~Shock of my Family

Keeping track of numerosity, the defiance of chaos
meticulous and precise, it comes with a price.
Make a list, and notice somewhere fog disappear.
Include a mistake as a shockwave, like tsunami
against your thatchy, unrooted, shallow, indwelling.

The mistake we find is the mistake we project
the error our true self freely enjoys to a fault,
and forgeting origin, doom makes misc a lie,
returning chaos to the side of our enemies.
Hail the man with a reverence for such shock.

His humility and true incompetence laid bare
while his reverence is a design to embrace.
Most don't conceive the value of awakening
as victims and slaves, they protect their sleeps
with illusions of purpose, quite felonious skits.

In catching what lies we find how hot the steam,
the pressure which friction will invariably release.
We get good at stepping over it all for sleep,
preferring an unfocused, non-intended state;
to the work, designed to put shock in our way.

Biggest shock for me is change in my women.
I chase the projection, because love was great.
I suffer an imagination scorched by the friction
of a time producing zenith in all my attachments.
Attachment fuels illumination, shock ignites it.

I do not know what women think or feel, thou.
Not for lack of effort to discover and correct
mistakes, to restore the intimate renewing,
which characterizes my fading impression.
Interpretations abound, some keep shaking.

They could not own me, nor bitch their way in.
I have my mom, beyond bitchy, who I so love
to thank on this particular catastrophic fault.
In fact, I believe my entire family plays a role
through their mass exodous to far off fringes.

Not hard to see how little stock I'd have, to put,
after the primary carriers of that experience
ostracized, abandoned, rejected, left, forgot
me; each and every one. Aha my family is
no worse than women, that stand left empty.

Not women but brothers and in laws, mom.
Those who've passed before setting it right.
Mostly, the turning away and leaving behind.
Thus I live this core felt relation to women
they always bring recognition back to missing.

In the beginning, before the cruelty, there was
such frivolous distraction, and love. Still love,
today quite mature however, compassionate.
Not their fault, I see that, can't change this,
but only focus on source in all of this, family.

Egads, and there's the rub, I'm quite sure
I lack any standing, nor have any favor to call.
Oh well, such are the facts, and I can't believe
there aren't others who've passed beyond this.
The bleak blanket sleep brings, is a monster.

(c) rjduberg, 2008, Jan

~The Good Chase

Forget about any thoughts, I might have
for those who might know or imagine
how this poem found words and context
to begin with what surely started, parted.

And this has nothing to do with talented
beautiful voices, singing harmony, love.
Though chasing those performances may,
shouldn't they? Say the closer the better!

How exciting when you can almost touch
what you've been striving so hard to reach.
Yet can anyone answer why that touch
brings such sorrow over our hearts, won?

Even understanding this horrible truth
and passing on instead of chasing one
is not satisfaction, by simply refusing
to engage success, a turning paradox.

The good chase catches a path upwards
opens opportunities and possibilities
never before known or imagined, real.
This mystery of paradox of finding more

is perhaps the ultimate convolution.
Time spent chasing a true mystery
caught revealing wealth of unknown
preserving mystery in well's depth.

If the chase was good from the start
preserving those stakes is stalwart
a pure result from one's actions
an outcome due to forgetting self.

A vision of mystery, chasing eternity.

© 2008, rjduberg

~Liquid Rose

As the liquid rose
the brim of surprise
enjoyed full release,

stuck up so high
what came around
never dove in
nor took flight
but hung a-round
at a distance,

for what in passing
is hard choked
in its stream,
its proximity
distorts,

no retort,
just a hard surface,
a real bore
of hollow end
to open.

© rjduberg, 1/2008