View From A Window

     

   I see from my window, my neighbor is building an ark. He’s building an ark, to hold all his garbage. He’s a collector you see; the need for things cannot be satiated. The apocalyptic flood will soon descend on his life; his garbage is in danger of removal by force, so he hammers and builds, and builds and hammers, long hours into the day and night.

          Mental illness you say? I can talk about this all day; talk and talk, expound and philosophize, but I have not the means nor way, to fix broken people. For five years I’ve watched them, mostly from my window. Now broken children litter the streets, like so many of society’s disposable people. I can do nothing more than watch, or move. 

          Who will be next to pay the price you ask? The price of the inherited defective programing? Will the cycle of dysfunction ever be broken, or will it continue on and on to see all future generations, swallowed into a world of hate and fear, without end? All I can do is observe from this side of a window, as children practice saber rattling, to lay waste to the illusion of a perceived enemy. Who will be next to see the view from this window?

          Who are the ghost you ask? Did they grow old watching from behind this window, while madness reigned, and rained, and ruled? Who are the shadows that walk these floors and run through yards in the night? Did they live with daggers drawn, and did they bury love in the back yard, and plant flowers for deaths’ delight? Is the very ground of this place held hostage by unseen evil, cursed to play out this war over, and over, through those living on this piece of ground?

          I’ll watch from my window; watch the ark be carried away by the apocalyptic flood on its’ way. I’ll water the flowers, and dream of younger days. Once upon a time, I did not view life through the rear-view-mirror, but looked ahead. They are right you know; youth is wasted on the young. From my window, I'll watch them below, and I’ll watch the flowers grow.

I Am From

   

     I am from the mountains of the south land of Appalachia where the sky touches the earth, and people walk in the clouds, but only for a time. I am from the north land, where the water is clear and goes on forever. I am from this place of great lakes, where snow sparkles like tiny diamonds and dances on the wind. Snow covering everything in white beauty, which seems to never end.

    I am from a family whose love and anger burn intense as the sun in the desert. I am from a family who devour life in huge bites, sometimes too big to swallow. I am from people who have great character and will fight for the cause. I am from people who have a few scares on the family tree, where branches of character have grown wisdom in matters of loss or trouble.

    I am from a time in history that produced the greatest music of any era. I am from a time when Piedmont blues partnered with jazz, and joyously collided with bebop, and folk, giving birth to the music called rock and roll. I am from the generation of people who, sailed into the mystic with Van Morrison, got tangled up in blues with Bob Dylan, and met each other at Grateful Dead concerts. I am from the end of a generation called boomers, who remember Wood Stock, Wavy Gravy and all the people the Hog Farmers fed.

    I am from the earth and sky where the spirit dwells before or after walking the earth. I am from an omniscient source that exists in all things, and is still a part of me. I am from a gypsy soul, on a journey through life, and death, and life. I am from a spectral cosmos, where the essence of my being first began its' exodus, and will return to dwell in the light. I am from the light;

                                                        I am the light.