The hardest prison to escape
is the one whose walls are built
by the mind in fear and trepidation.
It is like the open gate you dare
not enter fearing that you are leaving
and will not be allowed to return.
Atop a pole there are
an infinite number of directions
in which you can go and only one
is straight down, but you fear
selecting any, for gravity
is a fear as great as death,
yet you can feel neither.
The prison of the mind
is impregnable, for there
fear and pain live in conflict
and you are a small boat
on an angry sea staring
always at the roiling waves.
The sweep of the second-hand,
the minute hand is constant, each
moment as long as the last, none
longer, none shorter and yet I know
that Einstein was right in noting that
things unpleasant take forever, while
all that is joyful passes quickly
even when the elapsed time is the same.
What Albert didn’t say is that
the unpleasant leads us to look
for the future, keeping us
locked longer in the present moment.
That which is pleasant keeps us present
and the future seems to come
too quickly, the pleasure slipping away.
It is, in the end, merely perception
and I prefer to remain in the present
for it is all that I have, and
all that I choose to make it.
Each day I am certain something
more slips away, forgotten, no
longer able to be recalled, lost
in the vast abyss of yesterdays.
I would like to think this happens
because something new, something
better has taken its place, and I
had no choice but to displace it.
That is the convenient story I tell
myself, although I am rarely convinced,
and know that there is a good chance
it is no more than a lie of sorts,
but one that will slip away
and be replaced by something better,
or perhaps I will just forget
that it was a lie in the first place.
The light always enters
unseen, knowing without it
nothing can be seen. Light
sees the infinite green pallet
arrayed on a single leaf,
the complex hues of a rainbow
painting the white
wisps of morning clouds,
the blaze red
forehead of the moorhen
patrolling the pond. Light
will always willingly
share its vision
if we are not
too blind to see.
“We created time,”
he said, “so we
are free to ignore it
whenever we wish,
don’t tell me
that I am late,
for that is only
by your clock
and you should know
that most clocks
are never right.
It is only the stopped clock
that is right, and that
only twice each day.”
We nervously stared
at our watches, finally
saying, “so sorry but we
are late for something
critical, and will
see you tomorrow,
same time, same place.”
A three year old
can easily understand
that a full cup
can hold nothing
but an empty cup
has an infinite capacity.
Sitting out in the middle
of the large lake
is a very small island.
It’s more of a large rock
just sticking out of the water,
but everyone calls it an island.
Moss grows all over the exposed part
so you don’t know it’s all stone
unless you row out to it,
which no one ever does.
No one goes out on the lake,
no one swims in it,
the lake is just there, growing
when it rains, shrinking
in the heat of summer.
And that is just fine
with the lake, although
it does like the occasional
pebble dropped into it
so it can ripple like a proper lake
even if no one sees.