Poem: What Next!

Poem: What Next!

 Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was...a good idea.


I was there in the first hour on the first morning.
The air clear and about all, and never breathed before,
never seen and cool and soothing about my face.
And I looked up
And the sun and the moon fell in love as I watched.
She sat, as a blushing pearl against Cerulean blue.
And I turned, and my father's light shone into my eyes.
I walked along and watched it all wake, from a long and cold dark sleep.
Further on I saw eleven great birds in flight...
and wondered about their defiance of the ground and the air.
How had they separated themselves from all the rest?
That air first breathed deep returned warm from my lungs,
and caused a mist to drift about my mouth...


There is, a specific type of smugness when someone within a group of like minds calls out the heretic. When group thought has totally permeated the platform, as a bastion of central opposition and knowledge to a world that is seemingly going insane -- a world is unknowable in the end. Too many possibilities. Can I prove that? Without falling into skeptical thought, not really.  Nothing can be proved without a doubt, it is a matter of the evidence collected in favour of what one believes -- or the group believes. We are all capable of that confirmation bias, even those who point out the heretic. Doubt can always be generated, with enough intelligent thought. And so as long as that persists, truth in the fact can never be absolute. And must always remain in doubt, a sort of plastic thing...


A thousand years inside a stone, at the bottom of a frozen...lake.

Glacier slow the earth reactors warmed it,

the sun dried up the lake.

New green showed it's tender leaves.

And crowding in around, and thought it theirs.


Years flicker in time, like bubbles in clear glass.

Images from one brief life, onto the next.

I've lived a life of just one day and lived also a hundred years...


I was painting ten paintings the other day. In the music studio and lost an idea among a pile of dead poems sitting on a shelf,

it was a good idea!

It was something about the sound a bird makes after a terrible storm;

for the world is stilled and made over completely in that single solitary second.

This is not the only world…by far...