The Dreaming Soil

The wolf sees the man as meat

A means to hunger’s end

The x-ray sees the man as bone

What he is, but does not comprehend

The fly sees the man as stone

Ancient beyond the fly’s years

The worm waits for the man to be soil

Oblivious to any and all of his fears

The soil is a measure of time

Baking under the blazing unforgiving sun

The worms live in the layers of history

Where everything silently dreams as one

Gene G. McLaughlin 2016

I Was Here For a Time

I was here for a time

The worlds rages repeated

On this earth for a time

All our dark themes repeated

In quiet moments of grace

These hard truths receded

I was left with that

Which glows in my mind

The passions I have felt

The ties that bind

The love that turns the third eye

To seeing from blind

The war and stuggle can rage around me

The tolls and losses can mount

I will hold the suffering I see

Equally with joys my mind can count

Gene G. McLaughlin 2015

Outside of Time

I like that there was a time like that

Even if it is not mine

I like that there was a place like that

Amid the ruins of time

I like that love existed

Between those I shall never know

I like there are those that shall travel

To destinations I shall not go

I begrudge the universe nothing

I shall take what is given to me

But my universe shall exist of

Much more than I can see

In the earth are buried narratives

Stories by the score

In the sky are floating passions

Making the world both less and more

It is all one tale

Told outside of time

That I am the lead actor in

Yet which is never mine

Gene G. McLaughlin 2015

Unstamped

Lonely, but not sorrowful

Sitting in the cold wet grass

Resigned to season change

Summer burns away

Short, sometimes glorious

Sometimes fleeting

In times of leisure passing unaware

Disappearing without notice

Noting that fact

Arising walking toward the water

It is cold and salty

In the depths it is winter already

World of krakens and such

Beach holds no revelations

Only noise, absence of human sound

Birds shitting and squawking

Fish there, but unapparent to the eye

Avoiding the water, too brisk a day

For water logged shoes

Some moments cannot be stamped

By signatures of time or date

Only moments framed by themselves

Loneliness starts to needled at me

Urban instinct desires activity

Moment and sound of the hive

Walk up through the overgrown

Green brown-splotched grass

Toward the house

Strolling passed the peeling paint

Toward the narrow two lane road

Ten-minute walk to town

Where the date and time

Are always clearly stamped

Gene G. McLaughlin 2004