The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost (1874–1963)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

 

Original source: Poetry Foundation

All Strong In A Silent Plain

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Lion channels low under solemn crow glides

the real beast crashing too hard

I saw marks all over the parish floor

the uniform conformed emotion

risks like snake bites

an area of fear untouched

perhaps locked for eternity

as ever I see death in countless eyes

I muster all physical and mental strength to pray

and on top in the most tender of ways

spiritual inter-cosmic multitasking

until my brain collapses and candles surround me

an unusual death to dwell on

where grains have no meaning and screams are forever muted

love vanishing to the naked eye

but to the third eye only so much one can stand

it cannot be but walking on air with his breath the key

all signals unfurl and unleash the dreams of golden days

but journeys back can rock the core too much

even if all risks must stain and fear be embraced.

Arms to fruitless mother milk

with four white pristine horses ready to glow a shade of bright blinding white

an eclipse purity

my loving sometimes got in the way

and my chains were my companions in disguise

my dangerous impulses not so strong anymore

purple skies appear when they want

but every phenomenon is a more profound gift

my new responsibility is to sharpen my listening

my most cherished love

I am here and I won’t bolt

by my bedside my heart and refreshed brain wait

I have nothing but time

To read our lines

our back spaces

these holy chests most people bury

mine are in the public domain

don’t be scared and don’t try

after all

everybody makes tunnel love

but many make war light-bright

private love

public war

a duality of insanity

a unity of nothing

I shut my eyes and roll to the next day

every meaningful marble with me always

tall lightweight pendulum rocks

each swing a new interval

but my mind is a landscape the same as it ever was

I don’t leave the hill

I feign no emotion

like a statue still

only the pouring acid rain can shift me

yet electric minds can fix and propel me

all the while pouring out the hole

old laws applied to obtuse staccato barrel drones

no motion

for the fuel to rise above the needle of colour-sound

the brakes are off

multiple claw-ladders await and before I ask the first top-sphere question

I become part of the full uni-vertigo trip

top bop-trad-time-forte

meta-moves (a web of new coordinates)

all strong in a silent plain

 

by Nicholas Peart

17th January 2016

©All rights reserved

Image: Driftwood (2012) by Nicholas Peart

Life File

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In the limited train of life
all eyes point to invisible glory
a self conquest over great city fires
along the tow-line never straight
inside I watch and photograph
with my bloodstream the current
then I bend down to salvage a fresh severed leaf
turning it inward
I waste no energy
I let the wind, the sun and the rain speak
in this way the connection is made
kingdoms dissolve whilst spirits lift or crash
no dice required
only a clean mind and a warm heart
then it can start all over in a white room
and not overloaded in a junk shop
now the prized question is asked;
how can the unconscious shine brighter?
and the conscious be dimmed?
or;
how can the dark be killed?
and let there only be light?
all files should be minded
all sides of life relished
killing one for the other
then you must return to the core and try harder my friend
too much light blinds
in darkness there can be energy
restoration
savouring and making the dark your ally only makes light more delightful
and life of more value
precious
like the air we breathe and the water we drink

 

by Nicholas Peart

Written: 19th January 2016

©All Rights Reserved

Image: Equator Line (2014) by Nicholas Peart
Location: Macapá, Brazil

Acceptance

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In the grinder (growth stage) room
unrested but still on the pulse and breath
my uneven face stares beyond the vanishing point
my amygdala overworked in an unrequited sweatshop way
sounds of random degrees
big boil messes on ruptured lands
longing for England’s greenest fields
yet turning your back on it’s rotting core
but this begs the question;
has it changed or have I changed?
has the light inside of me gone bankrupt?
in the most dense of doubt I pull the plug out of my brain until tomorrow
a new day;
always a gamble
yet on a new day
love can be king again
sometimes my imagination and sense of wonder are all I have
yet when the wolves of this mental arena are singing
I feel like nothing can stand in my way
sharp blinding sparks dart
in the middle form show
as the next stem grows
and poison paths trick
life’s complexities hum
yet why cry?
if adventure is your calling?

A broken note ripples
as others slide and burn out
my eyes fall on the final act
before the curtains close all systems;
of varying degrees of harmony
the temptation to run explodes
but why am I running?
what and whom am I running from?
who am I?

I crawl the floor
fragments of my broken cup surround me
I don’t have the strength to mend it
as I drift into the white
and sleep til kingdom come

A torn burnt sky appears
the beat of life goes on
then the sun blesses other corners
dogs keep barking
low clouds hold on
my grass a modest hue of green
yet this side is very gentle
I smile and wish the best for all
my body and mind 500 stations from the haywain

 

by Nicholas Peart

21st January 2016

(All rights reserved)

Image: Water Lily Pond (after Monet) (2014) by Nicholas Peart
Location: Nieuw Amsterdam, Surinam

In

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In spite of you it still begins
washed up poor excuse
of a broken melody on trial
same discarded view

in pairs we let it grow
abandon faded leisure
for an instant filthy pleasure
a different point of view

in time it stands up tall
relishing the thoughts below
of overthrown mistaken virtue
beneath the distant dews

in woven masks on prairie nights
at eighteen in the crowd
forgetting need to be
underneath it all was you

 

by Nicholas Peart

Taken from the poetry collection In Arctic Measure (2004-7)

(All rights reserved)

 

Image: Nude In The Sun (1875) by Pierre-Auguste Renoir