DOWN THIS LONELY ROAD…

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By Tom H. Brooks 3

 

Down this lonely road I walk
into a fiery red sunset
 
Another day
another year
another decade
I go swiftly into the unknown future
 
Time flies away
on the wings of angels…
and demons
 
Time flows over me and drags me under
like a slow muddy river
across the floodplains
 
Can you hear me speaking to you
across the miles,
across the great distances?
 
Can you see me here
in the dim scarlet twilight 
of this endless wasteland?
 
Can you understand the things
that I say here,
walking down this road of mine?
 
I`m calling out to you
 
I see far
 
I see you there,
on your road
going your own way
through the madness
of this vast world
 
We all struggle
to find our way
in this life
 
There is no map
for your road
or mine
 
Your cell phone
will not get you
where you are going
 
There are no tour guides
no buses
no taxis
 
All we have
is our wits and
our own two feet
 
So keep walking,
you there,
and I`ll do the same
 
Perhaps I`ll see you
at a crossroads one day
but not likely
 
The sun goes down
and night shadows 
crawl across the land
 
As my eyes gradually adjust,
I can see clearly,
even through the darkness –
 
It`s beautiful out here…
 
 
THB3
5/9/14
Tokyo, Japan

 

 

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THE SEED THAT GROWS INTO A GIANT TREE AND OTHER POEMS…

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By Tom H. Brooks 3

This is STREET JOURNAL 79 and now it is yours…

_____

I AM HERE TO CREATE ALTERNATIVE WORLDS…

_____
 
We must live each moment as if it were our last.
_____
 
“Some want to change the world
Others want to read it…”
 
Octavio Paz
East Slope
_____
 
Come up with the title and the rest shall follow…
_____
 
THE SEED THAT GROWS INTO A GIANT TREE
 
Most of my life
I have wanted to be a writer
a poet
a visionary
 
Then I realized
I already was a writer
That words came to me naturally
from the heart
from the soul
 
I had always had the flow
That nameless thing
that turns thoughts
into symbols and images
That certain something
that performs a strange alchemy
and creates things with no apology
 
A curse and a blessing, it is
 
Something one learns to live with
 
It doesn`t matter if you get paid for it
if you`re able to say, “I`m a writer”
at bars and dinner parties
 
It is only the raw feeling of the words
grating on your spirit like sandpaper
 
The words pouring out of you
like a waterfall
a monsoon
a tsunami washing over the land
with no mercy
 
You cannot stop what you are
You shouldn`t try to stifle this essence of being
NEVER
 
 
INTERLUDE:
notebook page: me listening to me (ends up rotting in a box)
words spoken into empty air: nobody listening to me; forget it
email: friends listening to me
Tumblr/Wordpress etc: everybody listening to me, (not caring?)
Instagram/Flickr: here`s a picture
Facebook: I`m eating a slice of delicious pizza in Greenpoint, Brooklyn
Twitter: talking loud, saying nothin`
 
 
All of you
everywhere
Let the words flow
Let it rain,
so to speak,
Because
when the world has
faded into sad oblivion
When computers are dead
and TVs are darkened,
words and songs will live on
 
Legends will grow
like the seeds of great trees
that tower over us
and shelter us in a cool shade
 
That is why we write
why we have to write
Why some of us
feel it is our duty
our destiny
 
In the face of this calling
everything else seems kind of stupid
and meaningless
 
I`m going to lie down now
in the shade of this tree
 
The sunlight is all around me
and the possibilities of this world
and the next are endless
 
If you are a writer, you know what I speak of 
 
If not, you will learn to know…
 
 
THB3
4/22/14
Tokyo, Japan
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3 HAIKU ARRANGED AS A POEM
 
Tokyo Disneyland
across the river darkness
a bright gem of light
 
The fire flowers
explode across the night sky
and then disappear
Blossoms of light fade
quiet and still once again
smoke drifts like dream clouds
THB3
4/26/14
Tokyo, Japan
 
(If you didn`t know, HANABI is the word in Japanese for fireworks, which means, literally, fire flower….perfectly appropriate.  I have seen more fireworks here in 4 years then I ever did in America, meaning Los Angeles and New York City….)
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BETWEEN WORLDS
 
Stuck here
wanting
to be floating here
between 
the living and the dead
between 
east and west
between
here and there
 
Never really belonging to it
anywhere
Not really caring
 
Just lingering on the fringes
watching 
observing
recording
Soaking it all up 
for some obscure purpose
that may, perhaps,
be revealed later,
or maybe not…
 
No matter-
It is where I am supposed to be
here 
in this strange limbo
betwixt different worlds
 
Like a phantom
who sees all
but knows nothing
except
that no one really knows anything
 
It is a vantage point 
to which I have become accustomed
It seems that it was 
waiting for me all along
 
And I have found it
at last
and really, now, 
there is no going back…
 
THB3
4/26/14
Tokyo, Japan
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THEY CAN`T TELL ME HOW TO LIVE AND THEY`LL NEVER TELL ME HOW TO DIE…
________
 
 
THB3

Tokyo, Japan

May 5th, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

MY PRIVATE ISLAND & OTHER POEMS…

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By Tom H. Brooks 3

 

Walking on a highway of diamonds into a fiery red sunset…

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A RIVER OF WORDS FLOWING FROM MY MIND INTO YOURS»»»»»>

IT`S STREET JOURNAL 78!!!

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“Not until you have killed the last fish, and cut down the last tree, and poisoned the last river,

will you discover that you cannot eat money…”

Chief Seattle

1780 to 1866

Chief of the Suquamish Indians in the Pacific Northwest of the U.S.

____

TOKYO HAIKU

EMPTY MORNING STREETS

THE CITY IS STILL SLEEPING

THE DAY IS ALL MINE

THB3

4/14/14

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“I`m going out of this world the same way I came in –

naked, screaming, and covered in blood.”

Louis

Bartender at Freeman`s, New York City, Lower East Side

2005

_____

It seems that my purpose in life is to be some kind

of unofficial record-keeper of forgotten histories…

_____

MY PRIVATE ISLAND

I sit bathed in warm sunlight

as it wavers gently through the trees

A cool green mystical island

on a glassy jade lake

filled with giant koi fish

in the middle of the city

The world moves past me

around me

but it does not touch me

I am alone with my thoughts

I am at peace with this mad world

I can feel the ghosts here,

the lost spirits of a

distant and forgotten past

They float through the trees

with the enigmatic squawks

of the crows and the singing sparrows

The wind song of the leaves

flows throughout my mind

and takes me away to a higher place

where I want to dwell

There are no worldly problems here

I have left one form of existence behind

and traded it in for another

My soul drifts up into the clouds

and touches the endless azure sky

I see myself down there

in the crazy world and I

cannot stop laughing about

how beautiful and stupid it all is

Hours pass in this deep spiritual trance

Night falls

I sink back to earth

and I am one with the darkness…

THB3

4/15/14

Tokyo, Japan

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I AM HERE TO CREATE ALTERNATIVE WORLDS

_____

Not that anyone but me could possibly care about this, but apparently,

koi fish, with their big Mick Jagger lips, really like potato chips…

_____

“The task of art is to transform what is continuously happening to us, to transform all these things into symbols, into music, into something which can last in man’s memory. That is our duty. If we don’t fulfill it, we feel unhappy. A writer or any artist has the sometimes joyful duty to transform all that into symbols. These symbols could be colors, forms or sounds. For a poet, the symbols are sounds and also words, fables, stories, poetry. The work of a poet never ends. It has nothing to do with working hours. Your are continuously receiving things from the external world. These must be transformed, and eventually will be transformed. This revelation can appear anytime. A poet never rests. He’s always working, even when he dreams. Besides, the life of a writer, is a lonely one. You think you are alone, and as the years go by, if the stars are on your side, you may discover that you are at the center of a vast circle of invisible friends whom you will never get to know but who love you. And that is an immense reward.”

Jorge Luis Borges

________

LOOK AT ME

 

Everyone is crying out for attention

Everybody is screaming to be heard

People want to be understood,

to communicate,

to explain their feelings about the world

We all seem to want to share our vision

As much as it can be said that we are all one,

we are also, in turn,

each and every one of us,

alone

in our seeking

We strive to be a part of something,

to feel a connection with humanity

as a sort of vast family

Sometimes

words are not enough

Art

Photography;

they cannot stand alone

You have to put yourself out there,

your heart and soul,

to try with all your power

to be honest and true,

to become one with the Universal Spirit

Like the old song says,

People Are Strange,

You

Me

Everybody

Everywhere

But there are times when

words are enough,

as these words are right now…

THB3

4/18/14

Tokyo, Japan

____

ROOM AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

A shadowy room

in the soft, still glow

of an opaque light

A window lies open

covered by dirty curtains

fluttering in a light wind

A fly buzzes about the room

aimlessly

seeking an exit

An empty wooden chair

sits by the window

serving no purpose

Motes of dust swirl about

in a knife-beam of sunlight

stabbing through the curtains

A spider crawls across

an old wooden table

in the center of the room

There is an empty bottle of whiskey

on the table next to a full ashtray

and a notebook filled with words

Distant sounds of traffic

the cry of a bird

a siren, a door slams

All is still here in this quiet room

a sense of anticipation

a world waiting for something to happen…

THB3

4/19/14

Tokyo, Japan