Alive

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By all means marry; if you get a good wife, you’ll become happy; if you get a bad one, you’ll become a philosopher.
Socrates; as referenced in A Father’s Book of Wisdom; H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

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I have a good wife, but that was not always the case. EjG

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There comes a point when one can no longer hold their tongue. And that time is tonight.

It’s amazing how bitter one soul can be. How miserable it must be to have daily bitterness, hatred, and paranoia. A shallow existence to which there is no fruitful outcome.

You never truly part in divorce when there are children. But, to dwell in hatred of perceived inequalities does nothing more then provide a futile existence. Let it go.

Her hatred comes straight from hell, and this evening, the devil incarnate itself spewed forth its sharp tongue. Amidst the statue of the Virgin Mary at my son’s school, she expressed profanity and proclaimed the hatred my son has for me. He does not.

But, he does have sadness. She cannot see this, nor is willing to tend to his expressions. Rather, she satiates her insecurities with madness and fear.

The wickedness of jealousy does nothing more than feed her demons. And yet the tragedy is the emptiness and pain my son must feel.

Though there would be some cathartic pleasure by continuing to write stories on this nonsense, I do not wish to take up much more space than this with her madness. Nor do I plan to waste my time further on her futility.

Turns out the gold at the end of the rainbow was fools gold. Infidelity and jealousy were her fools gold.

Yet, she is determined to make my son, my wife, my family, and me pay for her sins and sadness.

The more I try to piece together sensibility, the more illogical some souls come to be.

What a waste of life, time, and space she is...

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Alive

Alive, but still searching for tomorrow.
Alive, yet running from today.
His imagination becomes his friend,
and his enemy.
He seeks the evermore,
while seeking you, seeking me,
seeking them, seeking us,
seeking the sunset, and seeking the rain.
The child cries for absolution,
absolution from this insanity.
You can hear it in the rains,
in the night,
in the echoes,
and in the silence.
Over and over,
he cries in the night.
He cries for relief
from her madness,
this insanity,
and she negotiates (negates) his existence.
So he seeks the freedom of his soul,
the freedom of his mind,
and yet only finds the echoes,
the deafening echoes,
Of silence.
He cries sanctuary. EjG

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I now hold my tongue on this subject once more.

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven

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Dudley Dee

Celebrations of Mediocrity

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I may hear a sound
A whisper sacred & profound
But turn my head
Indifferent
Taken from I May Know The Word, Natalie Merchant
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Celebrations of Mediocrity

This country road
seems to never end,
as houses and trees
pass by without reason.
Time slips past,
where’s the logic?
And yet we find ourselves
celebrating the triteness
of mediocrity.
Celebrating,
to the point
where mediocrity
is exulted,
individuality
is treated as a sin,
and tomorrow
is today,
yet once more.
Circle,
the drum beats on.
Day turns into night,
And our fears
Overcome our sensibility.
The conversation stops
once more. EjG
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Dudley Dee

Celtic Wind Song

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I don’t like your tragic sighs
as if your god has passed you by
well
hey Fool
that’s your deception.
Your angels speak with jilted tongue
the serpent’s tale has come undone
you have no
strength to squander.
Taken from Ice; Sarah McLachlan
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Celtic Wind Song

The wind haunts my soul
as it passes silently though my window,
it is spring.
And the night songs offer no forgiveness
As evening solitude passes tranquility
while I contemplate my iniquities.
Can my God forgive me?
The wind
whispers silence and sadness,
and a Celtic wind song
sings of death and sadness.
There comes a time
when the soul,
search
though it might,
cannot retrieve
that which it has lost.
And the open window
allows my breath to pass
between the silence of lips,
which are no longer
able to speak
of truth, wisdom, and solemnity.
My angel sings her truth,
and tonight
she whispers silence among us.
But, the distance between our souls
seeks out tomorrow’s finality,
a deafening madness persists.
The wind tells no lies.
The silence tells no joy.
And the damned stand in silence. EjG
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Dudley Dee

Hemispheres

May you be forty years in heaven
Before the devil knows you’re dead!
--Irish Toast

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Tonight the nocturnal winds whisper silence between the hemispheres of existence: life and death converge.

And to that end, time sadly catches the soul. Oh how I fear the hour of my passing, and yet, pray for the serenity of the everafter. The winds show no mercy.

An old barn sits stoically outside my back window. Grey clouds shroud its existence, as does the whispers of the early spring wind. Naked trees, harboring life within them, etch the sky while their limbs bend with the whims of the wind’s solace and grace.

There seems to be a Celtic essence about.

It is difficult to describe this essence, just as it is difficult to describe infinity. Where did time begin and where does it end? How can heaven be boundless, yet there is an entry point? Can there really be an infinity, or are we lost in some undiscovered fallacy of logic?

The Celtic essence, it is in the mountains. They call my soul, relentlessly. The barren peaks of emptiness celebrate the serenity and simplicity of existence. It is where you discover God, discover your soul, and relinquish your madness. You cannot discover these in the emptiness of Michigan.

It is in the mountains that the hemispheres of existence become apparent and distinct; reality is only a temporary delusion. The search continues. Death becomes apparent.

I fear death.

It frightens me because I cannot see beyond my years. The darkness of this abyss encompasses me to the point that what seems like limitlessness, in reality, is nothing more than a cloak of finality.

Yet, my soul continues to roam. It is in my bike, it is in my guitar, it is in my poetry, it is in my books, and it is in my philosophy. Maybe it’s Solomon. But, the madness continues to plague me because the search continues in secular futility.

The mountains call to me for a passage of last rites. They bring me beyond the futility of secularism, allowing my soul to roam. At which point madness becomes the standard, and the fear of death is embraced.

The purity of the mountains bridge beyond the shallowness of my existence.

An echo persists…

EjG

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The piper’s calling you to join him
Dear lady can you hear the wind blow
And did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind.
--Stairway to Heaven; Led Zeppelin

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Solomon asked the scribe, “Do you fear death?”

The scribe shook his head yes.

“As do I,” said Solomon. “As do I.”

And at that the scribe cried.

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Dudley Dee