© 2019 Sean Sketch

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.