settle.

Until then, keep an honest heart

to carry you, and perhaps a passenger

or two, gently over the Everest

that may prove to be the last.

Until finally, you crest over and down

into the bountiful warm windward 

side of the towering sleeping giants.

But maybe you’re an explorer

and you’ll just keep going,

and that’s not a bad idea at all.

One day it dawned upon him,

with an almost rude suddenness,

that his reality is his own and his own only.

Ignited within him, a passion arose.

He desired most to explore,

so that he may experience

reality from a vast multitude

of perspectives on the world. 

Perhaps, he thought,

this was the basis for curiosity. 

Then, he wondered if language, art,

and literature were the attempts 

to bridge the gap between realities. 

After all, what else could communicate

the complex thoughts formulated

within each of those minds?

Yet, another thought occurred.

Perhaps this, realized loneliness, 

was the foundation for love. 

For don't we seek to find

the one who sees

reality in a similar light?

And then, a staggering epiphany,

gripped his consciousness.

Could this, isolation of the mind,

not be the meaning of life?

He decided, in that single shocking moment,

that the utter beauty of the world,

with its mammoth array of microcosms,

and the fantastic complexity of the universe,

was too precious not to be witnessed 

by an intelligent being, like himself.

Even, if he was alone in the experience.

The End of the World
Is far, far away.

But believe you me,
The people there are just the same.
They laugh and cry, etcetera,
And yes, there is even tea,
Which you can drink to Byron’s memory
Opposite the blue armoury,
On tiled wooden tables lightly flowered,
Staring into American eyes.

You can walk through those lean streets,
Ride the ascensors;
A pair of rainbow eyes.
But I’d still rather look into my Watson’s.

At The End of the World,
Lie the Hills of Paradise.
Not that they are really Paradise,
It’s just that, to me, they seemed to be;
Walking through those lean streets,
At the house that Cochrane built,
Walking by the sea he mastered and commanded.

And in the Vineyard
Steel modernity rises high -
Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive stuff,
But I get all that on the other side.
I prefer it when
Soft spirituality rises,
Cries of “¡Viva!”
And La Vida en Verde,
And Cueka in a kilt,
Downing beers and wagging our chins,
And talking about the end of the world.

The south of the End of the World
Is far away as well.
A land of rivers,
Lakes,
Arctic.
Kind of a breadbasket,
If breakbaskets were thin geographically
And mimicked my scrawny chest.
But these rivers run deep,

Mapuche force lies dormant,
Choked.
No-one’s fault,
Just blind prejudice.

The land of the End of the World shakes,
In ways few here can feel.
5 point 5, 7 point 8,
2 point 1.
Trembles in the night,
Yawning cracks by day,
The end of the world
Can swallow your good selves.

That’s why, for those of the land,
You live on the edge.

The north of the End of the World
Is a tomb world to some ancient race –
Land no man should look upon,
Forbidden.
Salty.
A thirsty, thirsty,
Desert tongue.
To the east, the Horseshoe
And the Third Millenium Cross,
Erected to the God who made
The searchlight stars in whispy skies.

The end of the world is cold.
And hot.
Chilly,
And balmy. The waves crash
Into the mountains
And froze for my disposable.

Walk those lean streets,
See for yourself.
You’ll find
That the End of the World,
Works tremors in your heart.

Bright sparks, ideas, shining
Combining, kindling the fires of invention,
Soaring higher on wings created,
To the earth, no longer bound,
Bringing light, always moving,
To fill the void,
To cross all space,
Leaving behind blue skies everlasting.
Finding what is new,
Following the drive,
To seek the truth, hidden in lies,
Gazing upon stars, our eyes in wonder,
Forever burning, forges of gods,
And now for man, their energies serve,
Reshaping the universe.