Joseph Farley, US

 

Free Verse   Stranger   I know this face but not the name I know this body but not it's origin cranes form an arc across the sky a bridge I would cross if I had wings to reach you there on the other side of that great divide of sheets and sleep.     clouds and rain   soft becomes hard thunder clouds clash bang together boom boom heads toss sweat glistens muscles tense waiting for the coming of a summer rain     Pink Blossoms   each spring pink blossoms summer and winter comes so many petals to remember     the secret   the old hide the truth keep our eyes covered leading blind children down the path worn by their fables until it is too late to turn back or choose another way then the masks come off and you know what they already knew but wouldn't tell you kick and scream as you might there is no rejoinder you can make that will set the world right as you have succumbed to the lies shouted from pulpits and printed in books and driven home by teachers and elders until your head was full of nails put there to keep your lid on so you would never boil over into life.     Watch Where You Are Going More Than Where You Have Been   born with his head twisted backwards he sees the past so well and ignores the present moment. so many regrets and lost opportunities pass by him as he walks steadfast into an unseen future littered with open manholes and alligators jaws.     the beautiful ones   few of us were born to be body builders or swimsuit models. although we may daydream our lives lack that cinematic quality that Hollywood teaches be content with yourself let mirrors crack as you walk by so what if you're not loved by the subject of your private fantasies you can still have the pleasure of watching them, the beautiful ones, grow old with sagging breasts and receding hair there's more to life than happiness and those who you long to be may not have that either you can always find a tree and sit under it pondering the days and meditating on the moon until all makes sense or ceases to matter anyway     Orienteering   we all dream of a better way a clearer path than the road our parents saw and set us upon, but there is so much fog and smoke so many brambles and hidden snares that in the end you wonder was this better than that or should one have plunged knife in hand into the wilderness and carved yet another way into darkness or light?     White Water   Water and words can flow through canals, Evenly paced, level, mellow, Controlled by locks, aided by pumps, Carrying flat boats loaded with cargo Or fine and pleasant Sunday outings. Poling along in striped jacket, White pants and Edwardian straw hat, Quaint and unnatural as music Played with classical discipline, But in rough mountains where no feint heart Dares travel, streams plunge into gorges, Rush wild over stone, slow at logjams, Froth at rapids, leaving mad souls Bruised, breathless, joyous to be alive.     Churning Waters   Freshets, run off, muddy creeks, Roaring rivers, flow one into the other, Journeying swift or slow into the sea. Watch it. Let it go. You can not hold The water in your hands. Some, if not all, will always escape Through sealed fingers. Follow the course that carries Fallen twigs and broken trees. Become a leaf, a small raft, A canoe, travel on until the seas. Smell the salt. Sink below. Bathe in the deep. Transform into fish of mermaid, And swim away, swim away, Swim upstream against the current And spawn a new life.     bottom dogs   Ayn Rand is the religion of the alpha dogs, the ones who march with tails erect, snarling and biting at all who might question their authority or the brilliance of their ideas, they need no refuge or forgiveness. they proudly howl at the moon, jumping to capture and crush it in their jaws. but, for every alpha there are dozens driven to the fringes of the pack, cursed to accept lowly status with no hope of ever rising, and there are those driven further, bit on neck and legs until they scurry off alone into the wilderness to survive or die on their own. it is these dogs with eyes wanting only to love and be loved, who try desperately to find space and time to lick their wounds after the required tasks of the day are done. it is the bottom dogs and the outcasts that look up at the sky and seek the kind face of a loving master who will feed and care for them, or the gentle snout of a great St. Bernard, radiating puppy love and canine salvation down into the pounds and kennels and alleys where the faithful lay scratching at fleas.     a little knowledge   snakes wrapped around your spine curl and twist into your skull, lock bare fangs upon your brain, and make you act the way they will, and so you shout and dance and sing, and do anything the voices say, hissing quietly behind your ears, so you live a life on fire, burning all who come your way, singing your body and your mind as you race to the grave double-time.     a bird in the hand   the bird that landed in your hand you tried to keep in a cage of fingers, but it beat its wings and struck with its beak until you bled red tear drops on the grass it is free now, maybe flying across the field, or possibly dead your eyes were closed when you let go of everything kept inside     hail the roaches   the meek shall not inherit the earth, the cockroaches will. cockroaches are not meek. they are patient and persistent. they will feed on the relics of our lives long after we are gone, and build cockroach empires, and erect cockroach monuments in the space between the walls and the musty sofa cushions while we merely look on from hell or heaven, irrelevant ghosts of the fossils we’ve become.     Joseph Farley US: Let Us Pray: Free Verse: Drop By Drop, In the Cups, Spinning, The Word, under the rain