I carve a space apart from crowded light;

No clinging vine can steal these quiet skies —

A boundary blooms in measured, sacred sight.

Not a wild bramble seeking all to claim,

But roots that delve into the years I’ve seen;

I prune the thickets that once fed my shame,

And see self-regard sprout a tender green.

Each petal pressed against a guarded gate,

A quiet promise whispered through the leaves;

Within this plot, my worth may find its shape,

A sovereign bloom that softly dares to breathe.

Here, in the hush of my recovered ground,

I tend a garden where the truth abounds.

low and lost beneath the wheels

till mirror-weary eyes are caught

snared by some past lapsed ideal

-

Be present always in the moment

a chain assembled link by link

Live without need for atonement

Just do the next right thing

-

A glance back at abandoned paths

can enlighten through dysfunction

but gazing on regrets rehashed

is an impotent seduction

-

Be present always in the moment

resisting the sirens of the brink

Live without need for atonement

Just do the next right thing

-

The tar horizon smoothly soothes

the monotony hypnotic

the rear view flashing with abuse

obsessive and neurotic

-

Be present always in the moment

even if scars swell and sting

Live without need for atonement

Just do the next right thing

-

Straightened sights upon the goal

the driver keeps command

not permitting his past to control

the placement of his hands

-

Be present always in the moment

Winter will succumb to Spring

Live without need for atonement

Just do the next right thing

The next right thing

or compass to know North

The stars may seem to be our last

best hope to steer our course

Trusting somehow with a squint

that a pattern will coalesce

Some direction or trifling hint

of a deep, divine caress

But the constellation of our fate

lies in mankind’s own design

Method madness, loving hate

and not how skies align

Even castaway, adrift at sea

wrapped round a shattered mast

if this despair was meant to be

no matter how deep or vast

the ocean of our current tide

will surf up on the sand

having washed away our misspent pride

to convey the promised land

A confused, oblique conviction

Revering bygone relic rules

that creak with contradiction

-

Stories too dear to dispute

We echo benediction

Serving mainly to subdue

our mental manumission

-

For they make kings of the cruel

in man’s constant affliction

The few to rule over the fuel

in ambition and addiction

-

Away from the sandal circle groove

the cycled superstition

A faint track shows us where to move

to escape predisposition

-

In doubt alone resides the truth

in much-maligned suspicion

Accepting something, given proof

and precise repetition

-

Though answers may yet be aloof

resisting all decryption

hunger blights the tainted fruit

of the garden of tradition

bought with the thought to be filled

with quarrels and footfalls and shouts

grow deafening when it is still

to rouse us from our sleep

Making manifest for all to know

the truths we buried deep

Unconsciously, we dreamed on foot

as we shambled in a daze

pretending that we understood

our way out of the maze

From blind to blind, we were resigned

to clench out eyelids tight

and floundered as we were designed

in darkness, towards the light

But in our hands, we held the key

to open up the door

that, when cracked, would let us see

the path ahead, and more

A fragile oval gripped in fear

but fertilized with fate

into the seed of new frontiers

where man is free from hate

The time will come for the cock to crow

after hatching from his shell

Then we’ll realize how sparsely known

was our world and yes, ourselves

his fist a shaking grip

retracing his favored disguise:

the smirk upon his lip

A pantomime of mockery,

reflected in the glass

mirroring improperly

his own inner morass

Attempting to escape his flaws,

he tries to hide their form

Concealing his true face because

it looks at him with scorn

But deep beneath antipathy,

that layer he won’t brave

a craving for self-sympathy

the prospect to be saved

Spasms trapped in spiraling

eddies of old selves

resurfacing and cycling

in devastating swells

They crash and spill over the sides

of each wall he has built

as merciless as rising tides

or everlasting guilt

Too numb to contemplate the plunge,

he rehearses tired lines

wishing that he could expunge

the depths of his own mind.

We flirt with pharaoh’s wrap

A mesmerizing mystery

Mistaken for a trap

A scan, perhaps, for silken thread

While treasures cloaked within

Are dismissed with a doleful dread

As momentary whims

In darkened corners, swept away

Those cobwebbed, orphan thoughts

Gems deemed unfit for display

And gold mixed in with dross

Instead, we stagger at the cost

Of rejecting common coins

Worn faces that remain embossed

With echoes of old noise

Our fortune’s failure to entice

Leaves the future derelict

Convinced that habits will suffice

We assemble our own crypt

pretend you have extra lives

and strategy guides

Their ruthless, mouthless faces

count down our hours.

Stopwatch (a haiku) was originally published in Poetry in Form on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.