A. B. Clarke

If I can just…

by abclarke

If I can make it to now
Things will be all right.
If I can focus on here
Not those things that might.

If I can make it to now,
Things will be all right,
Even if horror
Is clearly my plight.

If I can leave behind yesterday
Let past times be past.
If I can forget what must come,
No matter how fast.

If I can make it to now
And feel sadness inside.
If I can just let my grief
Be kind future’s guide.

If I can just make it here,
If I can just hold on now,
If I can just reach my hand out,
I’ll find arms that allow
A holding of comfort
Where tears can run long,
And when sewers are washed clean,
Keep hold firm and strong.

If I can make it to now,
And let go of escape,
The grey fog of sorrow
Shall slowly undrape,
And valleys of flowers
Fed strong by the dew
Will await present me
To finally break through.

Shapeshifting Calf

by abclarke

Image result for newborn calf

Oh shapeshifting calf!
You are furious wolf,
And laughing goat.
You are wounded bear,
And cheeky monkey.
You are devious fox,
And lovable puppy.

Lest anyone sense your shaky legs,
Lest anyone see your lonely eyes,
Lest anyone feel your fearful quivers,
Lest anyone hear your longing lo.

I wonder if you look beyond your mind’s pen
Would you find there are others
Who can smell your bullshit,
Yet not recoil.

Can you trust them to lead you out?
Can you trust them to clear the byre?
Can you trust the pastures they steer you to?
Can you trust?

Weeping Wonder

by abclarke

As I wander wonder

My weeping withers.

And I wonder where

Wonder wanders when weeping.

Painting Pictures of Mankind

by abclarke

There are three types of people in the world: Jasper Johns, Monets, and Vermeers.

From a distance the Jasper Johns are all fucked up. Get near them, and they are still fucked up. And get really up close, get into their space, and you’ll see, yes, still fucked up.

Monets, from a distance, have it all together. But get near them, become their casual friend, and you’ll see clearly how messed up they are. And really up close, it’s madness.

And Vermeers? Well, from a distance they have it all together. Get close, and they are still all together. But get up really close, become their lover, and you’ll see the crazy. The harrying of the brush-strokes. The mad war where greens meet yellows. The peaks and valleys of the oils clumping on the fabric of their canvas. Perhaps controlled insanity? But insanity none the less.

In intimate closeness, they are all maniae. Yet this is not all they share.

No.

Each is viewed but through a frame, that if we lift and look beyond we see the paint fade off. Vermeer’s kitchen fading to the nothing house. Monet’s Japanese bridge to nowhere. John’s paint splotch that just stops, ends. And in this nothing, we find everything: The painter is there; The brushes are there; The wheat and the chaff; The flowers and the roads; Even the abstract, the numbers and concepts. They all live beyond the wooden box of our constraints. The frames are just a view we impose upon them.

There are three types of people in the world: Jasper Johns, Monets, and Vermeers. They are all beautiful.

Knowing Joy

by abclarke

Knowing no knowing knows the now.

The Plan v. The Goal

by abclarke

Do not mourn discarded plans to ride your camel a thousand miles to reach Mecca, once you know you must climb Chomolungma instead.

The plan is not the goal.
The plan was never the goal.
The goal was the goal.

If the goal changes,
No matter how good the plan,
Change the plan.

So rejoice, grab your mule and climb your mountain.
Reaching the goal is your reward.
It matters not whether you wade through camel shit or mule shit to get there.

It’s Like Riding a Bicycle

by abclarke

Image result for man falling off bicycle

The surest way to fall is to stop moving forward.

Was It God?

by abclarke

Ant on blade of grass.

Each night Ant leaves the colony, treks through the field, finds a blade of grass, and climbs, climbs, climbs. 

Ant’s work for the day has passed, his burden lowered, the others sleep, and Ant is done, done, done.

In spiritual ecstasy, atop the spike, mandibles clamped tight, Ant waves his legs to pray, pray, pray.

Deep inside Ant knows he is part of something larger.
Deep inside Ant knows he serves a higher purpose.
Deep inside Ant knows he has been touched by God.
Deep, deep, deep.

Yet a small part of Ant niggles.
A small part of Ant nags.
A small part of Ant needles.
Burrowing doubt. Pernicious doubt. Malevolent doubt.

Was that moment when Ant felt one with everything truly God; or was it just a fluke?

Thoughts: #2

by abclarke

Had God made Dog in his own image, would angels smell each others butts?

Three Kings

by abclarke

Three kings entered the armory.

The first surveyed the room and alighted upon the Sword of Beauty. Picking up the jeweled hilt, and admiring the calligraphy on the blade, he proclaimed, “here is a sword worthy of my reign! The people will see it and rejoice.” And with that, he entered the arena.

The second surveyed the room and found the Sword of Humility. Grasping the wooden hilt, with its simple cross for a guard, he knelt and prayed, “Lord, may this sword represent that I am but a servant of my people.” And with that, he entered the arena.

The last surveyed the room, and went from sword to sword. Grasping each, he tossed it in his hand, swung once, swung twice, and put it down before moving to the next. Then silently selecting the one that killed best, he entered the arena and became king of them all.