Aug
16
1988

Lifted

by Stephen Messer

As a sun’s light first appears,
Through the grey of night’s quiescence
And whatever fleecy clouds there are
Burst forth in luminescence;

And the morn’s own colored rainbow
Goes from Grey to Gold to Blue
Before these, the earthly eyes of man
As the skies do change their hue.

Lit buy a new light’s radiance
A new wonderous day unfurls,
Arousing dream-ridden sleepy heads
From their safe little dream worlds.

There is a morning feeling
When in morning skies we’re lifted
To where we’ve looked out far and wide
Across the earth with which we’re gifted.

Always it should be morning
No matter what time of day,
Or what of life’s repercussions
That morning feeling should stay.

Always it is the morning,
Somewhere on this spinning globe,
So always should the morning feeling
Fill our days with hope.

There is a morning feeling
When in morning skies we’re lifted –
A feeling of our satisfaction
With the life with which we’re gifted.

posted in Introspection, Poems | No Comments

Aug
03
1988

Vitality

by Stephen Messer

I see false vitality
Here in this –
A place where lost angels
Scurry from the unreasonability of
Their own existence.

Flurried, they pant and rave and
Protest and act,
Wander and accuse,
Wail and torment
Their tormented selves.

I don’t see life –
I see struggle.
I don’t see harmony –
I see opposites separate
And disappear into some other tomorrow’s
Yesterday.

I see
False vitality in the deathbed
Throes of a languished people,
An anguished people,
Sanguinary beings,
Not sanguine people.

False vitality
From a people forged
Of their own
Unreasonability.

posted in Poems, Social, Songs | No Comments

Jul
29
1988

Rolling

by Stephen Messer

In constant revolution the world still turns as
It revolves around and around,

The world does not turn around, but constantly rolls over,
And over and over,
The world rolls,
And we roll with the punches too.

We’re all rolling with punches and with a world
And rolling as only we know how.

posted in Poems, Social | No Comments

Jul
29
1988

Limerick

by Stephen Messer

I thought up the name of a limerick one day
But never could find quite the right way
To express such humour
(I’m a late bloomer)
In a way to bring laughs into such dull days.

I never quite seemed to get the rhyming right
And the rhythm – well a black man I know I ain’t
But what saved the day
So my friends say
Are these two silly stupid little rhyming lines that always seem
so tacky and corny and contrived in little ridiculous limericks that half
the time aren’t even funny but just plain stupid anyway.

posted in Poems, Social | No Comments

Jul
25
1988

Midnight Moment

by Stephen Messer

In a quietly shattered
Midnight moment
The hum and drone
Of the humdrum city
Is momentarily
Drowned by the noise
Of the stars.

I muse on life’s little
Pleasantries,
Such as listening
To the song
Of the stars.

The noise of the
Stars and the
Wail of the moon
Clenched in
Imaginary pleasantries
Of mind,

Where a mind is a
Haven of pleasantries,
As well as a den of despair.

Suddenly stopped the song of the stars.

posted in Introspection, Poems | No Comments

Jul
22
1988

Temporary

by Stephen Messer

My screams are loud as melting snow,
My thoughts, as silent as thunder.
My sight is as clear as the mist and fog,
My vision, as clouded as space.
My touch extends as far as my fingertips,
My feeling, as close as the sun.
My life is as permanent as sandcastles,
And I am as ephemeral as the rock.

posted in Introspection, Poems, Social, Time | No Comments

Jul
22
1988

I See Movement

by Stephen Messer

Waves are only waves
until they break;
yet waves are always waves.

I sense
a ceaseless movement:
a constancy of change.

I am only me,
until no more I walk;
yet I am always I.

I see movement in
shifting sands and waves.
I feel life’s impermanence,
death’s omnipotence.
I know my own
evanescence and the
permanence of my Self.

Buildings fade and crumble,
shores washed away.

I see time, I see life,

I see movement.

posted in Introspection, Kisner Collection, Oceans, Songs, Time | No Comments

Jul
07
1988

I see people

by Stephen Messer

I see people
Herded like molecules,
Gathered like cells of
A cancerous mass.

I see people
Growing
Inconcertedly,
Expanding uncontrolled.

I see people,
Replacing:
Trees animals forests woods rivers valleys oceans.

I see people
An insidious mass
Lacking in concern
Overwhelmed by desires,
But with desires
Overwhelmed by
Lack of concern.

I see people.
I see death and dying
Disease and decay
Struggle and suffering
Imposed and subsumed.

I see people.

I close my eyes.

I still see people.

posted in Introspection, Poems, Social | No Comments

Jun
10
1988

So Innocent, So Beautiful

by Stephen Messer

There was a part of my memory that was
So innocent, so beautiful.
It was a part that I ventured into often,
And venture there yet, for it remains
A memory.

Its innocence was before the understanding
Of life; its beauty was before the understanding
Of death. I venture there yet, for it remains
A memory.

It remains an experience.
It remains a growing pain,
Painfully innocent,
Painfully beautiful.
It remains a memory,
So innocent, so beautiful.

I would relive that memory,
But the innocence is gone.
I now understand why,
So there can be no innocence.
I realize how, so there can be no beauty.

The innocence and beauty of an untold love,
Bound up in experimental desire,
Are now replaced by a constricting freedom.
A freedom that comes with understanding,
But prevents any innocence,
Precludes any beauty.

The only innocence or beauty are to be
Found in my freedom to love, and love still.

I am still free to love.
Still, I live.

So innocent, so beautiful:
Life, but not me.

posted in Poems | No Comments

May
23
1988

Getting Old

by Stephen Messer

You’re getting pretty old, mate,
And so am I, I know.
We’re getting on in years, mate,
But enjoyin’ ’em as we go.

We’re still climbing up the hill, mate,
Trudging along as life, she goes.
There’s still a long way left, mate,
But just how far, God only knows.

It won’t matter how old we get, mate
We’ll never reach the top.
You just add one every year, mate,
And we’ll think we’re young until we drop.

It’s been too many years, mate,
Since you blinked and I was gone.
And I don’t know as much about you, mate,
As I did in those days long gone.

I don’t quite know how your feelings run –
Don’t know your hopes and fears.
I don’t know how your life’s been, mate,
From the time that I’ve been here.

But I do know you and me, mate,
Are still the best that we could be.
And it doesn’t matter how old we get, mate,
Because as friends, we know what friendship means.

posted in Introspection, Poems, Social | No Comments

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