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writers get their inspirations from many sources, for sure. some come from the news, or events of a personal nature, or drug induced; an endless muse from endless sources, for sure.

today, I was inspired by Dave Pudelka. Dave died two years ago of complications to his lungs; gift from the U.S. Government use of Agent Orange while he served in Viet Nam.

Dave a mild-mannered man. a family man. a logger. a border patrol officer. and he told the most horrible, boring jokes that were ever told before his life or since (so bad it made me laugh in amazement)

i last saw Dave three years ago. he and his wife Heather came to visit for a day. we visited, watched a movie about the secret lives of pets, ate a wonderful meal, and he told more of his hoooooorible jokes…

he inspired me today as i passed the spot we’re we met him on the highway as they traveled up the highway. i pass this spot often yet today his picture of standing there was as real/vivid as it was three years ago. in this, a poem is created.
*

This Concept Called, Time

By: Dave’s spirit

Jungles of vibrant drops of greenery
Wet
So wet the very being rotted

Bullets flying as if guided by intentions
Killing
Killing
Writing home so far from reality

It started
It ended
and then,
it began…

A family with one, then two, then three
in small home by a lake filled with algae
surround by a forest of work, until the Owl came

Out of work to soothe the conscious of an America that paid more in homage
to Owls, Wolves; misguided environment winning over the hard work of men and women
called loggers

Finding a border to cross where trading in the saw and hard-hat for a uniform
Black boots
a badge

Retirement to hunt and find
sickness
so hard to breath

Each breath so laborious
a smile still so powerful
and those great jokes

…

Dave is gone now, his wife still grieves as she cans the gardens bounty
But is he gone?
No.

Today, I saw him clearly standing tall wearing the face of a child, a young man, burly with an ax, polished in uniform,
and finally
pulling an oxygen bottle with dignity.

It’s a curse to know, to see, and be
where time is meaningless
to watch the infinitesimal sparks of life
float far from the flame

It’s a blessing though, to know, to see, and be
able to know it never ends
to watch the infinitesimal sparks of life
explode into a roaring flame.

.

27-year-old man plans to sue his parents for having him without his consent: ‘They had me for their joy and their pleasure’

Sometimes the news is made just to garner a readers attention. The above headline is a perfect example

A weird man in India is suing his parents for ‘having’ him without his consent.

Not much to write about as it is all self-explanatory.

However, maybe one day the news from India will be… 28-year-old man who unsuccessfully sued his parents for having him without his consent, was trampled to death by a herd a elephants high on skittle candy.

That kind of news would make me smile.

looking for and finding

in turn and result

losing everything worth losing

reminds of one step forward, two steps back

jumping from the frying pan into the fire

sawing off the limb while trying to stand

irony for some is painful and hard

giving meaning to those trying to understand

for me, God is a playful teacher with such a wonderful display of humor

teaching and reaching all leaving

one to understand

this world of mankind is nothing more than an illusion

nothing of this world is worth more than the life of one

with it better at least to be alone with one than nothing

and to find comfort in a world where there is something so very much

more.

No matter how the concentration takes hold

with matters of mind

heart

soul.

No matter the hardness of engorged determination

rising to pierce

rebellion

No matter the resolution as if written from stone

strength of  beaten steel forged in frost

No matter this feeling that cannot, will not, clip the wings of one in love

(this the author of life)

.

Indians. A common word used in North America and South America. Common too, indigenous. Hard to separate who is who.

Not in the reality though…

*

It was a large venue. New buildings built to awe. A grand opening. A festival. Thousands of people came to see the show as indigenous folks from around the world displayed their culture.

People smiled. They admired. Walking through and above marbled walls and floor.

One object of white compressed paper hung from the wall. Each line clear and definitive. The artist smiled in pride.

**

Time of renewal. Time of budding strength. With this Time, there arrives a settlement.

Holes balanced; staggered to thread those natives with clarity of holding judgement. One contained the dead, the next one lifted themselves from the hole. Death. Life. Death. A perfect dance of weaving fabric. For a path was filled.

***

Taken now to the depths of society. Teetering again where it welcomes instability. Pipes spewing more and more in vibrant colors.

****

Holding up and lifting a veil where the winds trail, spilling grains of sand
Feet follow not, nor can they
Winding around a tree with bark so thick, it swallows oceans, clouds, ideas, worlds…

In this, a hand waves
Mountains in return, smile
Below a nucilie sportagiaol

i can hear now, the waters borne
taste the death of
feel the muse
and be at peace.

hi…

hello…

good?…

Yes…

No…

How can one describe living in the present, past, and future when say they know, knew, needing the past

We live in a world where there is instant access to gratification. Take Pandora for example. Pandora is just one of the many music websites where a listener can choose what to listen to.

Since we live in a money orientated world all it takes for a person to have ‘commercial free’ broadcasting on Pandora, and also to utilize other ‘time saving’ options, just pay a monthly fee.

Yes, this world today is one of instant, instant, instant. Don’t like whats being played? Push ‘forward’. Like what’s being played? Push ‘replay’. Heck, you can even combine songs and listen to them as they are mixed together.

It would be an interesting study to see how many ‘young’ people still listen to the radio. Do you? Are you one of those ‘instant’ pleasure takers? Change the channel? Maybe you go through sex partners faster than a rock falls of a cliff onto your head?

Instant satisfaction. Instant soup. Microwave popcorn. Fast. Faster. Fastest. I say, “Fuck it all.” And in the translation of “Fuck it all.” I mean, slow the fuck down.

Everyone is in such a hurry. They all think in terms of seconds or minutes. Some think in terms of years. I think of centuries.

Everything worthy of historical significance can only come about after thousands of years pass a set point in an albeit arbitrary consciousness. Look at the Neanderthals. A great bunch that was needed so the homo sapiens got a shot at the clock.

Roman empire. Chinese dynasties. Aztecs. Egyptians. Now that is a perfect example of slowing it all down. Today… damn, what a bunch of hyped up idiots.

You see, it’s not just about satisfaction and happiness. In nature there usually is more pain and failure than satisfaction and happiness. Just ask any mouse that is currently dangling from the claws of a hawk, a hawk who just scored a meal and will soon be hit by a car filled with some idiots listening to something gratifying for a second until they become bored and switch to something else, else, else, else, else…

One good thing I love about the radio is that you have to listen to what they play. Some songs might make me happy and tap my feet and others make me want to turn off the radio except then I’d miss the next good song.

Also, listening to the radio makes you listen to commercials, news, all the stuff that either grates the mind or pleases it. The radio is actually a great representation of past civilizations… Some is good, some is bad, but all is needed.

This is why today was good. The Sun shined, the Moon shined, the temperature was perfect, the sky clear, the work pleasing, the conversation excellent, and I listened to the radio.

Down the canyon walls there sounds the flowing creek

Amid, among, and in between; pine tree’s stand the banks

tall

whispering secrets

hidden from sight

aloof almost, almost hidden, almost mostly though

from the eyes of a bird

seen.

Cold waters flow, from  mornings snow to melt to run towards a river

highway to low to where the tides reside

over rocks between rocks

and me

Walking the wall

between

creek and fire

with wind trying to intervene

Slowly and with determination, the flames creep ever farther

down

down

down the canyon face

Soon, the day was over with the fire scolded until cold

while the feet were tired, the sweat dry

and in between the canyon walls; reverberated the laughter

of an ice cold

stream.

To own…

Property? Emotions? Life? Death?

To own sounds much like possession.

No one can ‘own’ anything. Well, one does own what actions they perform…

That’s about all a person can own. They can only own what they do and that is really all.

A car, house, diamond, land… all just an illusion of agreement made with others of like mind.

The saying, “You can’t take it with you…” after you ‘die’ is so very true.

I like the saying, “Own up to it.” A nice, short way of explaining what is so very true. Humanity owns nothing but its actions. This is good. Sadly though, people will continue to fight over what cannot be truly owned. Land, minerals, territory, water, even other planets…

T.T.

Ta Ta

Tee Hee

Ta Da

To

Be/

this world of genetic knee jerk goop boarding on sane and insanity

one cell works to keep alive, one cell tries to kill

food to fill

food to empty

a waist showing middle ground.

(thus, the inspiration as given by biological mortality)

*

Stalactite  seeping from the sssskin of womb

Pointed as in ambitions with a beating mind bereft of known blood

knowing more as there is more than gravitational force

Lair of hold and home, these waters bring more than life

more than words of vibration

more than grass or gold

Center world, a place so

compression

expansion

Strange though, for all its glory, for all its wonderful secrets

there beneath the step of man

such power so humble and simple

growing from such the rooted stem of  flower.