Friday, May 25, 2012

"Lines of Conversation"

Not at the dinner table,

Shall there be no droop of the mouth after a race lost,

Lost in time but not in spirit.

Respect lies not amongst those who win,

But rather amongst those who know that they will not and continue to run,

Because they are winning in character,

And in the will of courage and fortitude that defines a hero.

A hero is not one who is distracted by the on looking crowd,

Nor is a hero one who cares what that crowd may think of him.

A hero is a person who defends himself and others in honor of kindness,

In honor of the good word that rests in the capable palms of great men.

Not at the dinner table,

Shall you hold a puss that a true hero detests,

Nor shall you disgrace the dignity of a hero.

Losers are not those who end the race last,

 Still running.

Losers are those who end the race first,

Jogging across the final mark,

Debasing the true winner.

What a heart.

What a heart is that which rests in a person as great as he who wins in a losing place,

One who does not change perspective while passing a crowd that does not cheer his name.

It is they who think that it is over for the "losing" component,

But it is that component who is still running,

Running with heart,

Not legs,

But a heart,

And the will to do it without regret.

-FMG

Friday, May 25, 2012

"The Political Pulley System"

Deception is most courteous in appearance when magnified,

Amplified from a being of microscopic principle,

Into a vast body of byzantine mold,

 A scone.

Intricate in sense,

Yet small in body.

Politics.

A nester,

Detailed by eggs of dots,

Dirt,

Stripes,

And stitches. 

It is the egg that attracts the eye,

Not the nest,

But the egg by which we see the outcome.

Like a pulley system.

The political pulley system.

Ululations of birds that pulley the eye,

Cast in bronze blindfolds,

Into view of the magnifying glass,

The egg,

By which the origin,

The nest,

Can be seen.

Politics can be seen,

Through man,

And speeches,

And fists that wallop the air,

Yet only through the mouth,

The magnifying glass,

By which we,

The people,

Can hear it all.

What ears can hear,

The chirps of the birds,

Our eyes can see through the looking glass.

-FMG

Friday, May 25, 2012

"Between Silences"

Like time,

Silence swings from the artificial vines of man.

The soundless whisper of God alone is loud enough for one to hear,

To understand,

To awake from a still thought.

Between is not,

As a midpoint rests not on a line,

An indefinite being.

Sound,

An indefinite ringing.

Thought,

The loudest of them all,

With outcome as bold as ever.

A horizon's stream of golden currents,

Metallic in thrust and beat of spirit,

Reverberate as from towers standing twin.

Silence is between the thought and the word,

Yet alone in verity.

It is definite,

As sound spans the length of God's arms,

Trickling into our ears.

 -FMG

Friday, May 25, 2012

"Paradise of Strangers"

Willowing life through unknown trails,

Spiraling through waves in oblivious perspective.

Unaware of impacts that screech in the ears of the norm.

Taunted not by a fool's presence,

But shadows cast by a personified fog,

As mist licks the pits of leveled grounds.

Bodies linger lost by others,

Who strut with wings of bravado,

Seemingly hysterical by their personal puns.

Willowing,

Giggling,

Idling nothing but self,

In a dark day,

Clear night,

And pale summer. 

All mingle together,

An assembly of strangers,

Distracted by thought which substitutes verity.

Touch by another is prance of a fly.

Piercing of eyes are gawks of an owl.

Smell of Earthy flesh are toads that totter in swamps warmed by silk coats.

Paradise of strangers.

Together,

Not alone,

But if as thought.

If as though the sun shines for he alone,

Or the birds chirp for she herself,

Or the trees croak for his soul solely.

Furthest from a touch,

In a touch itself,

Is paradise of imagination,

Carelessness,

And a selfish paradise of strangers.

-FMG

Friday, May 25, 2012

"Toad Tree"

Angels of Earth,

Records of the days of yore,

Solemn with tattoos of age.

Seeping with leaves that dangle at the corner of the eyes,

To weep and willow in dusk's fable.

Day's yawn,

A croak in the dawn of wind,

To sway and squeal on the predators of night,

Creaking and crying the blood of life.

Slobbering sap and soot,

Underneath the darling stars,

That twinkle a flirting wink,

To mock the croaks and groans of trees,

And kiss the toads a tease.

To whistle in a dreamy drapery,

Breathless and depthless with please,

And squander the moaning toad trees.

The moon,

But a sun of night,

That marks the paths of scavengers with yellow flesh,

And tatter the eyes of the toad trees,

Which croak with throats of a pronounced bulge,

And mock the toads,

And the stars,

And the moon,

With boisterous tunes of its seed.

-FMG