Street folk

A sharp scream that pierced the night,
echoing through the neighbourhood.
Its owner unknown, hidden amongst the black.
The street folk shifted, sensing something but not wanting to know.
Hands in pockets, gazes cast down, they shuffle forwards.
One more time, louder in the growing darkness.
Quick glance, one foot in front of the other.
Hurry now. Try not to be the last.

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What lies behind?

A turn of a head,
for just a split second.
There’s that look. Held.
So steady and sure.
Strong, yet seemingly pure. 

Not a flutter, nor a falter.
Piercing, enchanting, 
understanding, judging?
What lies behind?
Is it something kind? 

Your stomach starts to churn,
so very nearly knotted.
A tiny slice of doubt. Niggling.
And so you look elsewhere,
Anywhere but there.

The fleeting moment flown.
Long lost before it started. 
And so you sit and wonder,
what did they see?
And once again, off you flee.

Robert M. Pirsig – Zen and the Art of Motorcyle Maintenance 

“This is the source of the trouble. Persons tend to think and feel exclusively in one mode or the other and in doing so tend to misunderstand and underestimate what the other mode is all about. But no one is willing to give up the truth as he sees it, and as far as I know, no one now living has any real reconciliation of these truths or modes. There is no point at which these visions of reality are unified.” 

Just Another Day - Poem

Just another day

Drip, drip,
you sit and watch.
Drip, drip,
the same old noise.
Drip, drip,
just another day.

Fix it, they say.
Fix it, they plead.
Fix it, they scream.
You stop,
and stare.

Drip, drip,
it’s back again.
Drip, drip,
glass-eyed and numb.
Drip, drip,
just another day.

Do something, they say.
Anything, they hope.
Fix it, they scream.
You stop,
and smile.

Drip, drip,
you rise and fall.
Drip, drip,
You laugh, you scream.
Drip, drip,
just another day.

Quote: Robert M. Pirsig – Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance 

“The world has no existence whatsoever outside the human imagination. It’s all a ghost, and in antiquity was so recognized as a ghost, the whole blessed world we live in. It’s run by ghosts. We see what we see because these ghosts show it to us, ghosts of Moses and Christ and the Buddha, and Plato, and Descartes, and Rousseau and Jefferson and Lincoln, on and on and on. Isaac Newton is a very good ghost. One of the best. Your common sense is nothing more than the voices of thousands and thousands of these ghosts from the past. Ghosts and more ghosts. Ghosts trying to find their place among the living.” 

Lost 

Lost souls searching for something,
a comforting contentment of another time,
when there were less questions and more smiles,
or so we imagine.

Lost souls searching for answers,
for a moment of peace amongst the bustle,
for some salvation hidden in the scattered dreams,
that once shone so bright.

Lost souls, lost souls.
Where will you go?
Lost souls, lost souls.
Seek until you find.