It’s still 5:30

I turned off the water but it’s still running.

I slept-in til 5:30 this morning and went out to water the garden—it was dead quiet, though I did see a mama deer and her twins eating my russet tops. As they hopped away the silence remained in the most surreal artistry. “Must be the soft, thick grass,” I thought.

I sat quietly in sanctification—my stone table cool and covered in dew, the garden growing. All the sounds of summer sleeping, I close my eyes and drown my thoughts in the silence, then the silence drowns my thoughts. Purely, this was the most joyful quiet I could recall since my boreal beginnings. After a time (it felt) I lumbered my way to the house, made a cup of coffee and slipped out again to wait for the first rays of light to shine through the treetops.

Something is a little different. I begin to wonder at this timeless moment enduring a little longer—longer than I expected.

Skillfully I go back inside, quiet, careful not to wake the misses and and the mutt. The one clock is blinking—the other is not. It is still 5:30. I look out the window and the water is still running.

Cup Fungi

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Even With Gods—Haiku Challenge

I Write Her weekly photo challenge with Susi Bocks. Photo—Ash D Soloman—Lucid Being

#1—Sinful God

In the Gaelic wind—

God repents a wistful glance—

At earthly pleasure—

#2—The Unfolding

Impetuous acts—

Reveal true characters—

Confronted by strength—

#3—Strength

Thunder recoils—

As the hedge-witch reposes—

Confronting spirits—

And one bonus haiku at no extra charge—

#4—Weakness

God himself travails—

Broken from his own restraint—

To glimpse wild beauty—

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The image of god caste by the writers as a ‘perfect innocent’ of any wrong doing is in fact a type and shadow of the men of power. Who but the aspiring and entrenched ‘men of words’ can declare their innocence time and again from the same breath that inflicts? Who but god (the writers) can tip their hand in blood and horrors and and call it good? Even very good—Taking a stand against this entrenched deception is in fact the absolute morality the religious seek.

Bending your mind to appease a nefarious belief and honoring atrocious behavior through faith is an obvious sleight of hand played on the trusting minds of humanity.

Life Redux—Photo Interpretation

Longing vibrant youth—

Nestled in my withering

Mystic instructions—

IWH Haiku Challenge#

#2

Those bells cannot toll—

For desires and longings—

Live on forever—

#3

Though old memories—

Have long tainted my new self—

Portrait of secrets—

Checkin’ Fence

Mountain rides this time of year, start with summer skies real clear, they waffle just a bit and then, you think it’s winter once again.

At least days are long without much pay, how else could they get me to stay? But with room and board an a lady friend, I get up each day and do it over again.

I tried the city way back when, with busy streets and smoke therein, it never really was my style, so I parked my ass up here a while. And though its been maybe longer than that, the air’s still fresher than a pine scent rack, the cows they all know me by name, for dog and me they all make way.

Among the stock and the coyotes too, every fence line from here to you, forgotten the days and miles trod, but each spot marked with a quiet nod.

What Is The Meaning of This?

“What’s obvious is that you have no understanding of this verse”—Mel Wild

This is the answer I was searching for. All my life I sought for truth, only to have a book secretly placed in my hotel room by an unknown—a Gideon of the gospel to answer life’s riddles. Now my quest—to find meaning outside of myself. Who am I? Where did I come from? Is this life all there is? Where do I go when I die? As an idiot not trained in the correct ways of god, I thought it best to give reading the nod. I had heard so much about “The Good Book” I couldn’t wait to read it, when it mysteriously appeared in the top drawer of my night stand—appearing like a thief in the night.

It was a real page turner as my mind eyelids raced to keep up. I had always imagined if there was a god he would be really cool, like a good teacher, but it seems I was wrong. Vagued by subtle omission, plagued by violent commission, varied in different renditions, the Bible was a complex, but obvious penning of disturbed control-men with massive egos. The LORD it seemed he was a curse, to opened eyes on every verse, with ramblings of severed foreskins, the fever churned out new revelations to the nature of this paranormal being we strive to emulate. This unseen god commanded authority and men were convinced to do the things his parents would never allow, nor would he do on his own. Mass murders were a way of life, while wives came in scores, but were treated like whores. So I moved on to the Quran.

There was no Muslim book in my extended-stay-express, so I google the book and gave it a test. I called a toll-free and wondered to him, “why no Quran in the nightstand herein,

He gave me an answer, this kind Muslim man, told me of why there was no Quran.

“because guests may take it to the bathroom or other improper place.”

Ah said I, after reading some terse, my thoughts exactly after an hour of verse.

So, Torah and testaments old and the new, Quran and the commentary of some old Jews, stories of Moses who didn’t exist, Noah and Jesus and YHWH’s iron fists, to distance myself from the odd violent word, and all contradictions that flowed so absurd, a snapshot from time of a long distant caste, from authors and prophetic dreams of the past, where violence was king and oppressions reigned true, alone I decided was the path I should choose.

No premixed learning of religious odd ways, no groups on Sundays and limitless praise, no dogmas laundry would I choose to embrace, and rather than sell for integrity lost, I’d call my own shots at no matter the cost.

That verse came in question so plain to be read, but requires a doctorate explanation instead, to offer the grandest of oblique excuse, that not even one such as Satan would use.

My Older Brother

Born to a fair and middle class life, We wandered and wondered without any strife, four good ol’ boys who loved tussle and swim, to flirt with the girls there was no harm therein, but all that would change from the roof to the floor, when one horrid day came a knock at the door.

Mother and dad were good folks but it seems, they had not yet been schooled in the prophetic dreams, they learned they were sinners and destined to fall, these men at the door who dare gave us their all, instilled in grand doubt and made good things seem pall.

A promised grand life if we follow their book, dad said he would read it but he never did look, he went by their word as a word is a bond, the way old folks did in old days that are gone, so we joined with their church and were baptized us four, and all because someone gave a knock at the door.

Now Sundays were different with no time to explore, we’d sit in the church and keep still to be sure, but being a young lad who didn’t set very good, got my first whippin’ and in the corner I stood, the teacher told dad how I had misbehaved, and I was the lad not even jesus could save.

A dark cloud hung over my once happy face, to be safe and content we did prayers to have grace, but these things they promised we already had, long before the time we found out we were bad, but god we found out he was keeping a score, from the men who had come and knocked at our door.

They taught us of freedom of choice and freewill, then took it away with fear torments of hell, we learned that the devil got into our skins, that gay folks were bad and loud laughters a sin, but I looked for the day I would once turn eighteen, and with two middle fingers I returned to my dreams.

Leaving was easy, adjusting was hard, but still no regrets that I turned in my card, I learned how to choose and the consequence mine, that I could do good without all of the fines, the guilt it still lingers and thoughts come is scores, from so long ago I heard a knock at the door.

Is everyone crazy, I think that they are, confessing their sins and then sinning some more, responsibly daft and delayed recompense, excuses and reasons for time on the fence, waiting for someone to even their score, hate and division then hating some more, ironic hypocrisy blend with the days, the living and loving so often delayed, to wait on another to come make it right, when we have the power to end the long fight.