In The Nothing New

The nothing new
Drags on and on, again
And nothing true
is found in the mundane

In pursuit of
a desert waterfall
an arctic dove
A red phone midnight call

The same drags... no
it flies, as it lugs me
going... to go
for reasons I can't see

On and on, so
I can't stop and reflect,
On I must go
Thoughts and depth I neglect

And the sun shines
On all the nothing new
And my heart whines,
All it sees is dark blue

Thoughts and what's true
Don't see the light of day
Like my eyes do
When you are in the fray...
Turned to a mush of grey...

In the rat--
On the tread--

Breaking Down...

When the clicking clock of the processor,
That damned silicone chip,
Turns it all to an anxious mushy grey

The new grey of our modern,
Progressing and ever better lives

The glow that lets us know
That everything is fine
And even better
Especially if we doubt

The doubt makes us thirsty
For the ever something new
That makes even more of us click away
Anxiously in that chip

Caged in our chase
For the better
That will make us new
And make us complete

But to my soul...
And for the workings of my mind
It is all nothing new
And that is at best...
Likely, something worse.

True Listening, True Poetry

Poetry is dead
when no one understands
     the wording.

When they understand
the ideas before
   their reading,

The language conforms
to what they thought before
     the meeting.

Their minds colonize
the language and lands
     of meaning.

They twist and shape it
in their unknowing hands
     defeating;

The skill and wisdom
that's trying to do more
    than speaking.

The writer uses
words to do much more
    than sharing.
   
The lines are crafted
To open a new door
     For thinking.

Their world challenged
If they will leave their shore
    Of meaning.

If they take the leap
And attend to the chore
    Of reading.

Of reading the world...
the words and so much more:
     The being.

Then does poetry
Show us brand new lands...
When we are at our core
    Listening.