Everything Set against the flow of all we bring But there is no stopping what may spring From hearts that beat together.
With permission from the talented Ibn Turab. Here’s one of his very many ramblings. A long, long time ago, I realized That for most of my life I had just been an idiot Traveling through life Incognito. When I made the discovery, I decided To stop and just be what I am. That has not gone down well with anyone And now I am up the creek without a paddle. So be warned: I am about to explode Once again On the floor of your life Like a clumsily dropped and wildly shattering bottle – A big, big, BIG bottle – Of smelly marinara sauce Way, waaaaay past its sell-by date.
Stroke your chin, touch your nose Rub your forehead in repose Doesn’t matter that there’s nothing on your mind Let them see how you “think” Even sighing as you blink You may also shake your head from time to time If it needs more gravitas Stand the hell up, show some class Clasp your hands behind your back and pace about Say it helps you ruminate Then adopt a painful gait (Nothing like the need to pace despite the gout) Fake it dead or alive All the way from nine to five Let your guard down for a second and you die You’re the actor no one knows Oscar-worthy for the shows That you put up as you live the greatest lie
Like waves that break before they meet the shore, And fruit that’s plucked before the ripening; Like sonnet on iambic feet before It finds a body clear thought may bring; Like baking what’s inadequately kneaded, And tea that’s poured before the brewing’s done; Like junk a certain president has tweeted, And clothes pulled off the line still needing sun; Like words divorced of all humility Adorning an apologetic breath, And souls that think they know infinity Before they even cross the bridge of death. I think it is a bit like all of that: Insipid, dried up, bodiless and flat.
I’ve got no words to say I have no song to sing Just full of emptiness In spite of everything Now there’s a name like honey That lingers on my breath To sweeten my pathetic Remembrances of death I rush to stop the rushing It’s time I slowed up now My plans will gather slowly Altogether like a cloud I know the rains will come Just when the time is right Till then I’ll work and wait Everything will be all right I’ve got no words to say I have no song to sing Everything will be all right Everything Everything
Of all the cars that make this train I had to pick the one With broken air conditioning Beneath a gloating sun. The car feels like a furnace now, The window’s out of bounds Though all this heat must surely beat Emergencies around. It’s true we’re free to leave this car And amble over where The air is cooler than the folks Who don’t see that it’s there. But here among the grumbling few Inertia is king; We sit and fume and fret to feel The perspiration spring. On brows we thought reserved for palms And wrinkles wrought in lead By hands advancing time reminding us That Tuesday’s dead. But there’s a hidden mercy here That warns a heedless heart, One wont to stay when wisdom lies In choosing to depart.