Forests for Empty Spaces

Pleasure, satisfaction,

Common creature comforts,

Health and habitation;

Leave them with your home.

Nothing to distract you,

Nothing to build on,

Bound to wit and wilderness,

What do you become?

Sunlight burning, reddened raw.

Rocks cutting, scraping skin.

Sitting in the biting swarms.

Body aches in all its parts.

Brutality from the beautiful,

Faerie forests nearly sacred,

Hiding waterfalls and sunsets,

And myriads of stars.

Little to be done,

Even fewer things to say,

Letting go for silence

To graze on natural sounds.

Falling out,

Letting loose the inner void

And filling it somberly

With the only things around.

Between The Cracks

In systems complex,

A function unaccustomed,

Between the tall spires

Of civilized estates,

Wander weary children

Unburdened by order,

Creeping through the cracks

For scraps of a niche.

Workers and worriers

Consigned to commission

Could scarcely fathom

Such anarchic fashions.

Scouring the cities

For profits and pleasure

In whatever scarce amounts

Their subtleties can acquire.

These unguided forces,

So volatile and so reckless,

Surviving as a single self

Amid so many societal tempests.

Uninhibited by customs

But restrained by necessities,

Hunger, stress, and heartbreak

Without a remedy or a compass.

Unlost without direction

And unashamed without justice,

The wisdom of disorder

In nature’s law is too apparent.

Live on or die,

Obtain or go without,

Learn quickly or be snuffed

Like a candle blown out.

So the builders and planners

Imposing straight lines and roads

Offer little but questions

For these wanderers to pose.

“Who are you helping?

Can disorder be owned?”

Calling from the cracks

And splinters in the road.

“Enforcements must be vain,

For surely you must see

Nothing can be owned

And everything is free!”

 

 

 

 

 

Genesis

Oceans cascade

From unfathomable heights

Into the vast sculptured crevices

Of the planet’s bosom.

Numerous energies

Transmutated by tempest

Thrashed and torn asunder

Into pools of perfect chaos.

Writhing molecules

Repeatedly rearranged

In unprecedented forms

Of which many are miscarried.

Fortune’s devices

Favor but a few

Particular arrangements

To persist amid such tumultuousness.

Fluctuating forces

Pound vitality into matter,

Precipitating its progress

In discordant detumescence.

Patterns emerge

Inevitably in chance variables

Until at long last

A seedling erupts.

Implanted erection

Upon a rugged stone surface

Surfacing into the light

And its first growing pains.

Searing agony,

The flower’s contorted face

Gazing towards the sky

And screaming

“I’m Alive!”