I wasn't meant for the assumptions of this time,
you see they brought me to life
when I was destined to die,
we carry the blatant knowledge
and some memories foretold;
history's mysteries of
so imposingly bold.
Time and its contours are shifting
to rapids without warning
or even a quickening,
just ever developing
where it is they should land
to find destined purpose to stand
We see ourselves lost
in the knowing
surrounded by our sisters
and our brothers
grasping for reasons
too often falling to treason
and setting in stone some arrhythmia
that makes us miss the beat
But truly we are wayfarers,
in our efforts, for a marked path
is certainly to discern more
than the path walked thousands
Lyman School for Boys
Walking through the pines and maples
A cooling breeze flows through too.
They say a dozen young souls were lost
behind the hospital, in the brush;
lost, forgotten, an unpleasant end.
Families had thrown, disowned, abandoned
sons, nephews, brothers gone astray.
We found the stones that day,
creeping through a mess of branches,
a century old tangle of brambles,
the old plot map set us on our way;
his father had bought it on eBay.
So we bike and hike and mark the path,
leaving disaster in our wake.
The journey, the mission, afternoons spent
trudging, slashing, bashing through ruined walls;
a chimney here, the foundation there,
a lot out back the dead have shared;
found, remembered, we can give praise
to those who lost their later days.
A silent reflection on an afternoon breeze
with shade slowly stretching from the trees,
the purpose lost behind brutal reality;
life has always had it's casualties.
The sun will set in about an hour,
we must go now, it may shower
the clouds have rolled, the sky rumbled;
pass a last goodbye, they have been humbled.
From a long forgotten aunt the phone rings
four hundred miles away,
to the dead she will still be talking.
“So much energy today!”
she had seen with that third eye
a girl long lost, ever lingering,
a girl who never needed to die,
a girl so afraid of falling,
she had never learned to fly.
“She likes the company.”
She would breathe;
--nutcracker jumps off the tree.
She would laugh;
--transformer blows; we can't see
the cold shadowy land
on which I steer,
I think I will be hosting
easter this year.
In the field the stones are sharp and Glimmering
He told me he hadn't slept that night
climbed a tree, found love in his sight
then wrote a paper why; interesting flight.
In fifteen minutes he needs to work
but in the pines ahead continues to lurk,
the agony of repetition, finally he listens.
He takes leave halfway through the next day
his words and cafe' cartwheel made us pray;
temporary! Don't let this stay!
Evidently he lost it, night before last,
went bat-shit today, I'm told a bowl was passed;
cruel potion had set all in motion fast.
Barely audible code, his enthrall,
nonsense spewed upon the wall
a mess among the sister's dolls.
That step-drunk continues his faulty spews
his bullshit conspiracist news
"Well, he needs to go to those money-grubbing,
step-son stealing doctors at the state hospital;
Awoken with a vision of another existence,
I stumble to my feet, needle piercing senses,
strange faces become familiar, life is new,
Sea-foam green has brought me through.
Sit and strain and strive to remember
the path has gone like some burnt ember
a glint of knowledge between these lips
I was a captain, crew and ship
open sea thrashing, a sail did rip,
I have awoke; broke that rooted thought
of life, purpose and money brought.
Where life is life, the rest a knot.
The songbirds sing loudest
just after a storm
in the wake of
some trillion tears of the sky
desirous to be heard, lest the cacophony of
hopeful songs bourne
from whisper's within an avian mind's eye
Some say the sun's brightest
just after a storm
hanging in the crisp clarity,
cloudless skies bare
of the dirt kicked up by
a lust for some more.
Or maybe our dulled senses
are just pierced by the warm
excited and breathing the freshest of petrichor,
newly cleansed and free to adore
this serendipidous life
with a divine desire
to put aside all of the strife
and join in with the choir.
Sun shining, clouds fading,
the smell of spring through the trees,
a spade helps roll the yard, creating
an even menagerie of earth tones;
gives the aroma of growth to come.
Kneeling in the soil, trudging
up mounds and furrows, burrowing
through the fresh earth.
The girth is wide and wasteful,
not too close, keep tame and tasteful.
Cooling water, an afternoon breeze,
seeds spilled in the luscious ground;
buried and drowned. Sit straight,
meditate: this old flesh through
ancient magic will be new.
Musings on a Blue Moon
It's days like these
where the leaflets
hover just a
before they strike
when the hue
and leaves that cool aftertaste
like a menthol of the eyes
It is these weeks
where chaos stands
and has a calming meandering;
silence before a storm
and the shimmer from an other's wake
And in these months
where luna draws a lust
unto our eyes, shattering
like a crying broken child
and the sun scorches
our retinas, burning
images of not yet known
in front of our minds.
There were dead possums everywhere today
and in the late sun carrion crows cackled
then flocked overhead.
Bare trees hurricane strippes of leaves
now strewn down late summer northeastern streets
these are those waning days.
Deer blood smeared and musking a cooling breeze
full of the smell of rotting maple leaves,
torn and cracking trees
collapsed on the earthen floor
Silence permeates the bitter haze.
Deafening silence, the weezing stops
short of peaceful, a sneering cop
waits outside the door; ignore, abhor.
A need for more; young breath
ceasing, unfair parental ignore,
beckoning death, within strange doors.
Inexcusable malice weighs down, creates
distorting lucid compassion,
from deep soul, that permeates.
A curious prognosis
of life's most common doses.
Enter and strive,
be bested and die.
While the flicker fades fast,
the flame exists through the last.
falling silently upon my ears
"The serpent's tongue;
Oh, but what do I hear?
Chewing tickishly on feminine nails,
and then the males.
uncertainty and confusion prevail.
Returning to a foreground revelry
of dismissive persistence
the inane insanity
leavening my meddlesome brain.
The whispers of the dead,
more like screams
an unguided dominion
The fathers of humanity wanted to protect their sons
Programming in young psyche a hopefully deterring,
Civility, its definition.
Disgust, its admonition.
Choking the fuel of understanding,
how could one expect much more,
from a world abhorred by itself?
your perception hasn't carried,
and your cognizance is good and buried
Community is more of a relay,
whether observed or ignored,
the young possess, in essence,
that learned in the father's presence.
After millenia of hand offs,
the baton has grown rancid,
and the sons lay, far to lucid,
feeling broken and fumble.
Having become numb to all
they ignore all warnings,
and why not?
There is no more faith in
words meaning anything.
All they can learn are lies,
to be petty, pretty little spies;
there is no application of absolutes
in a world fading to gray.
The dismay could make you sick
if tolerance had not grown so thick,
so the Civil fiend for it,
like there is a need for it.
But it will kill just the same,
and without intervention
it will kill without a name.
In a world where the dead
reign supreme, their creeds blood red,
or white-wash clean,
the Civil plea for their own way,
one full of honest lovable time;
never ever-lasting play,
or some infernal, eternal rhyme.
Utopian fever dreams
have, and will never reflect
the pleasure of living
seeing the purity in another's face.
Behaviors observed tick
in the space between consonance and beat
that hollow space
where all thought falls away
and out of that hole,
strolls some disowned soul,
there to flick your ear,
and moisten your feet,
contort your reason;
"We live for them," you think, well, you've been told.
Some precursive possession
that was owed every little thing,
but we don't anymore,
pleasure, gore, or lore,
keep the Civil occupied
when not inwardly abhorred.
And while we remain in their time
stranded, we are unable to climb
to any pleasant evolutionary line,
simply stagnant; as a fallen pine
laying, the pattern may remain
but is still always deteriorating.
Returning to arbitrated standards,
a Pavlovian generational game which
makes us sprint from a flame,
a civilized spectre impresses, and
says we must achieve a fame
which never existed
outside of our minds.
The weight of silence bears down
looking for any faint sound
to reset your mind at ease;
sometimes silence can't be satisfied
and the ticking empowering lies
cry for you to believe them
no matter belief, they weigh the same;
compelling, distracting, dominating your name.
Wars of Silence
In the Age of Information
battles aren't fought with words
but in the breaths between
in the silence
in the doubt
Wars we wage everyday
unshown and unknown
in the directions we go
but in the hollow
between the choices made
A skirmish of silence
dancing feverishly around
a topic, a question, a trance
that is rarely so profound
as the thoughts we possess
And in the silence's caress
we find our answers
pushing our bodies so hard,
a driven routine, like dancers
searching for the perfect motion.
As if that notion could cure us
of the inquisitive longing
or the need for belonging,
still we'll all sing our songs in
our curious way.
And when we feel betrayed
we resolve to stirring the souls
to alleviate this need for control
as if the resulting chaos
were planned or even expected
to redeem us
from a discordant conscious project.
A New Age
The world has become changed,
we no longer are them.
And never are we solemn,
lest solemnity's in.
The rote definition,
of life, and life spent:
or contorting; chagrined.
And so, we medicate; desecrate,
will to propagate lost lies.
Our minds' endless seeing of soft,
Forceful endeavors, in stone
and steel boxes,
forgetting the meaning, of a field,
littered with oxen.
The unwillful directed
by myriad chemistry;
seeking being lost,
or false, heartfelt camaraderie.
But always accepting the ancient
avenue or destiny.
Lost little children of all shapes,
sizes, and colors.
Blindly grasping for meaning,
without the guide of a mother.
An eon forgotten past,
assumed to be known,
like presumptuous logic
could place definition to soul.
Impermanent actions, guided by
The merit of blood,
is red hypnotic, didactic?
For if it be genetic, a percent
makes us siblings, distracted.
Passive aggression, pushing
crowds just for sake.
progresses. 'Til when?
For comfort, for power?
A juvenile striving.
Unbound by the laws
lain before history,
mysteries of life become
Just to awaken, from dream
to a haze,
this cold world may survive,
least 'til next day.
But to be ruled by the bars,
set in one's mind,
held by the crux of machined delirium,
the fear within all,
will burst out the seams,
like a century old doll.
Have we been sisters? or, Lovers?
Possibly brothers torn asunder.
Was I your mother forever ago,
or did you deliver this strength that I show?
What have we shared
in our indescript pairing?
What appears so fleeting
and is longer than these lives endearing?
The connections of men are
rarely defined by a quest of "how far?"
and often so acute, still they affect
with unseen conviction.
The actions carry a weight
that seldom do we feel,
and fortunate are we
for the weight of existence
is unceasing penance
to each other, our brothers.
Dead John showed me this,
colliding with my lifeline,
guiding me through a gate
which stood unseen before me.
I always felt this existence,
always minded my sisters
leaving something amiss for
her to delve into and find,
a belabored yet savored
soul sent message of kind.
Blood of Oil
I wish you could see,
we're draining dry,
laying in a stupor of luxury,
playing in a bed of ill-constructed lies.
All synthetic, all the time
like being oh so sterile
hasn't a chance for perilous
outcome, becoming deaf
and dumb, for without their words
we must live in different worlds,
and of course oppress each other
to contrast the duress
wrought of guilty hedon games,
brought from shunts of lead laden alchemy,
as if this daft mimicry
is some gold grown on an already perfect pearl.
We whisper and scream,
awaken and dream.
All the while we grow insane
and infertile, losing our names
for the hope of arbitrary fame
within a self-defined game;
if we define our own rules,
why must anyone lose?
We question, and seek some assumed
omnipresent truth, as if any one
perception isn't opaque and unique,
forever second-guessing, our thoughts,
our beliefs, that Civil response
is ever so meek
And pointedly pathetic,
like a disillusioned heretic
revealing a shame for his actions and words
to all of the false prophets
and their caricatured lord.
We continue to drown sorrows
with fatty tears of sweet souls'
Compassion never enough
for the hedons we've become,
using cultures pure;
far more than ourselves.
Objectifying life is always
a growing shade,
on our human function,
We have reasoning
And I don't see benefit
in global neglect of it,
Or worse yet
"Because we can!"
So can't we all shoot heroine?
If to flee suffrage
is what one is seeking;
it is still gluttonous poisoning.
See, we aren't built for it,
is a subjective embolism
upon the social soul's progression.
Ignore of null argument
fractures functional conscience;
finding game, despicable laughter,
in a holocaust demeaning
just as, and exponentially more
than those we have seen.
But the nausea comes
in seeing we are most tortured of all
needing to murder our nature
in lieu of what Is.
Without feeling our own humanity
we have no center of harmony.
The dissonance makes us sick,
but with the Civil hiding why
we will continue to clash
conflict, and die,
'lest we desert this social nervous tic.
Submit or Omit
It starts innocent,
With, what is this?
What am I?
reminisce and redesign;
definition of self
its matching rhyme.
But that definition
Is not permitted
Is thrown out and dies,
shy-eyed and vilified.
With, where can I rest?
Or simply, not act?
Where can I run to?
Just break down and cry.
To console the Civil
into seeing your worth
self fighting Self
for a place in the world.
And resorts to
fleeing through a tent
slant-eyed, or petrified
submission to a toxic nest,
Making you fat
on its words,
making you writhe.
But why can't we stand,
strong, hoping to mend,
bright-eyed and rectified,
being our brilliant selves, and
helping for others,
not just means to an end?
The Ends of the Earth
Mythologic bibliotech, holds
answers for all of life's meaningless
Why?s, or, How?s
"To the ends of the earth!"
funny thing about a globe,
its end is designated to be.
A satisfied curiosity
whims on reference gained,
no matter the means;
travel (physic or psychic),
conversing, or a suffered tragedy.
Endlessly sought intricacies,
a feud brewed of discontent,
and there is no end.
We stand, sit, and lay,
create, consume, remain;
a flutter of action
of varied redaction
creates a memorable unity
of one's persistent history.
See, we create ourselves
choosing or neglecting each act,
believing or discontinuing fact.
We consume ourselves,
and others, too,
shelving self to sociability,
isolating our ideals ironically.
Be who you are:
fight who you are.
We remain ourselves
with or without answers.
Funny thing about a globe,
it begins again, if you can be.
It has been a while,
has it not?
We are moving so slow
it is hard to see
the energy through the cold
it is hard to feel
your kind and radiant soul
harboring some lifetimes of seals,
unnoticed, unthanked, and imposingly bold.
You carry volumes inside
appearing old and so brittle,
cracking with the ages you hide
beneath a layer so hard,
that vastness can make me feel little.
Though we differ not so,
lost life masking my soul
from the serenity built upon it,
a core molten and trapped,
endlessly renewing my stone solid casque,
the fire inside tempered
by the frame of desolate black.
Oh, to be free
of you, and of me
of this place;
it hasn't any space.
What's left here anyway?
I've done what I could.
have been shunned where I stood,
Cubist ramblings left sinking ships drown;
a picnic never so far from six below ground.
Copyright © 2017 James N. Nutter
All Rights Reserved