Satellite - Version II

****This is a poem about life and death, but more importantly about God, a subject I don't tackle often. It is, really, about a man becoming God and God becoming a man. Also, it is of the birthing of one who is thought fit to replace God. And while I am not a religious man, I like to think I have an open mind to ponder the time after death and if one were to be a God, how one would exist. ****

A Satellite is defined as: [n.] a man-made object that orbits around the earth [n.] a person who follows or serves another [n.] any celestial body orbiting around a planet or star [adj.] Surrounding and dominated by a central authority or power

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There were leaves
they whispered along sidewalk
perfectly trimmed
the trees creaked and groaned
and there at my door

I knocked

Nobody answered

I was not what I was before
I could not go there

What I remembered
wasn't remembered
not as I knew it
not as it actually was

It had come to me
that perhaps
I was dead

With eyes that were not eyes,
I struggled
to see

With legs that were not legs
I struggled
to walk

I was confused

I could not see
I could not walk

And what of my place
could I make out?

Nothing

Only a presence
that did not stop its march
as it rode into my mouth
into my throat
down into my guts
and up into my head
into every corner of me
it rode

Like oil I could not wipe away
such infringement

It is then that I discovered my place
was not terrestrial at all
but far from it

This was not
where I had come from

With eyes that could now see
I blinked
and what there was
of the presence I had felt

Not even an echo

We never did meet

And it was a long time
before I understood why

And seeing next to me
nebula's, galaxies
a kaleidoscope of light

And color
And beauty

Bursting

I remembered so fondly
that time long ago

My birth

And how, too, this man
would remember
his burgeoning consciousness
coming to life

What gifts I will have given him
what joys he is to feel?

For asleep, he shall now
be awakened

And what he was

Asleep

Time will pass
as he discovers this place

And I will not show him

I will not be awake
but asleep

And there in front of him
will be the Universe
where PURPOSE
and MEANING
they will be found

He will discover
that he can affect

Change

In ways he never
could've imagined

And once his eyes open
he will go to a place he's never been
and he will go to another
and another

In each
He will see
He will know
He will learn

He will be a satellite

Lights on my street

So why did I seek the darkness,
the lonely street?
Where did I think I'd end up,
who’d did I think I'd meet?

Each day these streets
they are lit
as I pass their lanes,
soon hidden away and forgotten
in my forlorn shame.

There I am kept apart
in the shadows,
locked behind closed doors
where none follow.

But if I'd watched
turned my lights on,
I would have seen her!
Noticed that smile shinning on me
and seen these lights
on my street.

Singularity

There is something
quite different
about today.
I feel like time
has stopped alluding
to the moment
ahead.

I feel like it has left
my senses open:
the city doesn’t close
in on me;
the cars don’t break
the calm;
the air breaths
into me
as I fill my lungs.

I am at a loss, though,
as to why this moment should
be special?
So even if I can’t
put a finger on exactly why,
- I’ve concluded this:

These moments you remember,
they are like those
childhood memories
of playing on your favorite tree,
of racing down the school hallway
or,
- like today,
of standing out on the street,
waiting for the traffic
to pass by.

They may not seem particularly
special,
but they are,
in my reckoning of it,
the singular moments
that define who and what
you are.

And right now,
what I have felt,
is but the very instance
- change (!)
disturbed reality;
the very moment
I became
more than I was.

***I lost most of this poem, so it was a difficult test to accept a different version of what I first imagined. And, yet, it is always healthy to try.

Open Road: Haiku

Passenger in time,
greets the hitchhiker of life
dirty cloths, thumb out.

A little up the river

The farthest sight I see just
a little up the river
where birds speak in tongues,
and rapids laugh in spite of
my eyes on them.

Where, no matter how
curious the eye,
it is the sights of
littered destiny dashed on
waves of frothy possibility,
that days are met in endings brought
rushing to a stop.

Because to have a moment not
spent shamelessly,
you must hold onto it,
so it is not thrown
under the wheels of turning hours,
but instead can be nurtured to
aged significance.
Where each moments
crooked back has been bent over,
beard grown long,
and the wrinkled force
of nature fractured
on the face of its
lived importance.

It is then the eyes I was born too
do not blink,
do not see what I’ve taught them
to see,
do not glance aside afraid of,
bored of,
saddened by.

There are no tears of joy,
no tears of pain,
no nothing to shield the hand of
Nature’s painted moment.

Brush to canvas,
I am left to see
around the bend,
further up the river
to the very source of stream and
all the way back
to where we beget,
to where my body rests
to where I had
disembarked from time’s train.

Where the moon reaches down
for a drink of water
and her hourglassed-reflection
shimmers.

Where the jeweled fish leaps
for wounded meal
and crashes to the water.

To the farthest sight I see just
a little up the river,
to where birds speak in tongues,
and rapids laugh in spite of
my eyes on them.