Lined Paper

Lined paper is a concept,
As frivolous as a grid,
On a warped topography.

Lines paper deludes,
Of latitude and longitude,
Of first and last, of growing and dying.

Lined paper stands for voicing a thought,
For understanding a feeling,
For remebering a time,
For time itself.
For things that have no right to be defined in existence.

With small margins and nowhere to hide.
Lined paper is blank or it is not.
It does not show the pen hovering above it,
Thoughts poised in a quasar of saran-wrap.
Gently pusling,
With vain promises of transparency.

The Sky is a Paint Chip

The sky, today, is a paint chip.

How sophisticated Nature is,
To leave the sky simple,
This fine spring day,
To recognise the relationships,
Between depth and breadth,
Austerity and childish simplicity.

How can the entire sky be so solid,
When repetition does not exist below?
How can the entire sky be uninterrupted,
When there are storms to be wrought and confusion below?

We are protected by a baby blanket of blue,
For how could we face day after day,
An infinite universe?
The glares of an infinite number of stars?
The constant reminder that we are but one place,
In an infinity of "somewhere-elses?"

Our trees silhouetted against the universe.
We would lose our ownership of the sun,
For it wouldn't be,
Fixed in our milky sky,
But instead something burning out there,
That we're close enough to marvel at.

Thank goodness, really,
That the sky is blue today.
That sometimes it stays like this for hours at a time.

Because we look at it,
And we look no further.
And then we turn back to looking into our own world.
We live under this opaque sky,
And deal with our own problems,
Painting what we can’t take,
To make it go away.

Thoughts

To think that it is like the bounce of a football:
Possible to calculate,
Yet so random, so unforeseeable -
To think that,
Is a boring thought.
Leaves a watery aftertaste.
Makes reflection all there is in a world of broken mirrors.
Looking in vain for the angle to the future.
We cannot have a moment,
Because a moment does not exist - it passes and that is all.
The future is: strands of life in chaos,
At the end of a gradually braided,
Tail.
Full of knots and frayed transitions.
The measurer's of time braid the infinite matter.
The jumble of this and that, of life and other stuff.
Comforting, it is, to be part of the macrame of the universe.
Relentless,
Time churns with the passion of life.

Little White Things

Little white things, falling
From a sky so close
I can spread my fingers
Into the marbled universe,
Flutter in a breeze
I can't even feel.

Little Human Brains

Why is the world so complex
For my little human brain,
Yet my soul exposed to it all?
Why is it:
Yes, always,
Unless …
Why is it:
I think so.
Why does that not have credibility?
Why can’t it be:
I know so.
Or is that even doltish?
Is it wise to say we don’t have an answer?
Is that it:
That we don’t know.
Does wisdom exist?
Is it wise to deem something sagacious?
For surely to do so,
We must be superior in some way,
Because recognition is wise,
I think.
Will it have been worth it in the end?
Why can’t I know now?
Why do I have to wait?
Is that fair?
Did we make a big mistake believing in fairness and order?
To be human is to live a delusion.
A wonderful, horrible, misleading delusion.
To be human is to lose all touch with reality.
To be human is to deny,
That the world is too complex,
For our little human brains.