Listening in
The late juncture at which the thoughts appear
Is worrisome; they drift lazily through
The cortical canals, and right on cue
Probes one, four, five, and nine, all waiting near,
Pick up their talk, making sure all can hear
Whisperings of things often times taboo.
Expectedly, the wires just passing through
Convey the news onscreen, bold and austere.
I find myself the last in this cerebral chain,
One with the screen that I begin to read:
"I know you can, but ought you do the deed?
Would He approve your play inside the brain?"
One man-machine, my head and wires nod
"Too late," I type. "I’ve started playing God."
Waves
Some say that beauty is only skin deep,
But they have not met this girl that I know.
Effortless grace with an internal glow
Brightly shining through skin and bone to sweep
A boy off of the steadiest of feet.
Akin to the ocean that ebbs and flows,
She gently came in waves. Each time I froze,
Paralyzed by another brief retreat
To walk among her beautiful musings,
Saying cautious prayers for a longer stay
In her elegant plane of existence.
Now from that plane of mutual choosing,
I reflect back and confidently say,
There could be no more perfect recompense.
Uncanny
The littlest pimple gave him away.
He might have been too perfect otherwise.
A flawless man, but somehow inhuman,
Violating sacred brain areas
Typically reserved for those like me.
One might say that the flaw made him perfect.
If nothing else, it made him familiar.
One hundred percent homo sapiens,
Safely sitting on this side of the gorge.
Shades
What is certainty if not
the projection of gray world onto
black and white axes,
the residue of higher dimensions
collapsed into a plane of the mundane.
Living in certainty is then
not knowing
the beauty that lives outside
our plane of observation,
a beauty felt, if not seen,
pushing us to live-love-exist
outside of our comfort zones,
uncertainly.
Uncertainly
embracing the nuanced spectrum
of feelings projected back up
into heavenly shades of gray,
and certainly knowing
what it is to be human.
Mother
She is stressed.
Far above, He can tell
Grassy veins bulging across Her vast temples
She has a headache like
She hasn't felt in nearly five billion years
All things considered, drowning doesn’t sound
so bad
Right?
She asks, but no one is listening
No one ever listens
She sighs.
Far above, another tear falls onto His pearly
throne
Niche
Each animal finds a spot of its own,
Balancing out nature’s eternal scale.
Searching for place (before which many pale),
You’ve dropped your seeds, caring to have them
sown
In foreign ground, tucked deep in wild unknown.
Earth child, resolutely facing the gale
Head on, headstrong, never afraid to fail,
Nor questioning the way you’ll next be blown.
It’s easy to confuse a lack of fear
With running blind, no clear path to follow.
How much I enjoy being proven wrong!
You’ve found your niche, identified your sphere
Of influence, greater than you could know.
I love to hear my sister’s strong swan song.