Showing posts with label J Mac Stone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label J Mac Stone. Show all posts
Recompense Yesterday
By J Mac Stone
The night was Indigo. Not black, during this time of evening there is not daylight
or breeze. Aged branches, reaching for the treasured domicile, desire to share in the
nightfall’s arrival. That winking twilight was the evening Jersey stole from New York.
The solemn architecture intoned a loathsome papal history while the children cried out
for the contests to begin. Domino gasps. A sorry wanderer watches and leers from a
distant post. Thunder, like cannonballs in God’s own alley, crashes down on the attendees
who remain as the harbingers of morbid lectures begin to rant as one. Someday we will
have our reward cried the assemblage as they vowed their undying support for all the
Eucharist has possession of or could possibly offer.
Remembrances of feckless ambition, shared in a lodge designed for loftier aspirations
and accomplishments. A futile paean rings in surround sound exiting the reviled pipes
and entering our minds. Occupying the destination of future reasoning and preparing us
for tribulation we will never see. Exercise, dogmatic in duplicity urges us to confront our
ineptitude and resolve to attain stature. The movements are cherished in their domesticity
and result in a numb baptism that drove a sacred cow to the cliffs. The decisions are like
rainwater. Estuaries flow through xeric mental wastelands, seeking a resting place worthy
of their divine efforts. Unkempt posses of robes chase a sacred scroll. They commit,
deify and respectfully submit to an entity never seen. Windows of glass deny the
radiant effects of the exterior elements. These are visions of pain and loss unequaled, yet
beautiful. Artists and all loyal denizens can locate a minute section to call their own. Awe
inspiring, driven by humbled observations the panes become symbols. Cleric and sinner
alike deserve a place to ruminate over lost compensation in their pathetic endeavors
to attain some status in their banal existence. Choruses in ancient tongue reverberate
amongst the arches and the cut glass vibrates with passion as a virgin welcomes the
coital embrace of primordial ecstasy. Dissonance falls on the gathered like leaves in fall
season. Gusts of wind lift up some, while others lay dormant waiting for an improbable
redemption.
The eternal hotel awaits our compensation package, like a new university graduate plays
their hand in orgiastic greed amongst the tailors who sow the lies. Falsehoods abound
around, obfuscating the truth that the masses deserve to hear. Embellishments and
illegitimate demands cloud the vision for those who desire to visualize the genuine elixir.
Demonstrations of pomposity continue ritualistic slaying of the fatten bovine. Leaving
this den will reduce souls to symbols and conquest of the grail will ferment into bitter
wine. Bibulous mendicants chant. Unaware of the caustic decimations rendered by
their enfeebled dialogue they idle their graceless lives away in preparation for some
deliverance destined for dereliction. Opiates for the masses are poured out, justified in
their perversion of justice, to be devoured by all participants. Those who seek are all
destined to locate something.
Spastic invalids cherish the days in the sun’s warmth yet never comprehend the
magnitude of the grace this allotment will cost. As texts speak to the personage in a
quiescent cerebral tendency, there are percentages to contemplate. Embracing Kafka
or Camus will never be more dangerous. One may request the enviable finery from
the butchers block and realize, at some more mature date, that the chosen sustenance
was desiccated. So exudes the characterizations held within. Dogmatic doctrine can
thoroughly destructive to the inquisitive mind, but hypnotic to the gregarious followers
who crave simplification. Shall the noxious recompense begin now or does evidence
dictate another stretch of theological highway for us all?
- - -
Aspiring philosopher, blogger and writer. Interested in learning new ways to create thought and to reveal others to themselves. Never far from inspiration yet somehow on a journey of discovery to see past the next mountain. Craving the next moment when the minutia of an idea becomes a story.
By J Mac Stone
The night was Indigo. Not black, during this time of evening there is not daylight
or breeze. Aged branches, reaching for the treasured domicile, desire to share in the
nightfall’s arrival. That winking twilight was the evening Jersey stole from New York.
The solemn architecture intoned a loathsome papal history while the children cried out
for the contests to begin. Domino gasps. A sorry wanderer watches and leers from a
distant post. Thunder, like cannonballs in God’s own alley, crashes down on the attendees
who remain as the harbingers of morbid lectures begin to rant as one. Someday we will
have our reward cried the assemblage as they vowed their undying support for all the
Eucharist has possession of or could possibly offer.
Remembrances of feckless ambition, shared in a lodge designed for loftier aspirations
and accomplishments. A futile paean rings in surround sound exiting the reviled pipes
and entering our minds. Occupying the destination of future reasoning and preparing us
for tribulation we will never see. Exercise, dogmatic in duplicity urges us to confront our
ineptitude and resolve to attain stature. The movements are cherished in their domesticity
and result in a numb baptism that drove a sacred cow to the cliffs. The decisions are like
rainwater. Estuaries flow through xeric mental wastelands, seeking a resting place worthy
of their divine efforts. Unkempt posses of robes chase a sacred scroll. They commit,
deify and respectfully submit to an entity never seen. Windows of glass deny the
radiant effects of the exterior elements. These are visions of pain and loss unequaled, yet
beautiful. Artists and all loyal denizens can locate a minute section to call their own. Awe
inspiring, driven by humbled observations the panes become symbols. Cleric and sinner
alike deserve a place to ruminate over lost compensation in their pathetic endeavors
to attain some status in their banal existence. Choruses in ancient tongue reverberate
amongst the arches and the cut glass vibrates with passion as a virgin welcomes the
coital embrace of primordial ecstasy. Dissonance falls on the gathered like leaves in fall
season. Gusts of wind lift up some, while others lay dormant waiting for an improbable
redemption.
The eternal hotel awaits our compensation package, like a new university graduate plays
their hand in orgiastic greed amongst the tailors who sow the lies. Falsehoods abound
around, obfuscating the truth that the masses deserve to hear. Embellishments and
illegitimate demands cloud the vision for those who desire to visualize the genuine elixir.
Demonstrations of pomposity continue ritualistic slaying of the fatten bovine. Leaving
this den will reduce souls to symbols and conquest of the grail will ferment into bitter
wine. Bibulous mendicants chant. Unaware of the caustic decimations rendered by
their enfeebled dialogue they idle their graceless lives away in preparation for some
deliverance destined for dereliction. Opiates for the masses are poured out, justified in
their perversion of justice, to be devoured by all participants. Those who seek are all
destined to locate something.
Spastic invalids cherish the days in the sun’s warmth yet never comprehend the
magnitude of the grace this allotment will cost. As texts speak to the personage in a
quiescent cerebral tendency, there are percentages to contemplate. Embracing Kafka
or Camus will never be more dangerous. One may request the enviable finery from
the butchers block and realize, at some more mature date, that the chosen sustenance
was desiccated. So exudes the characterizations held within. Dogmatic doctrine can
thoroughly destructive to the inquisitive mind, but hypnotic to the gregarious followers
who crave simplification. Shall the noxious recompense begin now or does evidence
dictate another stretch of theological highway for us all?
- - -
Aspiring philosopher, blogger and writer. Interested in learning new ways to create thought and to reveal others to themselves. Never far from inspiration yet somehow on a journey of discovery to see past the next mountain. Craving the next moment when the minutia of an idea becomes a story.
The Trellis
By J Mac Stone
Time moves the train. So does coal; both can be black as night. Hard to write words that always sound like there is good to be bought. So, the thoughts roll for the man in the chair. His meals, prepared by others, have no taste and leave a lingering sadness which feels like tongue. The day draws near and the relatives yawn. Their interest is only in the coverage provided by vultures who analyze the scenario as if they understand the man who walks the trellis.
Memories wrack the sub-conscious like flashes of lightning ravage the trees. Outside the evening pulls the drawstring and aims the silver arrow at a man who moves slow as night.
Hasten the inevitable demise for all who choose this path. There can be only one end for each beginning, so shall it be for the man who rises to the sound of echoes. These sounds roll down the hall like wheels on glass and without obstruction become as one with the road. That random sound of wheels on glass comes to the man in the chair as he approaches the trellis in the dream he wishes for.
If only there was more time. The night approaches in a jacket and pants like all the others. Fear becomes a player in this poker hand when the deuces are never a pair and rarely wild. All of the others observe but never feel. Family can condescend and never yield the love rescue that this man needs. All that remains is the short period between denial and regret and even that time is filled with random reckoning and passion for what cannot be. His end draws near because this is what has been ordered in the ethereal deli. We do not pick our sandwiches. Often times we are left with a roll and hope. Should you feel the mans outcome; waiting to happen, pass the time in joy because he would have it no other way as he crosses the trellis to wherever.
In retrospect, a mood often misunderstood, he dwells on earlier days. Siblings who were there and those who weren’t watched his days. Influences that were traded for chemicals in neighborhoods of pressure. Many days spent on front stoops watching role models who did not walk the catwalk of fame and fortune. Either way, excuses are like stray dogs, feed them they bite.
All that matters now is the window and the clock. At 10 till the clergy man rides in on his high horse of pop psychology and paper redemption. His ramblings are simply air that could be used for other purposes. In a prior day, when people spoke in this fashion they were believable but now in this end time the language is hollow and without passion. The trellis will be welcome after spending many of his valuable minutes with this misrepresentation of redemption. The trellis calls.
Last chance to see through the glass. Parents give righteous appearance but sister cried. He wishes to be alone and soon will be. The trellis is not so tough a walk in the end..
So ends the race for the man who chooses this run. The feet will find the trellis and you can be this free. Just be there for those you love and those you don’t and listen for the train.
- - -
Aspiring philosopher, blogger and writer. Interested in learning new ways to create thought and to reveal others to themselves. Never far from inspiration yet somehow on a journey of discovery to see past the next mountain. Craving the next moment when the minutia of an idea becomes a story.
By J Mac Stone
Time moves the train. So does coal; both can be black as night. Hard to write words that always sound like there is good to be bought. So, the thoughts roll for the man in the chair. His meals, prepared by others, have no taste and leave a lingering sadness which feels like tongue. The day draws near and the relatives yawn. Their interest is only in the coverage provided by vultures who analyze the scenario as if they understand the man who walks the trellis.
Memories wrack the sub-conscious like flashes of lightning ravage the trees. Outside the evening pulls the drawstring and aims the silver arrow at a man who moves slow as night.
Hasten the inevitable demise for all who choose this path. There can be only one end for each beginning, so shall it be for the man who rises to the sound of echoes. These sounds roll down the hall like wheels on glass and without obstruction become as one with the road. That random sound of wheels on glass comes to the man in the chair as he approaches the trellis in the dream he wishes for.
If only there was more time. The night approaches in a jacket and pants like all the others. Fear becomes a player in this poker hand when the deuces are never a pair and rarely wild. All of the others observe but never feel. Family can condescend and never yield the love rescue that this man needs. All that remains is the short period between denial and regret and even that time is filled with random reckoning and passion for what cannot be. His end draws near because this is what has been ordered in the ethereal deli. We do not pick our sandwiches. Often times we are left with a roll and hope. Should you feel the mans outcome; waiting to happen, pass the time in joy because he would have it no other way as he crosses the trellis to wherever.
In retrospect, a mood often misunderstood, he dwells on earlier days. Siblings who were there and those who weren’t watched his days. Influences that were traded for chemicals in neighborhoods of pressure. Many days spent on front stoops watching role models who did not walk the catwalk of fame and fortune. Either way, excuses are like stray dogs, feed them they bite.
All that matters now is the window and the clock. At 10 till the clergy man rides in on his high horse of pop psychology and paper redemption. His ramblings are simply air that could be used for other purposes. In a prior day, when people spoke in this fashion they were believable but now in this end time the language is hollow and without passion. The trellis will be welcome after spending many of his valuable minutes with this misrepresentation of redemption. The trellis calls.
Last chance to see through the glass. Parents give righteous appearance but sister cried. He wishes to be alone and soon will be. The trellis is not so tough a walk in the end..
So ends the race for the man who chooses this run. The feet will find the trellis and you can be this free. Just be there for those you love and those you don’t and listen for the train.
- - -
Aspiring philosopher, blogger and writer. Interested in learning new ways to create thought and to reveal others to themselves. Never far from inspiration yet somehow on a journey of discovery to see past the next mountain. Craving the next moment when the minutia of an idea becomes a story.
