Gathered on This Beach: Poems & Perspectives for a Converging World

differing instinct

To run at the bright day –

Long hands trembling, glittering deeps in the keen eyes –

It could always be the last.

The body in the small room charges fast,

A flash of focus, a stare into within

To yield out secrets from loose thoughts

And arrange them, through the mind machine;

Craft the notions through pen-nails, slow-sinking, into the self;

Straining it all into the material.

Should one be as the rest? – Under the simple sun outside

Their busy souls sound and seem untouched, unknown

Amid the music of The Doors.

Painting and the poetry of passion, belly of fire

For form and the excitement of ideas,

The objective to become a someone

Stumbling for a hidden whole, for all the souls of men

Thrown outwards in a paper-flesh

While knowing of death, hearing mortality in a shell -

The cool hushed roar of air against the head -

While maybe never knowing the total, sudden rush

Of this world's instinctive-ness, and its savage bliss

Hidden in the instinctive, strange search for one's own.