Musings of the Cynics - Page 2

Adrift on a papyrus ocean
spread over the room, markings arcane
swirl in the water and my mind.
Sense of this is within grasp; fleeting away
with the sunlight streaming in.

The whiskey bites strong
and the phone chirps incessantly for attention.
Infernal toy.
A pencil and page in front of me
a to-do list scribbled in front.

Drowning by choice, swimming's effort
seems a memory and a dread.
But I'm paying for this opportunity
so best to stop writing poetry
and go back to the waves.

I liked "Shifting gears" but tend to think that in truth . . .

quote:

---

I'm not running away. It's the destination I'm running to. And I don't know where I'm going, but I know where I've been.

And from where I've been, I'll see where I'm going. Shifting gears.

---

putting the wind in your face, seems
to blow away the cobwebs in your mind
giving clarity to the road ahead.

quote:

---

Stopped by a bike shop & I started to reminisce.

---

of days past & my face into the wind.

On a napkin at a meeting at 7:00 AM

Heavy lids.
My windows are hanging half-opened,
begging for night, for dark silent night
to wash over the irises
so tired from the day.

Sore bones,
the frame off which I hang
suspended; aches from strain
of walking and running, biking and jumping
or simply sitting still.
To lie flat and disjointedly
in blessed relaxation.

Tight muscles
bound to the skeleton's hold
scream for rest,
for respite.

And with this, my fingers
rebel against their owner
and I lay down to sleep
and tick off another day on the calendar.

I'm writing again to escape.
My words are the lockpicks,
my life the prison.

The books on my desk,
papers spread out around me-
manacles and irons
restraining me from rest and socialization.

I have rarely felt alone
unless in the copious company
of these assignments and commitments.

Friends are around me,
they smile at me, wave
from the other side of my Berlin Wall,
that I am so incessantly picking at
with all the effectiveness
of a toothbrush on concrete.

But I keep one thing close;
the notion that soon
I will be done, and the weekend
will bring frivolity and relaxation.

And Friday afternoon, without fail,
another manila envelope
clamps itself to my leg
and chains me to the desk.

So I make these lockpicks
and ready my toothbrush
and prepare to tunnel to freedom.