John P. Dunphy
Published by
BLAST PRESS
U.S.A.
http//:come.to/gregglory
All works herein © 2001 John P. Dunphy
Evolution Revolution
(page number)
Creation
(“ “)
Why I Write
Late Spring In My Mind
Sticks and Stones
“Why should the heart not dance?”
“I was opening and closing doors.”
The Spinning Wheel
“We all wear masks”
Waits By The Window
Blessed Fool
Real You
Purest, Truest Form
for Virginia:
true believer, mother, friend.
“No one leaves you when they live in your heart and mind.” - Marillion
I thought about something the other day
and if both sides would agree to stop arguing I might share it with you,
the both of you.
Am I the only one that sees this?
Could evolution and creation get along in peace?
Could both one day sit at the same table,
break bread, laugh, talk current events?
Can they both live under the same roof?
Can it be that the mind, the spirit, soul, aura, whatever one may call it,
is in fact creation, from a higher plane our current limits limit us to see?
Can it then be said the body is a vessel, crafted to house a certain spirit, soul,
You?
Could these vessels have changed over the years ... evolved over the endless years ...
Can it then be said that both evolution and creation may exist
Not just one or the other?
Am I the only one here or do I have your attention?
Then let's begin ...
In the beginning
I
Created
The world.
From the mind onto the canvas,
I laid out the groundwork
Ever so lovingly out of
Absolutely nothing.
I began with the lands which rolled
Up and down, inside-out
Stretching from horizon to horizon
Until I had deemed that they were worthy to bear my name.
I created life giving water,
That which could feed my world.
I formed birds, frogs, deer, more then I can remember!
I created as many creatures as my mind could allow.
They danced and played among themselves,
Singing their own private songs of delight.
Then I made man, who roamed free among these lands.
I shaped him in my own hallowed visage.
He danced among the animals that danced and played
And created on their own.
For a time, he was happy.
But man, despite his busy days at play
Found that he was still very lonely.
So I created woman
Shaped in the image of perfection
For whom he could talk with into the darkest spot of night.
They spoke about their innermost thoughts and wants
Shared their feelings of everything in their lives.
They became as one under the stars,
Blending with the shadows of nightfall and created on their own.
And when I had deemed that my creation,
After the hours and days I had spent ever so lovingly
Was worthy to bear my name, I turned off the computer, stretched my limbs,
And got a cup of coffee.
Because it’s so hard to speak and sound like I have any clue what I am saying.
To be able to screw up a sentence, go back, make right.
To never at all let anyone know
That I actually have no idea where this may lead.
I write because I don’t know …
Maybe I never will
Maybe I will, far into this book.
By then it’s pages will have yellowed but held
Be brittle but strong
Flutter in the wind but still hold the knowledge
of a lifetime of words
on paper, created from nothing but
a thought, a dream from me, my desires and my pen.
To say that this before me, this which I have created
Is worthy to bear my name, and to know that I have done my best.
Then finally, confident in my work,
to move on to something new.
Start the creation cycle again.
That is why I write.
To play God? Maybe.
Maybe to breathe life into something that once was nothing.
So someday that nothing can become great, and in return,
be able to breathe life into me.
I’m thinking
I’m thinking about a place that does not really exist
A place only seen by one who is blind
A place that rests somewhere behind the garbage, the filth, and the shit
In the corner of my mind
It resides where no one would think to look
Where only those needing more have chanced to peek.
I’ve seen what resides behind the mire of inside and I want to go in.
In this place within my thoughts it’s late spring in a wood,
Dusk coming down bouncing off of water nearby
Shining through the shade trees beside.
I am on the ground, my arms around my bent legs.
The only sounds are of birds, frogs, insects and I am alone in blissful loneliness.
But it’s not loneliness that brings sorrow
It is loneliness that brings spirits closer to one another.
Alone, in this vision I see,
All alone, where I have wanted to be...
I roll around on the soft grass by the lake,
By the birds that rest on branches in trees.
The sun is falling further now; the wood fills with more noises
Of nightfall, of darkness.
Darkest spots of the surrounding wood are dotted with tiny, glowing embers,
Moving through the woods all around me.
There are hundreds of these little spots of fire
But they don’t burn, they dance happily, contently within the wood
Going their way as I go mine.
The moon is now upon us, casting its reflection down into the water.
I think about this sight that I see
Knowing this is where I can be free ...
Sleep comes so much easier in this place
Than when I was in my room
Staring at red numbers in black
2:33,
2:33,
2:33, …
2:34 …
I don’t look at the time here, I look at the sky,
I look until I cannot keep my eyes open, I look until there is no reason.
I look until I am asleep.
Sleep comes so much easier in this place
I don’t even think about it.
In this place where I need to be.
In this place, this world for me.
Somewhere in the back of my mind,
Behind the rot, the refuge and the remorse
Is a place only seen by one who is blind
Blind out here, but inside that one can see
Far better than you, than me,
A world of magic that only exists in our minds,
That can only be found if at last we were blind.
Because while we would be blind to this life we are in
We could finally see what waits for us within.
You don’t realize how much impact your words really have.
Not the ones you say to me,
the ones you say to yourself.
A casual jibe, spoken in jest.
“Means nothing, they’re just words.”
I can hear you pulling out the mechanical response,
the ultimate answer.
But it’s not as easy as saying,
”Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never
hurt me.”
Sometimes words mean more than you let on.
Sometimes words are tied to branches
and are quickly followed
By boulders.
Why should the heart not dance?
What holds us from happiness?
Are we blocked from the light of morning, the end of the day,
The star struck night and the dew on grass blades?
Why should the heart not sing?
Is there any rule that states that smiles, ear to ear
Should be banned from here? That no one should
Laugh and jump between the trees of the forest, at night,
without fear?
Why should the heart not cry when it wants to?
Why can’t the heart be free?
Why should the heart not be what it wants
Not just what it’s told it should be?
Why should the heart not dance?
Did we forget that the point to life is life?
Let it dance in the open, dance madly in moonlight
In the garden beyond our realities
In the garden of forever
That is buried within our dreams.
“I was opening and closing doors”
I was opening and closing doors. As soon as I opened one door, I would open the next, only to close it and open another one. I flicked on a switch in each room and a light from some unknown source would greet me. Each rooms lighting was stranger than the next going from a purple to blue to green to yellow to white and back around and around and around and around. I kept on opening and closing doors, I kept on flicking on lights, off lights, opening and closing doors, wondering where all of this was taking me. Where was I going? I kept opening and closing doors, closing them a little harder each time I had to close yet another door. The habit of turning on the lights was so mundane that I didn’t notice that they were getting dimmer and dimmer each time I turned the lights from an unknown source on and off as soon as I had to close that fucking door and open another one. The doors started spraying splinters from the force each time I closed yet another goddamn door, the lights were surging and popping, hissing from an unknown source, sending smoke into my nostrils, but I ignored it. I didn’t notice that the doors were falling off of their hinges each time I SLAMMED them home, I didn’t notice that nothing happened when I turned the lights on and off, I didn’t notice that there was nothing but black which greeted me every time I opened another door. I was opening and closing doors so much it was like breathing. I didn’t think, I didn’t falter, like breathing I just did it. I was screaming at the ceiling, knowing there would be no reply, which is how I wanted it to be. I was opening and closing another door. I was ripping off the handles when I opened yet another door. Doors were falling to the ground every time I would slam them closed. I was ignoring the lights, not because they didn’t work but because I didn’t care. I was opening and closing doors. I knew the pattern so well, it was just like breathing. I was opening and closing doors, flicking on lights from an unknown source, noticing the colors of the lights every time I turned on another one, from white to yellow to green to blue to purple again and again. I was opening and closing another door, I was making sure I didn’t slam the door too loud. Each door closed smoother than the next. I opened and closed another door, washing myself in a gray tone each time I opened and closed another door. I opened and closed another door, I did it without conviction as I opened and closed another door. I turned on another switch and bathed in a dull gray glow. I was in a groove, a niche, a method, no matter; a din, a ditch, my life was a pattern. I opened and closed another door, turned on another light, smiled an idiot’s smile every time I opened and closed another door, making sure to lock each door after I had closed it tight, making sure the light was off before I opened another door and closed another door. Never thinking of an alternative, a change from opening and closing another door, turning on another light, swimming in a stream of lifeless grays and fog, and never, not even once, thinking to turn, open a window, and escape this monotonous dream.
Does time move in circles,
Does it move from left to right?
Is it smoke, a puff in the air, gone?
Don’t know where to begin, where to end,
if I should even start?
This question of time is human,
is time really here... are we?
Does time move in circles
If so, will what has gone around go around again (and again)?
Will I see old friends, reinvent the past, know the future?
If time moved in circles wouldn't that all be possible
'cos what has come will come around again (and again)?
Many say that we don't possess the knowledge to unlock such a
riddle, that we’re not ready for the combination.
Will I ever possess that knowledge in my lifetime?
Will I have a chance to possess it
in another?
Does time even exist?
A myth in our minds as I've heard some say before.
They said that time wasn't real, that we created the illusion
to cope with absolute freedom of existence.
Without the restriction of time, our limited selves
couldn’t cope couldn't deal
and we'd soon fall off the wheel, into the black.
Might that not be so bad?
Are we ready to get off the spinning wheel?
Could we find something secure to hold onto until we’re ready
for the truth?
I suppose not since we’re still asking a question that has
no answer,
No answer for us, not for now.
I don’t want to jump off this wheel if I’m not sure what’s out there,
at least not yet, maybe soon.
But for now, I’ll keep on asking,
and this wheel can just keep on spinning.
We all wear masks for our different scenes
We all hide some part of ourselves.
For the scene in town, we put on our casual mask.
We slip that one off and put on the
Smoother, contoured mask,
For the scene on the balcony with
The girl in the white sweater and fishnet stockings.
We put on the dour mask, the one with
Tears etched into its surface
For the death scene, the final curtain.
Everyone does it, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
You just have to know which masks work for which scene
But when the play is over, remember to take them and put them back in the
Dressing room.
They are on rental you know.
Window sill at dusk.
Thin curtains sway slightly in the breeze of autumn.
Not a word spoken, just breathing,
Breathing in of the early October evening,
Cool, clear air.
Your head would turn at every sound,
The house settling, the neighbor’s cat, pining,
The dryer buzzing, it was time to remove the clothes.
Yet you didn’t leave your assigned post
That which you had assigned yourself at the window sill.
When Lacey Anderson knocked on the front door
And asked if her father could use your rake
You didn’t move, you just said, from the window,
“Maybe later.”
The only two things that would move you
Telephone calls and “Special Reports from the front lines” on Channel 4
Came far less frequent than you had hoped.
So you stayed by the window sill, waited
As the sun dipped completely behind the other houses on Ocean Avenue
As the moon crept in on the sky, you remained unmoved.
The dark cars slipped past your window sill, the people walked in, walked out,
In garb of night, In veils over eyes, In tears and cries.
You remained by the window.
You were not about to let him down.
Mr. Anderson softly knocked on your door,
More a formality than a necessity because he immediately let himself in afterwards.
He had a look of worry that the strongest bravado failed to mask
And asked if you wanted to come over for dinner at his house
To celebrate Lacey’s High School Graduation
But you were assigned a post,
A watch over the window sill and responded with a half-minded
“Maybe later.”
There was a time for fun and there was a time for watch
You feared the moment that when you left your post, the call would come,
The announcement on Channel 2
That an accord had been established would flash on the screen , or the car,
That shining black Chevrolet that had come before would come down
Ocean Avenue and you could finally remove yourself from the window sill,
Pull out those clean clothes from the dryer
That would be ready for that exact moment.
Lacey came over as the sun was rising,
Trying to adjust her shirt over her bulging belly
A shower wouldn’t be at all fun without you, she said,
But you had to wait at the window sill, you had to wait by the phone
And the TV, you had to wait for the news from the frontlines,
So you responded with a curt,
“Maybe later.” and returned your full attention to the window sill,
Breathed in the thick, summer air, squinted at the sun which lightly kissed the house
Directly in front of yours,
Quickly dismissed the shouts from outside
From Lacey Anderson-Moore that she would visit from time to time to see
How you were doing, how you were feeling.
None of that mattered, all that mattered was that
Soon, very soon, you could finally get down from the seat at the window sill,
Because your attention would no longer be needed.
The whiff of smoke, almost enough to dismiss it came to your nose.
The TV gave a small squeal, said goodbye and shut down,
Letting out one last poof from its hind.
Did not matter, you thought as you waited by the window.
The news coverage has never been good,
They never report to the people back home about the crisis on the front lines
About those that still need to come home.
They had never given you what you need to know. Better off without them.
“What would be great would be if this girl would stop crying!”
You thought as Lacey told her two children to go play outside.
She kept talking about how much her father loved your boy,
How good a kid he was.
She blew her nose into one of your tissues and told how
Her father used to say what a nice person you were,
How you always were a good neighbor, a loving soul.
She said that she would say a kind word in your name for her father
When she went to the funeral.
None of this mattered though as you waited, looked out, took your blood pressure pills Without taking your eyes off of Ocean Avenue at dusk.
Looked across the street to the coffee bar and wondered if anyone could find the house
With that ugly strip mall across the street.
“Getting tired”, you thought as you waited by the window.
You had done a great job manning the post,
Never straying, always waiting for the moment when you could get
A clean set of clothes out for the moment when everything would be good again.
It wouldn’t be too bad to just rest for a moment.
Sitting by the
window, never abandoning your post, it can stiffen ones bones.
”I’ll just lay down on the floor for a second”,
You thought as you settled down on the pea soup green rug.
Julia and her mother
Lacey came in, knelt beside you and closed your eyes.
”What are you doing?” you said as they turned and walked out of the house.
What if he came home and you couldn’t see him?
“I was only sitting for a minute! I swear I was going to get back up in a second!”
You cried out as two strangers manhandled you into some bag,
Closed it up.
“I can’t see!” you cried. “I can’t see! Stop!”
The two strangers took you away from your post, away from the window sill,
Out of your home.
You tried so hard to get free but couldn’t… and no matter how hard
You squeezed your closed eyes, you just couldn’t cry.
All you could do was think,
“You can’t take me away from the window! I’m waiting for my son to come home!”
Maybe later.
I was looking at some old poems
Just a few scribbled in some notebook
Reading them to myself, turning their words around in my head, I realized something:
they were written in a time of ignorance.
Girls who rejected my smitten advances my job my age.
The kind of stuff you would expect your typical teen to write about
Before the heartbreak, the real heartbreak.
Not girls I thought I was in love with when all it really was
was lust, blind and brief.
Before the roller coaster of emotions.
Before the end of innocence.
They were times when all the big problems could do was piss you off.
Before the big problems could change your world.
It was a time when the smallest insults seemed so serious
While, in truth, they were nothing more than
scraped elbows, bruised egos.
I was looking at some old poems
In some ways, not very old
In others, older than recorded time.
I looked at them and smiled
Instead of feeling the ache of what can never be again.
Even if I can never experience such a simple life now,
At least I had the fortune of having it then as opposed to never having it at all.
I closed the notebook, looked up, and smiled.
I smiled at what a fool I was what a blessed fool.
I really like Deep Forest.
I don’t know what kind of person that makes me
But I really like Deep Forest, all the same.
Sweet Lullaby, their biggest hit, can be heard playing in the background
As you sit at the table opposite mine.
Your hair, a honey sweetened blonde softly tumbles down
Your milky-white cheeks.
Your makeup is enough as to be an enhancement, not a repellent
And every so often, you let out a small
Polite
But alarmingly disarming laugh
So subtle, yet, so very powerful.
Your eyes are crystalline blue
So commanding that they force me to rethink what I am doing today
Tomorrow
Forever.
You’re unlike any creature I have seen before.
Do you like Deep Forest?
Your beauty must only be matched by your exquisite taste in music.
Your collection must be stained with class and style and elegance …
You could teach me things with your music.
The jukebox switches CD’s
You instantly recognize Eminem’s “The Real Slim Shady”
And begin bobbing your head in a rhythmic up and down motion
While you sling ethnic slurs at your friend
Who has just walked in.
With my fantasy dissolved into cold egg-yokes,
I drop a five on the table, leave the diner and get into my car.
As I’m driving off, I see this stunning woman
Getting out of her Honda Civic.
Her hair is a fiery enchanted crimson…
… I wonder if she likes Deep Forest?
Removal of layers of eternal build up of emotion.
Shedding skins that hold you within
from that simplest form of you.
Uninhibited, inspired
That which melts through walls, wrapped in sheer mist and stars.
Come to me,
bleed through the earth and meet me at my eyes
Pop the top off my soul like a can of Chicken Noodle Soup
Warm me in your hands
drink me down.
Change how I think, how I perceive the world.
Free this inner spirit, let it dance
Wild,
Mad,
Undomesticated.
The purity of simple existence with you.
Beyond material, mass and the mundane
in the garden.
Step upon the greenest grass in this Eden.
Dance with me, free with me,
In our purest, truest form that cannot be explained with words,
But with thoughts, realization, ultimate understanding
Of joy, of life,
and of the forgotten art of being.