Chasing the Equatorial Horizon

Ω

Walking in a circle

revisiting each step

again and again

Ad infinitum

.

Ending and beginning

in the Chasm

Highpoint of memory

bottomless in despair

.

If if virtue is gold

my soul is poor

each revolution

refilling the pit with debt

.

In it collects the runoff

of apprehension and fear

as a cauldron of doubt

and crucible for folly

.

yet at the edge again

by my choice

i bring myself

wan and bridgeless

.

Though after the crossing

as i emerge and walk yet away

am i really leaving

or beginning the trip back

ω

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Treeline

Θ

On the Path

the trail ends

no more steps

On the Mountain

−

Trekking up the Mountain

my mountain

The Path will eventually end

my path

The time comes

my time

To carve new steps

my steps

Or

End all progression

my end

Stand still treelike

my stillness

Cast a shadow down the Mountain

my shadow

Hiding the paths of the journey

my hiding

from the Sun

−

It’s the Treeline

It’s why so many Great Mountains

Are bare at the Summit

Θ

AAAAAHHHHHRRRRRGGG!

∞

My daughter is telling me all about which boys she likes the most at school.  She’s nine.  NINE!  I can’t tell which is worse.  The fact that she, like my Wife, thinks smelly, hairy boys (well men for the Wife) are a good thing.  Or, that at nine the part of her brain that makes you girls like smelly, hairy, loud, obnoxious boys is pumping it’s venom into her blood stream.  Don’t you know that we smell our drawers to see if they’re good for one more day!.  Don’t you know we depend on you to know better?  HOW does my perfect, beautiful, intelligent, & light filled daughter look at a pile of loutish little mud heathens and think,”Oh boy!”?  How do any of you do that?  Do you have any idea how many guns I need to buy now?  And some barbed wire..and some alligators…. Guard dogs.  Big ones.  Like twenty feet tall or something.

Sigh!

∞

The Scorpions Sting

A man

Who never acknowledges insults

That they may fade

Powerless

Yet before leaving

They sting him

With venom that burns

Leaving always a scar

The Soul can not mend

His reaction always aggressive

But he is civilized

He can not say a discouraging word

So his pride he must swallow

Again

Again

Until intoxicated

With doubt

The Dump

In the Backyard
Digging holes
Into each an item dropped
Something to be buried
Like the occasional dagger
Thrown upon the lawn
Carelessly from a passer by
Intentionally from a passer by
Maliciously from a passer by
Cluttering up the yard
My yard
With sticks & stones
Yet I do not throw them back
Back at my detractors
I never liked throwing daggers
So I never learned how
My penance then
To pick them up
And to bury each one
Where it won’t be seen
Like it was never thrown
Into my yard
Into my face
So no one can see them
And if I don’t look
Neither will I

Against Ourself