Poverty: In Total Poverty of Mind

In total poverty of mind, the old man sits by the battered door,
Seemingly confused by the reality of the present,
While locked into some needless torments from the past.
In his mind, he is alone, completely consumed by former passions
Now long gone in time, but not yet fully erased from his memory,
Or from the slowly, shattering depths of his fragile mind.
Startled by his own racing thoughts, in a sudden panic,
He quickly jumps to his feet, almost falling over.
He appears to climb a non-existent stairwell,
Still vividly fixed in his lost and wandering imagination.
A while later, reaching into a back pocket for a wallet that is not there,
He signals to his former barber to keep the change, again.
His right hand reaches up to touch the bristles of the new haircut,
Forever etched into the recesses of his fading mind.
"Who are you? I don't know you! I want to go home!"
He cries out to someone, but now less frequently every day.
In reality, he is at home, but in his increasingly shallow mind,
Home is forever somewhere else, somewhere he has been in the past,
While in truth, perhaps he may never truly know home again.
Suddenly, he senses the dawn, alert to the sounds of the cheeping robins.
Quietly, he opens the door and wanders out into the quiet, dark street,
But now one which is no longer really familiar to him.
He tugs on the imaginary leash of his long deceased dog.
He takes a few more steps and then says, "Let's go home now, old scout,"
Nearby, the neighbors are watching and listening to him talk to his dog.
"Good dog," they hear the old man say, as he turns and heads back towards his home.
Entering the house, he sits back down in the rickety chair by the door,
As if waiting for the next time his waiting dog wants to go out.
Smiling vaguely, he stares off into space towards some abstract object,
Some figment of his mind that we may never see.
Maybe this is some place where life has kept his truncated mind tethered,
'No,' he cries out as he finally gives in to despair
And closes his eyes, as if no one else is in his world
And no one is present to actually care, even if they did dwell there.
The happy child in him, it seems, was never truly there
And neither is he there now, or so it might seem,
While love still hovers, awake in the old man's soul,
Never to depart, even in his total poverty of mind.

An elderly man lives the later years of his life in his own world, one not that is real to others.

Don't Ask: Don't Ask For More

Don't ask
For more.
Don't ask
Who threw love out the door,
Then asked for more.
Don't ask.

Don't ask
Me why.
Don't ask
Me why it is men lie,
Make women cry?
Don't ask.

Don't ask
What way.
Don't ask
What way should people go,
Then fail to show.
Don't ask.

Don't ask
How much.
Don't ask
How much pure truth should cost,
When it's been lost.
Don't ask.

Don't ask
What day.
Don't ask
What day will there be peace,
While war's increase?
Don't ask.

Times when asking for more may not be a good idea.

The Mind: From the Recesses of the Mind

From the recesses of the mind
Eternal darkness flows
Like recurrent waves of black water,
Bouncing against the hard rocks of time.
The friction creates a faint mist,
That rises high above the water
Bouncing about, wherever it chooses to go.
A fresh, pure, white foam
Dances lightly across the water
Re-imaging and re-creating,
In its own light and shadow,
While in reality, actually reflecting the light
Emanating from the recesses of the mind.
What lies deep within the mind
Waits to be sifted out like flour,
Needing to be refined
And re-defined again by stress,
Raised above what is,
Or what at first appears to be,
But in reality, is not.
It has to be gently roused
In order to be actualized
Or fully realized,
Yes, fully awakened from within.
There is always a silent yearning for more depth,
Another explicit exposition,
Or a second revelation
Of majestic proportions and difference,
Even though from the very beginning,
At first, it appears to be lying deep within defiance
And the total deafness of the deep.
The dark water mode appears to be locked in time
Or at best, in some unknown place;
At least, so it would seem.
It cannot emerge as utter darkness.
It won't allow truth to awaken
Without first hammering itself
With all its might and power
Upon its own inherent blackness.
It's own internal friction
Is forever creating;
While re-creating as light,
Its own exposure to be revealed
From the deep recesses of the mind.
The genuine realm of discovery
Lying forever dormant
Until the master key of time
Allows the unlocking of its doorway,
The sudden emergence,
And inevitable divergence,
Giving freely the gift of room,
Allowing the new leaven to rise
Above its own black waters,
From the recesses of the mind.

Can this be insight into the working of the human mind?

Night: I Write as a Person

I write as a person
Exploring the recesses of the night,
Throwing open the door,
Allowing some light,
Discovering
And developing diminoes
That are emerging,
Converging,
Diverging,
Disappearing
And then somehow re-emerging,
Coming back into the light,
Again and again,
While dominoes
Leaning upon one another,
Tumble by the wayside.
I observe existence
Somehow breaking through,
Coming from somewhere
That appears to be nowhere,
As it seems not to be,
At all anywhere. 
Who knows where
What comes into existence
Really comes from?

Why does it suddenly emerge?
How does it appear
On the horizon
Of what seems to be nothingness?
Simply because
What is to be,
Is?
I search the black night,
Probing for signs of existence,
Prying with curiosity,
Into the how, why, what, when and where
Of the existence
That appears to be emerging,
While seemingly incapable of revealing itself
And yet ever self revealing,
Even capable of disappearing,
And re-appearing
Miraculously,
In reality's world.
I question reality's hold on life
And life's hold on reality,
While composing a discourse
On what appears not to be,
But in reality,
Is actually a dimino.
I write as a person
Exploring the recesses of the night.

A poet explores the recesses of night.

An Angel's Wings: With One Angel Wing

With one angel wing, an angel stands
Ever awaiting the Lord's commands.

Angels with two wings, can fly away;
The angels with one wing have to stay

To pick up the others who fall down,
Or brighten the lives of those who frown.

The work of an angel's never done,
From early dawn to the setting sun.

Did you hear that whisper in your ear?
An angel with one wing, "Do not fear."

If one angel cries, another's there;
If you are an angel, do not despair.

When someone falls down, it may take two;
Without one word, they know what to do.

They'll stand that person back on her feet
And give her a smile that is so sweet.

The uplifted person goes away,
While the angels hold watch and pray.

You'll hear one angel soon say "Thank you."
The other will say, "You're welcome," too.

The angel with one wing, filled with love,
Does acts of mercy for God above.

If you see an angel with one wing,
Maybe it's yours that will make him sing.

Angels appear when you least expect,
When lives are broken, or homes lie wrecked.

Just open your eyes and soon you'll see,
You have two wings; you're an angel free.
Just be the angel you're called to be;
God has a plan for eternity.

You're part of that plan though it may seem
To many others just one wild dream.

Your angel call is simply for you;
Do whatever God leads you to do.

Soon you will know that your task is done;
You'll rest in the heavens with His Son.

Maybe you feel like an angel with just one wing?

Right Here Waiting: I Waited on the Winds of Time

I waited on the winds of time
To waft in gentle words of rhyme
And soon the words were sent my way;
I had a blessing for that day.
But then I knew that others too,
Would far surpass the words that grew,
As time is destined to move on.
It brings new wafting with each dawn
And morning dawns around the world
With love, as e'er a flag unfurled
And messages of peace and joy
Are there for ev'ry girl and boy.
"What brings the wind," I e'er will ask
And just continue with my task.
I'll pen the words as they arrive
And know that they will ever strive
To spread a message true, of peace
And wonders that will never cease.
So waft on winds and bring my poem
To where I call this world, my home.
Because I know that you are true,
I'm right here waiting just for you.
You'll bring the words with brand new rhyme
And I shall pen them down, in time.

A poet waits on the winds of time for inspiration.

The Written Word By Definition

The written word,
Always defining history
And re-defining
The past, present and the future,
Ever effacing,
Or erasing the history of the past.
Evolving in time,
Revolving like doors
That never cease to open and close.
Always building new pages
Compiling greater books,
With other written words
That suddenly appear
Forming volumes of the written word,
Like new mountain ridges.
Written words diminoing,
As if violently erupting
From dormant volcanoes,
Spewing forth hot ashes
Like molten lava,
Streaming down the mountain side,
Across the seemingly barren earth,
Into the empty waters of time;
The blank and empty pages of life,
Ever waiting to be filled.
Emerging from supposed non-existence
That is merely preexistence,
Into reality's world of being,
The written word,
Always creating
Or re-creating,
While standing the test of time;
A new generation of written words,
By definition.

How does one define the written word other than by definition?