A life of Capital Letters

In the beginning there was something,

Which expired in the end,

An illusion? A trick? A mirage?

A broken toy which you cannot mend.


A sentence starts with a Capital letter

A big, majestic imposter!

Full of character!

But ends timidly,

Lonely,

With a full stop;

Perhaps still (a) character?

But unworthy of a letter.



Live life like an open,

Open-ended sentence

No full stops.

Live big,

Majestically,

Live life like a Capital Letter.

A Plastic Life

He focuses on the plastic.

Looking down at it, focused.

His voice disintegrates into textual ashes.

The world fades away, sober.

His fingertips extend virtual touches,

But fail to capture the soul’s thunder.

Yet he focuses on this plastic.

Like magic.

Looking down at it, hypnotized.

Looking sideways he dares not,

For his life lives in this gadget.

Connected to all,

Yet disconnected from life.

He lives on the plastic.

Reaching out for it, excited!

The mastery of the swipe!

Enslaves his soul to his skill,

Leading him to confound

Fantasy with what’s real.

He owns the thing, yes,

But fails to feel

The warm pleasure of joining a family’s evening meal.

His soul becomes plastic.

A hard processed thing; a lifeless fiction,

With no desires, no Life!

i.e. no dialectical contradictions,

With no fire, no spark!

Nothing

But for the plastic’s cancerous fruition.

Making sense of life

We are, therefore, divided by two great forces,
Our development shaped dualistically,
Our existence, binarily.
Divided by life and death,
Heaven and hell,
Right and wrong,
Positive and negative,
Light and darkness.
What lies in between lives in our memories.
Like a bridge that floats
Isolated from it's destination.

Where time and space intersect,
Where man and nature interact,
Where land and sea meet,
When semen and ovary combine,
The potency of the Divine is witnessed,
No void exists then.
The spirit of life continues to live in linear form.
We do not evolve, nor do we progress.
We merely peel off the next layer
Of what has already been crafted for us.

The magic of life is the experience;
Its tragedy: not being able to make sense of it.

Of Life

Of life,

We all hang in separate branches,

Yet share the same old tree,

Differentiated products in equal-sized batches

Of the assembly line that led me to thee.

A fresh crisp grasp of reality,

Consummates the experience into a wonderful memory,

The omnipresence of a Mother’s love

Ignored by the desire of illusory celebrity.

The magic of the World turns life into prose,

A book we once hastily opened,

But must sometime reluctantly close.

The symphony of voices,

The mosaic of faces,

Is the museum of life

A collection of worthwhile chases?

A verse in Life is empty,

Without a hand to hold.

The paper on which life’s poetry is written,

Once invaluable, is now regrettably being sold.

J Peg