The Hospital in Boston

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aecrAT1Ny-I

I delay

My trip to the hospital,

Until today.

Extensive buildings,

A city within a city

All too consuming,

Hovering and looming,

While reflecting the surroundings,

The weather, and the avian

Traffic in the glass.

As all that passes bends from

Window frame to

Window frame

Never to be seen again.

The emulation reflects

What is constant change.

Each cloud is unique, and temporary, and fleeting,

And, their not exactly, white color,

Passes by or slips into the sky.

Perhaps the patients

The one’s that lay dying

Behind the reflection,

Reflect on ephemeral instants’ of their lives

As they are adorned with IV tubes,

Like someone’s royalty left for dead.

And, incessant beeps surrounded them,

Which bellow out; like

Listening to a bullhorn

From underneath the water—

Sound traveling muffled

After some time. Everyone

Is vaguely aware,

Of death in the air.

Nurses go by,

To tend someone else’s needs.

A body, taken to the morgue,

As an arm, dangles over the edge,

But you don’t notice because you lay dying yourself.

Somewhere, sirens employ a miasma of

Ordered chaos in the form of blurred scrubs,

Towards a gun shot victim,

Where that patient floats

Out of their body, Belly-up,

Next to the eye sore of a crash cart,

Full of intrusive instruments

That live in red draws, which mock

The wounded who fight for their lives

In another hospital—but

Not this one. In this one,

The crash cart is white.

Not sure of the surroundings,

And a bit cloudy on the reasons for your stay,

You ask why you are in that bed.

Outside, the reflection of the clouds are now gone,

Showing only blue sky

For a brief time before the sun sets

Behind a cold building. Glowing

In orange hues overtaking the blue,

It promises to be,

A sunny day tomorrow

As you lay dying in Boston. 

i Never Said i Was Perfect

i never said i was perfect

You just assumed i thought

i was.

There is an empty bubble

Inside,

Right in the middle of the filled-up-part.

You thought i was overflowing with love

But there is that empty bubble…

A nearly perfect imperfection

Ready to pop or to burst.

i never said i was the best

You just assumed that i thought that i was.

i cannot rub that thought

From the reflection in your eyes

You must do that yourself--

from the inside...

Please don’t look at me with that tone-of-face.

There are thousands of ideas

Swimming through

Streams of conscious

Into the depths

in my head,

That i have never ever said---

None of which are of me

being perfect

or the best.

Unintentional Moment

I was walking on Congdon Steet. I had noticed tunnel web after exquisite tunnel web woven throughout the bushes in my travels one hazy morning. There was a fine mist that had settled onto the webs casting a slivery glaze over the already silver web. I admired the passion and instinct that the spiders put into their creation. For them it is passion for survival. I ran my hand across one of them unintentionally smearing the silver glaze and dragging the clinging web away from it’s perfectly positioned place. There were remnants of bugs wound up in what was left of the web still on the bush; some of them were dried and yet others seemed freshly dead. Several were bigger and looked as though they may have lived for a quite a while, their system still alive but mostly lifeless; while still others were so tiny that they may have not have been alive very long before meeting their untimely (or perhaps timely) demise. Though a very small part of the web was bunched on my fingers some of it was still silvery. I thought that perhaps the spider may have felt disheveled and may have been alarmed to discovery itself without a web so quickly after crafting to catch its next meals. I found myself thinking it rather strange that, to me, something so intricately beautiful, and to the spider, so sustaining --could be destroyed with but one swift unintentional moment.

My Soul Stands Still

Once, before I was born,

The walls of my soul were breached. 

By whom & what is of little importance, but

As a consequence

My soul ceased to move;

Since then, and still now

It stands static,

Surrounded, engulfed and surpassed by frigidness.

Frigidness resembling the heavy New England winter.

Though,

A tiny bold ambience still survives

Deep inside.

And, when my soul had ceased to move

It made

My heart wrench.

The beat offset, is out of time,

And It is no longer is made of gold.

It was once said: Nothing Gold Can Stay,

Truth? Or

Dare I say: cursed?

~This is Alchemy at its worst.

Many have tried to recreate it,

Many more have succeeded in keeping it this way.

My heavy heart, it now sits, in its

NON-Gilded cage

A cage made from nothing more than bone—

How creepy, and gothic, and maybe slightly lethargic is that?

Desperately attempting to disseminate

The knowledge of what once existed

Regardless of how tiny the moment

Without calling on any pity, or praise, or martyrdom.

I have heard it told that:

The eyes are the Windows to the soul; so

If you are adept enough,

If you dare, or

If you Even care,

You can see all this from peering deep into mine

My golden-hazel eyes—

But it is not required that you look.

If you are so Scared—

As you seem,

You are welcome to take me on my word that:

My soul stands still.

~CP~

And by the Way

Though you did not ask, i may tell you anyway.

i wander through my life past all lives that i cross

Panged by events that are inevitably eventful. Yet,

i mostly do not mentioned them to be so.  It

Is mostly very unnecessary.

And it is quite so

That

Though you may not care to know, i may tell you anyway.

And by the way, i have nothing against anything—

When it really comes down to it.

i will just as soon avoid any type of poison

Then be against anything, Removed from CHAOS.

And though you may hear—you Will not really listen.

But i may ramble anyway. 

So i just as soon be away from that type

Of shoulder to cry on. The type of shoulder that

Is never

Ever really there.

And by the way, i really don’t care that you don’t care.

i would just as soon stay gone.

And by the way did i mention?

i would just as soon stay gone.

Oh…That.

Oh, that?

…that ambiance is my soul;

It is its own element.

It knows where it is

And what it entails in every

Sense of the word.

But onlookers will perceive it as clouded,

Reminiscent of the sparkling mists,

Over and across a warm lake,

In the sunless air,

On a brisk morning.

Definitively, it  is largely misunderstood.

A campfire by the lake,

From the night before

Could smolder,

And the cast off smoke

Might try to mingle,

But it would be no match.

My soul is something

That cannot be grasped. 

You could run

And retrieve a covered glass dish

In the attempt to catch it and

Observe it;

But those efforts would not work

And, anyway,

It would be too late—

The sparkling mist will have Risen Above,

And will have long since dispersed.

And it may be appreciated in retrospect,

But in that event,

All that might be left is

The realization and

The clarity

Of the memory

Of the ambiance of my soul.

It is then when an inkling

Or perhaps

An epiphany regarding its existence

Might be comprehended.

But, i am almost certain,

That memory would prove elusive and fade with the passing of time…

Effect from the Affect

They say it’s easy to write-- just open a vein and bleed.

I suspect speaking is more like opening your heart and letting

Your soul flow freely—the Nile fertilizing the land.

And I would like to know how you do that? Ask without asking?

The eyes, mannerism, or language? The pictures capture something.

The words capture more. The eyes convey. Is it all three? Rather, much more I suspect.

As I sit on the couch I drift through The truthful thoughts,

Like a passage through warmer waters,

Like drifting deeper into a colluded collaboration that I had no conscious part in planning.

So sophisticated and so full that you’re weighted,

Grounded in life but still rising above.

How do you do that without effort? Affect me? You could be deprived of candlelight and still shine,

just like the moon that I know so well. I have

Bathed in its Goddess Glow, yet have never been there,

it's weighty gravity that effects me so, as that moon hovers above.

Yet, the moon appears flighty.

It wanes and it waxes as it comes and it goes and hide behind clouds and the light…

But it is never really gone and its presence, like yours, has that constant effect.

And quite simply, I would like to know how you do that.

Based a on a recurring set of dreams of a man I have known only in my dreams since childhood.

 

 

 

 

 

The Difference

You say, "We are not so different, you and I."

    I must argue that we are!

You hear the sound of the ocean while holding a seashell.

      I hear the sound of my soul churning…

You see a spider and crush it in fear. 

    I thank it for eating the mosquitoes that would otherwise bite me.

Your hand caresses the rug with the direction of the weave.

    I am inclined to draw patterns by running my fingers against it.

You only just taste the flavor of the food.

    I also taste the extent of love in which it was made with.

You smell the aroma of the funeral flowers and cry for all you have lost!

    I smell them and cry for all that the departed has lost.

This IS the nature of the difference between us…