The Worlds Within
I have lost myself in the outward show.
I thought I knew, but I did not know.
I have observed the accords of men
and mistook them for the worlds within.
All my travail,and all my vexation,
seemed the result of external sensation.
My job was the problem,or was it my wife?
Perhaps my children were the source of my strife.
"If my friends were more friendly,and my neighbors more kind,
I would feel peaceful and content all the time.
I could be happy if the sky were more blue...
if the sun came up later, and the rain fell on cue."
"Out there," I insisted, "is the source of my woe."
Like a moth in the night, towards the window I strove.
Seeking the light, past that invisible pane,
I plunged towards the glass again and again.
But even the most willful must finally give in.
Surrender will come to all men in the end.
After years of struggle, flying hither and yon,
I at last came to rest like the prodigal son.
That day, a strange voice whispered in my head.
"Do nothing. Be still," were the words that it said.
Two days did I battle with this mystic advice,
‘til I was exhausted, and tired of the fight.
At last I despaired of struggling ‘gainst the wind,
and turned my attention to the cosmos within.
In the stillness inside I found joy and peace.
Where silence abides, serenity I reached.
This life has currents, like an ocean or stream.
And seldom is its course quite what it seems.
Like sailors on lookout for cruel rocks and ill winds,
wise men keep watch for the changes fate sends.
Life's not out there. It's all deep in here.
The worlds within our innermost sphere
wield nature’s levers. They turn timeless dials.
Such have jurisdiction o’er this sad mortal trial.
The night sky burns bright with endless billions of stars.
Yet each atom of each sun is a universe entire.
Man lives in the middle, between great and small,
and must look deep within to make sense of it all.
But, take not my advice as I pen this poor rhyme.
After a lifetime of lessons, no grand wisdom is mine.
Despite the sorrow it brings, I will wander again
from the silence that slumbers in the worlds deep within.
Copyright 2000, Christopher K. Travis
All rights reserved
Orbits Always Decay
In the morning,
my circular mind,
a straw cucumber,
a dust devil sandwich,
circles round and round,
orbiting my cyclical bowl.
Dipping a silver O
into the dish
over and over,
a cereal Sisyphus.
My breakfast falls through
a hole in my spoon.
Surrounded outside by everything,
like circles always are.
Inside, my milk
dribbles through.
What a mess on the floor
my circular thinking is.
What nourishment
for my questions?
You cannot capture life with a hoop
or any other round object.
Mostly ephemeral bubbles result,
floating through
for a second or two,
popping,
leaving a soap ring.
At best, you can entice the world
to jump through the hole,
maybe with a somersault,
and a flourish
at the end.
If you spend a lifetime...
and you are brilliant,
or obsessed
or lucky,
or at the right place
at the round time.
Even then,
the crowd will seldom cheer.
They have been around,
...and around, and around too.
That, assuming you can draw
a thrumming, murmuring crowd,
their round fists
full of round cotton,
and their round eyes,
and round faces,
and the O of their mouths
saying the same things,
round and round again,
blowing bubbles
over and over
in a circle.
They won't laugh
in all the right places.
No, that's the problem with round.
It has no end, no starting place.
Round keeps to itself.
Spheres are exclusive.
Very unfriendly they are.
Globes and balls and wheels
and cycles and loops
and rings and orbs
offer no invitation.
Not to mention the exclusivity
in aristocratic circles.
How much more social a line.
Standing one after the other,
waiting for a turn to vote,
or a ticket to the movie.
Step by step, a obliging line
is leading this way and that.
Always some place to go.
Friendly, friendly lines.
But not elite circles,
always keeping everything out,
and in.
No, you cannot go to the sun.
You will burn
in the universal fire
that surrounds
all round objects
Curved objects,
circle wannabes,
are also suspect.
They remain open,
but only under protest.
They would rather
be antisocial.
This is why the pot of gold
is almost never found
at the base of a rainbow
and why orbits always decay.
More Chris Travis poetry here.
