Through the Valley (Part Six)

Blindly we fumble our way through the pines.

To orient our bodies and guide our souls

Toward our lofty goals, and around potholes.

Then along come the fellers, to desecrate our shrines.

Give man free will, and he will find a way

To bludgeon another, or to bring them down

To the Earth which he has divvied up all around.

The Tao is lost. We have led ourselves astray.

I lay bare my thoughts to no congregation.

Fragmented and disparate, here they manifest.

They languish and bleed and all leave this bequest:

“Heaven was here, before its mutilation.”

 

 

Through the Valley (Part Five)

Beneath the willow tree, I choose to rest my eyes.

For a while, peace is all I know, until a racket begins.

A thwack, then at once a saw blade spins.

I speed to arise, as where I was the tree now lies.

I eschew the limited human conception.

What lies in reality is beyond the definable.

One can only assume what they know is reliable.

An unspeakable truth, beyond our words and perception.

Down the sidewalk I went, at a leisurely pace.

Sunlight pierced through the leaves down onto me.

Suddenly, nostrils burning, I turn around to see,

A worker spraying blight all over the place.

 

Through the Valley (Part Four)

It is ever-present in both of our lives.

A crude reminder of that which could have been.

It has plagued my conscience since who knows when.

You can hear it in the wind, and in the deepest of sighs.

The artist sits at his bench and toils away.

The clay in his hands forms the young brains.

He hopes they form well, and that what remains,

Is well-suited for the elements, and does not decay.

The cardinals preach their sermons no more,

From the tops of old oak trees that served as their stages.

Their words were true scripture, but came not from pages.

Now nothing but memories from the valley of yore.