Particular Moments

More Stars than There are

Tag: philosophy

In this City – Part I

The City is indeed a peculiar place to be—

 

it is a eco-chamber that sources its

raw goods from outside its borders,

and in return, never manage to return any

fruition of equal liveliness or consequence;

 

it is a mischievous juicer

that spits out yellowy-green puss, putrid waste

from the best apples and oranges

innocently fed into it;

 

it is its own twisted mega-church,

with its organs always blasting

on high volume—

deafening drones of motorized something’s;

heart-wretching screams of lost Souls,

with all of their needless violence and commotions;

 

it is a rotting garden of surprises:

festering garbage lodged uncomfortably

into crevices better served for other purposes;

 

dog shit, or those of humans and the alike,

left behind for invisible, miracle cleaning crews;

broken parts of otherwise wholesome constructs,

carpeting the roads’ medians

and their left and right side walks—

.

When putting all of its saucy elements in view,

it indeed looks quite like

a bewildering, if not entirely mad arrangement

for Man to gravitate to.

Forget Not: A Reminder for Us All

Photography: “In The Night Garden” by Jonathan Taylor — Find more of his amazing talent at https://unsplash.com/@jontaylor

Sacred Heart

YOUR PASSIVE EXISTENCE

A simple reminder — let your actions be guided by absolute intention. Have you forgotten your Purpose?

Must We?

Had a little fun with open source photography — stunning and tranquil image credited to “duckman1992” on Unsplash ūüôā

 

A walk and a song, before dawn

Every so often, you may find that
The humans, in their various manifestations
Of desires, vulnerabilities, shortcomings, and even
Hopefulness and Beauty ---

Are simply far
Too Heavy ---

You immerse in it, daily,
Like wading, knee-high, in an air
Filled by Molasses.

But every so rarely, you may discover
Creature companions of sorts, 
Whose dimensions only spare them
Very plain needs:

To eat, to drink, and if ever so lucky,
To wander and play, 
Mindlessly ---
Free from Love and Grief,
Free, in the absence of time,
Nowhere, and Everywhere.
 

Seasons

Is it really true---what they say,

“One life ends, Another one begins.”

If so, is it the best one could wish for?

We live in a strange reality, one in which the best lessons are taught with loss and death. We survive the perished, and live our days breathing leftover air.

We go to different places, make new bonds, start and restart new lives---each a second chance, all to one way or another, make up for what we could not rescue in the first place.

"We'll do it Better this time."

It's not so sad as it is bittersweet, like the passing and rebirthing of seasons.

Tough Love from Orwell

” There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our own life time. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future.
We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. “

George Orwell. 

 

 

Not Yet Ready for March

Crowded places filled with gazes of much un-needed Inquiry:
Curious, tense, lustful, and envious—mostly afraid—
Vexing to the extremities of bone.

Can’t a Brother eat alone
Without getting smothered by cloudy and judging glances?

damn unwholesome souls
lurking rampant on this Earth

so disturb me;
perpetually motivated from outwards, of which’s approval they seek;
must we ceaselessly suck like maggots
and compete with one another in nothing
but creature obsessions? 

Escaping the suffocating boxes of Men (and Women too),
Rows of densely packed Crackles sing like
Stereotypical Hispanic Aunties,
Fast and incessantly energetic—
Sitting on the power lines, they look like
Lines of blotched ink, so morbidly jet black,
That a weak mind may just mistake them
For a bad, bad omen—

and can we stop reducing our fellow creatures
into metaphors of our own mere understandings? 

You see, it might just be a rest stop
Along the journey of their mass, seasonal migrations—
Amongst themselves, a make-shift conference is undergoing.

A slow walk toward less crowded blocks,
Outdated Post Offices and Abandoned Factories,
Peeling Paints; Corroded Metal Beams—
Ironically, at such sights, the soured Heart sits more at ease;
Maybe they remind Us of our lost
But once True Essence,

Now empty shells, waiting to be swallowed up
Whole, down the fat, fat belly of the Real Estates,
and gentrified¬†into “Creative Work Spaces.”

Looking into the dark corners of these obsolete Sentinels,
A pair of dimly gleaming green eyes peer back
in Innocent Caution; a Young Black Feline.

“Hey there, Friend.” You say.

For it is a rare encounter, after all,
On this humid Dusk quickly morphing into total Night Fall,
It is only you and the cat
Keeping Sigil at the Graves, six feet under which
Lay the molding corpses of the Earnest and Industrious.

Eventually, this on-foot excursion ended,
Leaving you atop an empty garage, possibly
Another tasteless fruit of some Real Estate Empire—
The view falls far short of what you anticipated:
Foggy flatlands scattered with boxes containing men and women
who mostly busy themselves glancing at each other.

A breeze blows, but does not freshen your face.

Oh February of 2018,
You stubborn Animal,
Must you so soon leave us empty handed?
I dreamt of more adventures in your bleakness.

Star Gazing in The Rain

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A hundred thousand galaxies flourished and died, beautifully tragic and splendid, all in the relative few seconds, in which we sat dazed, watching as drops of rain glided past our windows.