Archive for January 1, 2012


Simba

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48

Is the number of my years

How apt it does seem for

The many many tears that I

Have shed for the dead and

The living

For the taking away from what

Should have been and also for

The giving of my all to those

Things that still hold me

For the passions of my youth

That somehow refuse to be

Compromised by my years

Or the yearning of my peers

For me to ease and rest a while

So that they too may smile

At the passages of time rather

Than do consider their one true

Crime that they did kill the dreams

Of others by their mere conformity

48

Is my number and I must say it feels

Great to be

 


 

Am I the last Marxist alive

In an age of consumerism

Which does defile the nature

Of things and reduces life

To the objects that we bring

Into our castles made of dreams

Upon the shores of distant realities

For I too can fish or swim in

The morning and discuss politics

In the afternoon before I retire

For the evenings hearty meal

Shared with the love of

Conversation and the odd brandy

Or two

Am I the last Marxist alive

If I show no interest in what

It is you do to hold your status

In a fast moving world of times

Restrictions as to what you can

Not do

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Simba

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I heard those whispers

In the darkness of the

Corners of my mind

Calling me calling me

Away from things refined

In the brightness of the

Mornings glare

 

I heard those whispers

Drowning out those things

For which I did care in the

Afternoon and nurture in the

Evenings glow of setting day

 

I heard those whispers

Deafening to what others

Had to say of my situations

And those places I should have

Been

 

I heard those whispers

Echoing as my life ebbed away

From me to distant times and

Places I had been to faces remembered

And those thought of in dream

 

I head those whispers

For the last or so it would seem

I heard those whispers

Because I do not condemn

With my words does not mean

That I do not know you or that

I have not heard those words

That you have spoken in the dark

Hoping that they would my life

Help depart from all that I have been

 

Because I do not shun you in the light

Does not mean that my soul does not

Take flight of those things I have known

Of you

 

And yet you seek to hold my hand

And beside my side continually stand

For reasons that only you will understand

For you have no love for life

 

And thus I continue to walk the crooked path

Of your friendship for it is not a test of you

But an examination of who it is I feel to be

Me

if

If

I were to wish my life

Away

Looking for those words

For emotions to

Display

And sum up all that had

Been

Would I not no longer here

Be

But rather be buried somewhere for you to

See

My resting place

But to find me you’ll have to look further you

See

Walking the fields could possibly be a starting

Place

Or upon a mountain taking in

Air

Down by the river drowning with

Despair

But in the dark more often you will

See

That I walk and look upon the

Starts

And question my

Beginnings

And those stirrings in my

Heart

For it will not let me rest

You see


 

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

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A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,300 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 38 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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