The Ballad of the Forgotten Bards

Listen to the melody of

our worn tunes

and you too

shall find

truth.

This earth you step upon

will dish it to you,

a fine steak,

on a gold

plate.

As you wander tirelessly

and ponder on end

it'll strike you:

"Truth is a

Cave"

"In the Black Mountains".

Then you'll see

it's not the

steak or

platter.

'Tis the search, that which

provides the absurdity,

the sought after

truth, and 

peace.

So shall your life come down,

step by step, like a

reversed ladder

as it nears

truth.

Falling In Love, #3

Months passed, she did not.

There came times when I felt like I needed to be found. This was more of a grotesque fantasy though, rather than a need. It was the darkest parts of my soul, seeking to be hidden from what she might have offered: her love, or anger, or indifference.

So gloomily hidden that she should really look for me -- and in the end, find too.

This was not a chase. This was just a twisted fantasy.

Yet, I kept going to her, serving my being as my most precious gift, oppressing my darkness inside. Those quelled fantasies, however, would strike me at the most inapplicable moments, and I'd find myself swinging silently in the darkness with my unearthly wait for her to reach me.

This wait did not bring any solitude, nor vigilance. It didn't ripen me either. If anything, it just made me more twisted, dark, evil: hungry for affection.

She was the solitude that went against me. And, fuck me, I loved it.

Dream Come True

Dream, come true!
So true that
in a blink of my eyes
don't even think
about disappearing.
I shall hold you
and feel you
and possibly
tie down, too.
So perfect that
the flowers of May
blushing red or
sky blue
shall be jealous
of your sheer beauty.

And then wake me
to the smell of shy July roses
and the welcoming soil
after April's surprise rain.

Slowly dance past
my early winter fears
and late fall tears.

A step over there,
and a step over here
-- the impeccable harmony.

Decisions

Dark was the water; cold was the shore.

As the sleepy fish swam through the oily and dark ocean they wondered, quietly, what will be made of themselves. Where would this salty streams lead them? How about the ones that left the crowd? There were many things to think about and so little time to decide.

The places they'd see, the people they'd meet, the smiles they'd greet, and the lips they'd kiss. It was hard to think all these.

So, they just swam, knowing not what to come.

Maybe it was better this way.

A Poem for Those Who Are About to Fall in Love

Wait. Don't.
Just don't --
if you can.

Avoid its sheer beauty,
and welcoming arms
calling you for its
endless euphoria
and the dream-alike
reality.

Don't fall for it,
or it'd be very hard
to get back up.

In all honesty
I don't mean a word I'm saying.

In the end, my friend,
there's no such thing
as being "about" to
fall in love.
You're deep down
in that pit to
come back up
before you know it.
So, what the heck,
just go on with it.

Falling In Love, #2

And she loved me too.

With all of her fears she did. No matter how hard it was at times, or how disposable it seemed; she never let go of it. She did not always feel loved, but she never stopped loving. Every now and then, it might've not been expressed as well, but it never stopped existing.

This, I presume, made the whole difference -- for me, and of course, for her.

For us.

Exit

There it is. Right there.

You can just follow the alluring light through cold stone floors and hard marble walls and stairs that smell like urine. Who wants to be a part of this stinky, repulsive (and fairly old, too) place anyway?

Just look at the cracks on the walls. The marble walls, once white and fresh, now just worn old by the winds, tears, blood, piss, spit, crap and god knows what else. They now have the looks of an old man's eyes, telling you that the brain behind the wrinkles - although couldn't say and remember much - have seen a lot.

These walls, they have the most improbable beauty of the tears of a child stuck in war. These poor old walls, which reflected many lights and faces and dreams, now weep secretively into the night's muteness. The cracks scream out the painful truths, the enigmatic secrets, the burning questions, the soulful lullabies.

There's a sheer creepiness that attend to their ugliness.

Now go ahead and take the next exit. Leave these walls and floors behind. They're pretty much used to it.
















Thatcher Cook, New York City, NY.