NAPKIN WORDS #69 2011 - Dedicated to Mike Prevor

1. THE DARKNES OF BEING
A lack of freedom causes all nightmares.

Once you are no longer free, you awake
with frightening dreams.

You must have freedom to keep away the
horrors of tyranny!

2. IT IS JUST NOT MEN WHO CAN BE LOUD
A few evenings ago, I was at a restaurant with
some friends, when out of the blue, a loud and
belligerent female voice startled us all.

Her friends at her table tried to quiet her down,
but all the same, at that moment, I said to myself,
“Thank God, I have been told, I am from Mars!”

3. THE MAKING OF FRIENDS
Go ahead, ask yourself: What difference does it
make if you do not care.

The answer will most often be: Those who care
and who met you, offered their hearts, and then
avoided you because you refused to care.

Think about it: They wanted to be your friends
and you did not care. What a curse it must be to
live that life!

4. ON THE NATURE OF THINGS
If we are to be “good natured,” in life, it must come
from within.

For if it is by decree, its called obedience, and not
once throughout history has that produced “good
nature” in mankind. It has produced “good pets,”
but in humanity, it has always failed the many who
were subjected to rule by decree!

5. GIVING AND TAKING
When we take the time to think, we almost always
praise life.

When we refuse to do this, life does us in.

It is just a second between praise and failure!

6. SOCIETIES AND A VITAL QUESTION
Here we are, all gathered around.

What can we do with what we have here?

Once asked, things get done!

7. HOW IT IS
Great wisdom is an action taken to better others.

Else it is nothing, just merely common thought!

8. LIFE

To give something instead of to do nothing!

AN ORDER OF LIFE
What shimmering potentials poets create, writing over
and over about mortal misdeeds of love, imaginary
possibilities within our hidden soul.

Seas of life are forever cresting, diminishing, churning
up our past, claiming our future. Looking for guilt, its
great waves are searching days for what might have
been. So in just a glint of splintering sun rays, one
encounters sight dust of all who have passed. Such is
the way of our learning wisdom! Once, when eyes of
night whisper to ears of clouds what is or might be,
imagine yourself hearing that exchange. For whom but
we humans could imagine understanding such silent,
talk? When those darkest moments of night are
changed into language of truth, and the air becomes
filled to the very brim with untested voices, not ever
unheard, but censured in a pause of panic, of total
strangeness, mistrusted for fear of its beauty, that is
just punishment for our heresies!

I beseech you, watch as the ice flow of time thickens
with smiles, awakens those possibilities. When edifices
of mankind are allowed to become unique experiences,
showing where all humanities freedoms are worth
naught, except for the weight of belief in our honest
ideas, our cares for tomorrow.

Walking among an order of life, poets take instruments
of experience and try offering descriptions from a
thousand worlds, a history of words, even as paper
curls up in flames, for dust of ink is ever combustible.

Imagine, that if the spirit is served, who shall ponder of
other things within this mantle of existence? Does
God visit to feast at our last supper? Or frolic? Where
are angels, spirits, or yet another question: Where is
that fiery, promised hell we are forever being told we
must fear? So many questions for the many things
we can't see! None are here, just flesh, and the mind
pushed with words by an urging soul one does not
know. Such is the confusion of life, seeing and doing,
though not understanding reasoning, or pondering
logic of its curious results.

Here we are, at one in the morning, even stars are
nodding off with passionate drifters. Hatreds hold
tightly to a spewing anger, and love, dearest love,
is passed out on pillows of wondrous, overfed good
times, never stirring amid its entrusted truths.

Listen, as a song of "Ave Maria" slips beneath a dark
wooden sanctuary door and now free, hastens those
swaying moonbeams to a group of Swiss nuns, going
their way. In the billowing blackness of their habits, they
stare straight up into the confusion of New York City.
Prayer leads them to a myriad of canyons while their
clean features glow with smiles of their certainty. Such
is the kindness of those given to love of the unseen.
How free from we others who fear the vacant clearness
of day, that overburdened heavy darkness of night.

A writer never imagines silence; it is not their way as
they juggle loud born “children words,” into mystiques
of maturity. Forever teaching that just because a cloud
is seen, one must not always adhere it to sighted, swollen
blue skies, shape it into mythical birds of flight, nor ever
imagine our world in total silence when hearing notes of
this modern age.

Upon an oval face of time, a question of movement is
asked of our fate, and within lamps of wisdom, silence
is allowed to shine. I am never blind to those thick vivid
descriptions of light, nor deaf towards those many uttered
words of brightness. I refuse to ignore beauty of hope, and
so with trembling tears, I embrace this gladness.

Once, when I was very young, I heard voices loud with
laughter, only to find love weeping amid many candles
burning, and I at last understood that each of them was
lit for all those who adorn their dignity with the piety of
it all.


by Edward Hunter