Jan
12
1988

Of

by Stephen Messer

Of a place
That’s not this time;
Of a world,
That’s not this place;
Of an age
That’s not this space;
Of a world
That’s not this time.

Of a race
That’s not this sea;
Of a sphere
That’s not this plane;
Of a world
That’s not this race;
Of a boy
That is not me.

Of a body
That’s not this dust;
Of a mind
That’s not this sphere;
Of an age
That’s not this boy;
Of a drive
That’s not this lust.

Of a voice,
That’s not these words;
Of a touch
That’s not this sense;
Of a game
That’s not this life;
Of a war
That’s not this drive.

Of a flame
That’s not this mind;
Of a dust
That’s not this body;
Of a boy
That’s not this will;
Of a way
That’s not this time.

posted in Introspection, Metaphysical, Poems, Songs, Time | No Comments

Jan
05
1988

Feral

by Stephen Messer

Humans are the most unmerciful.
Humans have the least feeling.
Humans practise their cruelty
In all their human dealings.

Humans practise their cruelty
On their moralistic superiors,
But apply that insensitivity
To humans considered inferior.

Humans are human favorites
Thinking humans are the right kind,
But humans hate and corrupt each other.
Humans remain blind.

Humans are the most misguided.
Humans are the least concerned.
Humans are the most selfish.
Humans never learn.

Humans are the least sociable
Humans are of least regard.
Humans are the most ineffectual,
Except in despoiling all they have.

Humans despoil their own lives,
Their bodies and their lands.
Humans ruin most everything
That contacts human hands.

Humans ruin the lives of
Humans wherever they be,
Humans ruin animal lives,
Taking them inconcertedly.

Humans are truly feral,
Running rampant on this globe,
Plundering all without regard
For the welfare of their abode.

posted in Poems, Social | No Comments

Jan
05
1988

Humane

by Stephen Messer

Humane is a misused word
In the vocabulary of many,
For the human tenets which
It implies are lost in the case of men.

For no humans display a bestial simplicity
In performing only the acts they need,
Without inflicting undue suffering
On the recipients of their deeds.

And humans display a conscious cold
Selfishness and lack of feeling for any other,
Venting fears and greeds and lusts
In the persecutions of their brothers.

Bestial is misused too,
In the vocabularies of many,
For the habits of the beast
Which it implies are found only in men.

For the beast displays a humane simplicity
In killing only what it needs,
And no emotionally induced suffering
Is involved in any deed.

And no beast displays conscious cold
Selfishness and lack of feeling for another,
Which man so aptly practices in
The persecution of his brothers.

posted in Poems, Social, Songs | No Comments

Jan
02
1988

Room

by Stephen Messer

No one enters this room
No one knows;
No persons have the knowledge
Of this room
Where no one goes.
No one looks inside,
Nobody peeks.
No persons have the awareness
That it takes.

No one leaves the room
That no one knows;
No persons have the knowledge
That it takes
To go on home.
No one looks outside
Nor takes a peek,
For the awareness to do that
The people lack.

No one is outside this room
That they know not.
No persons have the knowledge
Of any rooms,
E’en what they’ve got.
Nobody doesn’t look inside
But they don’t see.
And nobody looks outside this room,
They say can’t be.

posted in Metaphysical, Poems, Social | No Comments

Dec
16
1987

I Have

by Stephen Messer

I have the knowledge but not the cognizance:
I know, but do not understand.

I have the want but not the will:
I want, while still willing otherwise.

I have the path but am not on the way:
I move, but don’t move on.

I have no lies, but not the truth:
I lie, but not without the truth.

I have no dark, but not the Light:
I see, but only see with eyes.

I have issued Thoughts, but only with thinking:
I think, but not in balanced forms.

I have not been lost, but have not been found:
I seek, but find it hard to find.

I know of truth, but think with lies:
I know, but do not understand.

posted in Introspection, Metaphysical, Poems, Songs | No Comments

Dec
14
1987

Wind

by Stephen Messer

I love to hear the wind roar,
Sitting protected,
Sheltered.

I love to feel the wind’s roar,
Huddling, unprotected.

I love to live this earth’s fury,
And that is why I’m here,
For I’ve not yet learned to
Love my selves,
Or love the rest,
Which is all that can set me free.

posted in Introspection, Oceans, Poems | No Comments

Dec
12
1987

Am I Living?

by Stephen Messer

Is it a distant part in which I live?
Distant, though
Not extant,
But in the labyrinth of
Distant, extant
Feelings.
Is it that distant part that thrives
Within the distant parts of
My own being?

Or is it a distant part that exists
In the very near
And very close
And inseparable
Part of me
That is unknown to me.

Could I be living in
Myself?
All that lies in the farthest
Reaches of my being
Can be reached
Only by my self,
And exists only
Through my experience of it.

Through my experience
Anything can exist,
Anything can be
And everything in
My experience is.

I live through my distant parts,
The distant memories,
The distant hopes,
The distant fears,
The distant facts:
Too distant to be now realized,
Though facts they remain.

Those distant parts,
My memories,
Are as distant as tomorrow,
But as close as now.
Through and with and in
Them I live.

Through and with and in
Them I experience,
And thereby add
To them.

Through and with and in
Them I am,
For I am through and with
And in them.
And I am them.

posted in Introspection, Metaphysical, Poems | No Comments

Dec
01
1987

Moving Mountains, Shadowing Lights

by Stephen Messer

A time has come that had been expected,
A time that all may expect, and all must succumb to;
But a time that few will embrace so graciously,
And with such honour and remembrance as our friend.

That time arrived and passed all but unnoticed.
Though expected and accepted,
It was unanticipated so soon.
That unnoticed moment, though alone it passed,
Heralded a farther reaching and much greater
Portion of time in which his
Loved and loving friends
Will have only the memory,
No more the company;
Only the love,
No more his laughs;
Only the friendship,
No more the friend;
Only the Light,
No more this life.

Never did he move a mountain,
But never did he Shadow the Light.
Here is not appropriate
For discussion of the virtues,
Nor the discussion of the health,
Of the history or the vices,
For virtues are virtues,
And vices, vices:
History was set,
And could not be changed,
Any more than could a future.

But we, his loved and loving friends,
Need not discuss what we all knew:
His love, his Light, and his Life,
For all we knew we always have.
And we, his loved and loving friends,
Need discuss more what we have:
Our own Love, our Light, and our Life,
For that which we have is his always.

posted in Introspection, Poems | No Comments

Dec
01
1987

A Trojan

by Stephen Messer

Each day passes,
Passes, long, long and hard.
As here we toil relentlessly,
Through an undergrowth
Of an underhanded scheme of life
In this underworld:
This world.
Toil and tribulation,
Struggle and pain,
In each day passing.
Toil and tribulation
For pathetic gain.
Toil and tribulation
In each god-sent daily gift.

I am told each day is a
God sent gift,
And life is a gift of god.

But this gift,
This deific offering from this
God is the very thing
That holds us,
Keeps us, takes us
And rapes us.
For with each day
Comes the toiling,
The tribulation,
The strife and pain.
Each day brings
Far far less worth
Than we could gain,
Or should be gaining.

Each gift from God,
Each day, is as the
Trojan gift,
A gift longed for and
Desired with all our
Energy,
That once accepted brings
More pain, more delusion,
More disharmony than
We ever could have
Imagined.

It was a gift from the
God of our Selves,
So well accepted
That now we have become
Engrossed in that gift.

We have lost the contact of the
Worlds outside this deific gift
Of life, the gift of each
Day we experience, the gift of
Each day of pain and struggle
And Loss.

This gift could be good.
It is what we do with the gift of
Life that makes it good or bad.
We must realize and experience the
Goodness of this gift before we
Can be relieved of this trojan
Gift of Life.

posted in Metaphysical, Poems | No Comments

Nov
24
1987

Sometimes I Feel

by Stephen Messer

Sometimes I feel like the hierophant;
Sometimes I feel like the healer.
Sometimes I feel sort of strange;
Sometimes I feel like a stranger.

Sometimes I feel like the animal;
Sometimes, I feel like the fool.
And sometimes I feel like I’m fleshless,
Sometimes I feel I could rule.

Sometimes I feel like I’m feeling;
Sometimes I feel I’m not there.
Sometimes I feel like I’m living;
Sometimes I really don’t care.

Sometimes I feel like a teacher,
But always, I’ve so much to learn.
Sometimes I feel like a winner,
And sometimes I feel I’ll return.

Sometimes I feel like the judge;
But always, I feel I’m on trial.
Sometimes, I know all I know,
And other times I’d forgotten why.

Sometimes I feel like I’m feeling;
Sometimes I feel it’s not fair.
Sometimes I feel like I’m living;
Sometimes I feel I don’t care.

Sometimes a part of me is crying.
Sometimes, that part I would shed.
Always a part of me is dying;
Always a part of me is dead.

Always a part of me is living.
That part I’ll find in time’s end.
But sometimes a part of me’s not giving my all,
And that part I’ll find in my end.

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

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