If I Were



If I were sane, I maybe could explain,

What it is you want from me.


If I were blind, I could maybe find,

The words to tell you what I cannot see.


If I were weak, I maybe could not speak,

My mind and my thoughts.


Beyond your scope, beyond your hope,

Things that cannot ever be taught.


You are you, and I am not you,

Why can’t you see?


I maybe blind, but I can find,

The truth where we can just be.





Artificial World

001Seeing nothing and feeling even less, these people caught in the rip current of their world, a man-made representation, already overpopulated and sadly becoming more so at an alarming rate.

Overlaid with a veneer of what we feel our world should be, we vaguely remember and wonder at nature. Nature is wonderful, beautiful, and wild, as long as it is made of concrete or plastic wrapped for sanitation or displayed behind bars. We like to touch it but it had better not touch back! Spray it, mould it, rape it, 99.9% germ free but you should wear those gloves and face mask, just in case. “That person just shook my hand! Where is my sanitizing gel?”

When did this happen to us? We can never leave it alone, can we, we never could. Where has it gotten us? We are so far removed from our true nature, our birthright and our true home. We have become startled deer ,staring at certain death in a headlight so bright, the free will to escape is lost. We fight a lifelong battle for the illusion of control over a living force. A force that frequently, with a cursory pass of its hand or with a disgruntled sigh, vividly reminds us where control truly lies. Our memory is short and very selective.

To lay spread eagle in a green field on a sunny day with nothing providing input but senses that do not require batteries or recharging. Wanting more is highly overrated when needing less is truly what we require. Less material clutter and less distraction, not always feeling we need to acquire something. What hole are we trying to fill? Is time not the one thing we constantly complain about having too little of? What other dark, bottomless, insatiable void exists in our lives?

We are trying to shut off the outside world by providing constant noise, but how is that working for you? Stressed, nervous, tired, and uneasy? Shed the nihilistic blinders and try shutting out the illusion of the world we have created and open up to the world we were born into. A world that has been here long before you and I and which will remain long after our dust becomes a small part of that which we struggled against so futilely in life to be apart from.


Primordial Thought



Shapes becoming patterns, forming

Shifting and reforming

Changing thought and understanding, a new perspective

Almost an idea, not quite yet

A sense, a feeling, a primordial instinct


Information without content

Possible outcomes, with an absence of detail

One of many paths, endings, if understood

If acted upon correctly


When held to the light and studied

Nothing but ethereal vapor remains

In the time between time

Rare moments of lucidity

A glimpse of something unknown




Day and Night



This vaguest feeling of seeing,

only what you want me to see,

beyond this misty veil,

I sense there is more for me.


The slightest glimpse from the corner,

of my eye I sometimes see,

but when I turn it fades to gray,

a trick of light, it may be.


In dark of night, eyes open wide,

beyond the veil I see,

what daylight hides, in plain sight,

Slicing the veil, lucid and free.



All We Are


This piece is the result of various people providing their own lines and compiling the result as presented below.

Thank you everyone.



We are the gatherers, the collector of things

Cluttered junk obliges, for not always taking heed

Collecting much more than we can ever need

Forgotten mementos, stirring visions of glory

Each and every one, a memory in front of a story.


We are our past, remains among relics of material things

Our lives written in prose, verse and rhyme

Scene by scene, chapter by chapter, scribed in time

Shared memories; let’s see what the future holds

As present becomes past, and a future unfolds.


We are the authors, the writer of things

Searching through our reliquary when time allows

Glory days to warm our darkening nights we avow

To share a casual glance and a passing smile

As this train rumbles on mile after mile.




Chris Black

Roberta Seston

Stanley Fajans

Kevin Adams