Graduation Maturation
School is out,
the student is in.
Class is done,
let the lesson begin.
© Brenneman T. May 1, 2003
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Peeping
Cricket of the concrete crack,
with dry grass I touch your back.
You turn around, I rub your wing.
You raise them slightly when you sing.
I move in close with no disguise,
but awe and intrigue, focused eyes.
I want to see a world that's real,
and on my side, I seek to steal
a glimpse of something often hid
under grass or rock when I was kid.
You favor me an education,
until you sense a niche invasion.
You jump, in silence crawl along,
in other crevasse, buff your song.
Tonight, with luck I follow you,
amazed at every thing you do.
I lie upon my tomb-white drive,
as still as death I come alive.
© Brenneman T. May 2, 2003
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In the Substance of
Now
Age dulls the ego's edge.
The ice of time melts,
diluting even our most unyielding beliefs.
Mankind's weaker wisdom always fades from existence.
Bodies rust, their elements returned to earth by grace.
Remaining truths rest unchanged
in the refining, high-mountain spring waters
of our collective vision.
We cannot mine the ore of history
without destroying today.
Best, we choose to walk barefoot in the bed ourselves,
feeling the current's smoothing pull.
Rather than sift through a mass of missed experience,
let us walk with child's eyes,
shining in anticipation,
and polished by all we are in the substance of now.
©
Brenneman T. May 5, 2003
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Free to Be
The movie is over.
It was an awkward ending.
Everyone thought a moment,
trying to put it all together.
Judging the whole on its conclusion
doesn't make sense.
That's only living expectation.
Reality doesn't have baggage.
Every moment is its own.
When we learn that,
we'll stop projecting.
The past won't matter anymore.
We'll walk out wise to time's tricks.
Our story won't trap us any longer
in it's distorted ego. We'll be free to be.
© Brenneman T. May 13, 2003
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Too Comfortable
With our ease of life,
time may seem to pass meaninglessly.
Our courage awaits more dire circumstance.
When passion ignites to overwhelm our apathy,
every moment is crammed with substance.
© Brenneman T. May 13, 2003
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Two Per Brain
Bug legs sure are skinny,
and millipedes have so many.
When I met you,
we each had two,
and two per brain is plenty.
©
Brenneman T. May 14, 2003
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Misbirth
The child inside himself was weaned
on course dark chocolate and jelly beans.
The well-groomed arm that kept him clean
was born of blood and ways obscene.
The face that caught his newborn eye
was there, then gone if he should cry.
Now he sits confused and raw
to all that is and all he saw.
A charge ignites the pathway known,
the least resistance route toward home.
He is but a junction box
with open spice to stop the clocks.
They ring now out of sync with time,
out of meaning, wit, or rhyme.
Another bit of refuse heaped,
another rancid liquid leaked.
A passion ended, missed indeed,
a dying sperm, infertile seed.
A loss of blood, a stubborn soul
the silence of brimming bowl.
Casting shades, despair to him,
drip down his sides, a spot of sin.
With scents of you and wasted flesh
the mind and body never mesh.
All that could be whole is part
or is as horse pushed by the cart.
Gone is the word, lost is the way.
To raise the past, erase today.
© Brenneman T. May 15, 2003
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Empowered Loving
I heard the tone
in her voice,
but could not hear
the mood she heard in mine.
I saw her smile,
felt her touch,
smelled her cooking,
tasted her gifts of food.
Of what purpose is awareness?
When it focuses on pleasure, it ends.
When it stretches to include another life, it becomes infinite.
My power is mine alone, but my influence is not.
I know those who love.
Their love is always action, always now.
That is why it is never too late
to stop reacting, and move in love.
I am separate from my mind,
though I seldom realize it.
My serenity lies beyond knowledge and feeling,
beyond a place or fact.
May I learn, and use the knowledge
to pass gifts of understanding
from my heart to hers.
Let it begin with a soft word or smile.
©
Brenneman T. May 16, 2003
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Our Common Loss
Sometimes, against the backdrop of propriety,
what is just enough seems far too much.
The outer cusp of sufficiency
borders the beginnings of excess.
Like a rising head of beer,
love's form invariably escapes the finite cup we give it.
This is when we must attempt to ride the rim,
sipping foam and balancing ourselves
along the sometimes suffering edge of love's pleasures;
spilling our exuberance
on the unadorned trousers of each other's growing acceptance.
We've all experienced the joy
of a serendipitous intercourse
between our mundane existence
and the aspiring call of another kindred soul.
But leave these attentions unattended,
dusting off the scuff of tender truth with cold logic,
and passionless we'll be.
Carefully fill our cup to the mark
with duty and correctness,
and we'll forget the blended scent of love.
I'll not wash away our taste
from the brittle vessel of my memory,
but time will surely steal the details,
and circumstance our opportunity.
Uncommon meaning will be our common loss.
© Brenneman T. May 21, 2003
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Believer Moves Over Mountain
"Packed my horse down 'aplenty,
and ready to wolf-howl back the night.
We're goin', and I'm a'comin',
an' no dead rock's a'stoppin' me!"
© Brenneman T. May 21, 2003
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Oral Moral
Ever seen affections fade?
The curves of lips are fickle.
They rise and fall,
same affect on all;
smile - sun, and frown - icicle.
© Brenneman T. May 23, 2003
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Petals Pruned
Is it a challenge being humble?
Having trouble being meek?
That is why we stumble.
Then is when we seek.
Nature's nudge is soft,
as a breeze upon a bloom.
Our petals must fall off,
as our fruit will need the room.
© Brenneman T. May 23, 2003
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From Terror To
Nothing
Osama, been hidin'?
Saddam, who's seen?
Histories collidin'.
No justice is mean.
©
Brenneman T. May 26, 2003
For Memorial Day 2003
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Insect Castes
A large black ant keeps on showing up
here and there throughout the house.
It could be the same one,
or a different one.
In any case, it's the same spirit.
Across the door jam, along the computer,
it crawls a jagged line at a leisurely pace,
antennae sensing all along the way.
I've decided to leave him alone.
The occasional roach
should it find it's way inside,
is doomed.
So are any water-bugs.
They end up the ironically 'smooshed' untouchables,
a caste they share with the likes of few other vermin.
Even the common house fly ranks higher.
Rolly-pollies and large spiders are usually relocated,
yet should their numbers overwhelm, they too are at risk.
Parties of four or more are not welcome inside.
The highest respect is paid the occasional ladybug,
and any other beneficial, or rarely seen species,
especially the praying mantes.
Bees and wasps are saved whenever possible.
Outside, another system of survival rules.
It's live and let live, unless attacked.
The threat must then be demonstrative and real.
Termites eating wood, grubs killing grass.
These are only the rules as practiced,
not to say they're right.
Reflection may bring me further,
until I realize that in some sense,
everything is outside,
and everything must eat.
© Brenneman T. May 26, 2003
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Her Answer
Sometimes I don't know where to go.
I bend the angle's ark.
I try to whistle clear or know
why can't she touch the dark.
Sometimes I stretch my arms up high,
and sense I fill the room.
Most the time, to reach the sky,
I'd have to use a broom.
I sometimes ask the question twice.
I really want to go.
No matter how I plead, am nice,
sometimes her answer's no.
© Brenneman T. May 26, 2003
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Turtle Mistress
The sentence ends,
period.
What then?
Life is lived, not only thought or written.
She worries,
but then the kayak slips in.
All the trouble in her head is buoyed.
Her questions do have an answer.
It is she.
Nothing can erase her truth.
It is out there, floating serenely among a lake of nature's chaos,
unsinkably divine.
Surveying her are turtle eyes.
They've popped up, head above water,
to see themselves in human form;
to get a closer look
at a spirit floating in a shell.
The weather's changing.
It's been raining so long,
but the sun is coming.
Turtle-love fatigue is good,
Growing stronger with each toss.
Stretching in the ways of caring.
With practice, it rises above the ripples,
sliding into view.
The sadness on the shore is lifted.
A baby claps her hands.
At thirty-seven,
her life has just begun.
The unknown birds and pond beyond
are all her honest friends.
Her paddle-prints disappear,
running into the rock.
The water is smooth as she slips in,
then out again onto the hard, well-worn irregular surface.
I am there with her.
Many chapters have been written,
but real experience has no end.
My turtle mistress slips away,
but that's OK.
Her greatest joy is in the swimming.
I want her happy.
The sun has warmed her lovely shell.
She'll bask again when she is ready.
I see her blue eyes beckon me to explore,
to join her sunrise adventure.
© Brenneman T. May 27, 2003
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More Than Your Flower and Your Fruit
Bottled milk-bath won't go sour,
and the rubber duck's OK.
When you receive my gift, that hour,
the bloom will have passed away.
The picture drawn won't change,
and the card's wish remains true,
but the fruit that I arranged
will not taste so good to you.
The bulk of what I gather
may not reach your tender arms.
To happiness I'll let it all defer.
May you find a gift that charms.
© Brenneman T. May 29, 2003
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Reverb
Your words no longer spoken
are still ringing in my ear.
Were they just a token?
Have they faded in a year?
I thought their meaning timeless,
as if written in your heart;
not uttered ease and meaningless,
born of passion in the dark.
In the echo of your love,
reverb is so intense.
To honest core above,
is this the recompense?
One need not plead love's favor,
nor should I have to ask again.
If I enter through your door,
you will have ask me in.
© Brenneman T. May 29, 2003
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Ask John
Though it may increase the value of your car,
it may not be worth it to be a star.
© Brenneman T. May 30, 2003
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