All About Rain and Other Things That Float In the Air

Will it be wings or wheels made of stone?
What direction will future travel inherit?
Even though the sky appears blue,
      there is still a mass of clouds that humanity
          must escape through in order to see clearly.
An invisible rain is always falling down upon the Earth,       
      trying desperately to wash away
          all the elusive particles that have taken                                         
up residence in the heart of man. 
Love abandoned, misunderstood, never really
      fathomed by the empty minded —
          just a continuation of unnecessary death,
                over and over, while a plaintive violin
                          moans off in the distance. 
We may be called to the forest,
        but we do not witness the sun or any other kind
          of light breaking through the trees.
We return instead to our rusty old world
        where even the song of the tiny sparrow is ignored.
Must our lives only be measured by the imperfect
        nothingness of unrealized hopes and an unfulfilled
          longing for completion?
We wander ruffled and in sorrow toward a cave
        that seems to get darker with every passing decade. 
We turn our wretched spines away from the small
        flickering light that pleads that we return
          back to the initial womb of Creation,
                before time, before space,
                            before warm and cold,       
                      before the ponderous step of history
          began to spill blood and confusion
                      across the face of the planet.
We are emotionally shattered night after night,
        staring at the broken ceiling with broken eyes,
            feeling the pulsation of the heart
                as it weeps silently in eternal
                            anguish. 
Oh the suffering, it never dissolves,
        it drives some to believe that life is only a pointless 
    biological exercise or perhaps some cruel joke
                played by a malicious god who orphans
                            its offspring. 
Children cry out when they are born . . .
        why must a strange fear grip them
          when they are pushed forward into the external world? 
We create a genetic likeness of ourselves,
        try to protect them, try to coddle them,
            try to bathe their ancient souls in light . . .
                but they grow up to be damned
                          in the darkness that we
                    unwillingly propagate. 
And the rain keeps falling,
        the moon wipes a tear from its face
          and the creatures of the forest turn away
                from the coughing dis-ease riddled cities
                          and pray that mankind’s encroachment
                    will one day cease. 
Better yet, that we might leave this garden
        while flowers are still able to bloom,
          while the frog and orca and the most minute           
                insects pray for some kind of reclamation. 
Yes, unnoticed. the rain, it continues to fall,
        replenishes the oceans and rivers,
            but it cannot wash away all the clay and grime
                caked upon the body of humanity. 
And the Universe is shadowed by dark winds that blow
        out from the lungs of abstract questioning . . .
            they howl down from the mountains,
                  they attempt to suck the sun from the sky,                           
they toss the stars further away
                    from our vision
                          because our vision, it is limited,
                    it fails to address the larger horizon
                  and its oh so pregnant possibilities. 
Why, oh why do we strive to harvest seeds of finality
        instead of tilling the soil of hidden knowledge? 
We sit all alone, even though we number in the millions,
        we dream of yesterday, of times past . . .
          we hesitate to step forward and go beyond
                  the scientific, fact based concept of life
                          and all its physiological trappings.
The metaphysical goes ignored, left only to colour
        the eyes of the artist and the sage and the child
            with its mind full of fairy-tales
                  and archetypal innocence.
We gather up the simplicity of pennies,
        pile them upon the rickety tables
                  of our existence, we continue to moan
                            blues notes dressed in consumption
                        without knowing the reason why.
Love’s axis is rusted by opulence and greed,
        the inevitable slaughter is gathering
            momentum daily . . . it prepares to crack
                  the world into one million fragments
                              where the final dance will be
                          a wrathful bacchanal of violent,
                        burning corpses, still unrepentant.
We fall all over one another, stumble in darkness,
        surrounded by spinning ghost forms
                  who try to warn us of our impending doom
                        if we do not alter our course.
But in the centre of it all, amidst all this seeming chaos,
          all this nebulous mass of unconstructive
                    confusion, all this trembling and desperate
                              anguish that reverberates down
                          the annuls of time,
                    all this apparent never ending continuation
          of death and definitions of an ending . . .
                    an embryo is growing in an unseen
                          womb where all karmic calamity
                              is laid to rest, where this world
                          of illusion will be shattered
                      and where every soul, past and present,
          will be released and allowed to float freely
                      toward the ultimate purpose



                            of existence.