In the echo chamber there’s no
leader or follower, just before and after.
There is no need for truth or fact,
as our leaders become followers
and followers leaders…and wisdom
is a rare and latent defect of
another time found in books
the faithful no longer read… and
the faithless no longer believe.

Ideas are sound bites or invented
stories intended to drag the lost
down rabbit holes into a wonderland
which never did and never will exist.
All so a minority will have power over
the majority, enforced with violent intent
until we submit to the notion we have
no control and our system has failed us…

when all along it is we who have failed our
forefathers and the system they invested
in us.

Enjoy the moment young man
for this maybe the most like a king
you will ever be.
And the mastery of ample questions why
and the absorbent nature of a mind
which will never be so young.

Enjoy the spirit and energy endowed
in the time between perfect
unvarnished sleep and dreams.
And the explosion of growth in
understanding such as you
will ever experience.

For the world is simple for you as it
is unfolding before you. Surely you will
never quite see things with such eyes
of innocence, and sense of wonder.
And someday, far from now, you will seek
in vain to recapture this sense of wonder.

We collect things,
we are born wanting
and gathering.

We join together,
as it is in our being
to belong.

We are curious,
asking why, we
seek meanings.

We desire to
accel at something,
to be noticed.

We seek to win,
so as not to lose,
collecting accolades.

We count life
by collected things
and people.

We gather close
to us our people
and things.

We are defined by
these things, events,
and belonging.

Until we leave,
with exactly
what we came with.

A product of our past,
our culture, our experience,
our genetics, our time,
our geography, and
circumstance, good and bad.

A product of the dreams
we shape, and construct,
of the work we will do,
and our passion and effort
and wisdom we gather.

A product of the helping-
hands, the stories we are
told, and the love we’ve
been shown, as well as,
the chances we embrace.

We get to a place and
time to reminisce and we
know with weight of reflect
it is ourselves who own
the product of this life.

Some mornings I take
my everything for
a walk… my shadow is
tall in a sunrise, reaches
to the West, excited and
hopeful for the coming day.

At noon, everything
shrinks inward,
embarrassed in the glare
of noonday sun.
Finding respite in being
very close and small.

And in the sunsetting
evening, rising up
tall and proud, it looks
away, to the East
longing for the day
to continue, to extend life.

At night shadow is of
artificial design, and
schizophrenic. There is
little purpose or direction,
except to wait and hope
for the clarity of day.

Then comes the fog,
which makes everything
hard to  discern,
like a grainy yesterday
photo of forever, found
languishing in a drawer.

Loss comes with the rain,
when the clouds bring
tears to clean the
Earth of shadow. It
can feel as if the Sun of day
may never shine again.

But the rains cannot last,
for the Flowers need the
Sun too, and they are
beautiful and life finds
a way to hold onto its
everything shadow.

For without it, life
is nothing.

Fall back maybe for the last time
as the church bells begin to chime.

Fall back for the birds who listen
to the sun, as fish flash and glisten.

Fall back or last future forward springs
tells us nothing of what nature brings.

Fall back for counting careful the seasons
why such measures? What are our reasons?

The world would scarcely notice us
when we no longer fiddle and fuss

over things like measuring time of day
or weeks, months, or length of a stay.

For this moment let’s fall back into our own time,
listening reverently to nature’s rhythm and rhyme.

I thought of an outlandish story
would be just what’s needed for
All Saints Eve, Halloween.

I thought of invented bizarre and
unexpected horrors and people
being manipulated and maimed.

But then I realized it’s all been
done before, there are no horrors
which have yet to see the light of day.

There are no terrors which have
not played out in the minds of men
in the darkness of night.

Devised and deployed tragedy
scares, suffering and sorrows,
continuous part of our histories.

We seem to need these evil
tricks in order to appreciate
times of joy and treats.

Is it no surprise what we
invent in our minds about
all others is born of distrust?

For we are products of our
own conspiratorial inventions
and collected experienced sorrows.

We should carve these into
our pumpkins of the moment
and leave them to rot and decay.

Toss them out and find our
joys and our loves and be
done with horrors and pain.

In the aftermath may we find
the good in all of us, for we may
all be sinners, and also all saints.

A word my fingers just found
in my head becomes a sound.

A thought not quite of full and form
like clouds yet to coalesce into a storm.

To get to “idea” there’s a ladder to climb
for a thought which is yet to be mine.

And there it goes, it was in my head
for a moment, now nothing instead.

Another popped, based on something heard
but also fleeting as a song, of a passing bird.

And this is how a poet sits down to write
when all seems an ephemeral flash of light.

So don’t bother wondering what’s on my mind
for, if you look there’ll be nothing here to find.