Modern Saunterer

29 Sunday Jun 2025

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From screens and city sounds, I let the static fade,
The wild calls out beyond the glass, where no device has played.
Asphalt veins inscribe the map, yet freedom evades the grid,
Where roots reclaim the fractured stone and sky is never hid.

Each step’s a swipe at boundaries, a scroll through living green,
The signal drops, yet spirit soars where few have ever been.
We’re told to optimize and grind, to chase some fleeting goal,
But wildness is the ancient code that reboots every soul.

I walk to leave the wired world behind, to log out and begin
A pilgrimage through tangled trails, unplugged from noise within.
No wealth can buy the hours I need to wander and to stray,
It takes a fearless heart to dream—and let the frantic world decay.

Let others tally likes and shares, confined by curated feeds,
I’ll chase solitude where twilight falls and wildness meets my needs.
For “all good things are wild and free”—the old words still ring true!—
In swamps or city parks alike, our restless hearts renew.

We saunter toward a future not yet surveyed and mapped,
A state of mind, a way to be, unbound, never to be trapped.
The world is more than data points, or boundaries on a chart,
The wild remains the source code deep within the human heart.

To walk is to recall the world was never made to be for sale—
We’re woven from the living earth, not masters ordained to prevail.
The wild sustains what’s true and whole in tangled, sacred space;
There, marrow-deep, our lives renew—we glimpse our truest place.

So let me walk where sunlight falls on grass that’s never shorn,
Where every hour is born anew, and every soul reborn.
Not heaven above, but earth beneath, holds all we seek and dread—
Those who walk with open eyes find spirit’s path ahead.

Let others chase their measured days and fear the forest’s call—
I’ll walk into the wilderness, and there become my all.
For in the wild, the mind expands, the heart is rendered whole,
And every step I take alone forges freedom in my soul.

But as I walk, the silence grows—no birdsong in the air,
The ancient web, unraveled now, hangs tattered in despair.
We cut the branch on which we stand, blind to the gathering dust,
And in the end, extinction’s hand will close on all of us.

The Spaces In Between

28 Saturday Jun 2025

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The smallest moments shimmer in the shade—
A sunbeam traces secrets on the windowsill.
Laughter, liquid as morning light, cascades
Before darkness, before the world grows still.

We chase horizons, charting unknown stars,
Blind to the butterfly’s furtive flight—
A whispered word, a fingerprint on dusty jars,
Pulling the threads from the cloak of night.

A cup of coffee, warming winter-chilled hands,
The scent of rain drifting on a grassy plain,
A child’s bright drawing of imagined lands,
Small wonders lost, yet in our hearts remain.

We measure worth in milestones, gilded names,
Yet miss the quiet treasures close at hand—
Unspoken gifts, too humble to be named,
Weave the very life we strive to understand.

One day we’ll turn and, with astonished eyes,
Find dew-strung webs glistening on stalks of grain;
The little things, dismissed in hurried guise,
Were galaxies shining through the rain.

So pause—let silent marvels spark your quest;
Life’s magic hides in spaces in between.
The smallest joys, like fireflies at rest,
Illuminate worlds the heart has never seen.

The World After the Curtain Falls

27 Friday Jun 2025

Posted by in Collapse of Industrial Civilization, Mental Health

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The virus spreads—a silent, deadly thief—
Its cleansing hand cold, indifferent to belief.
No more the city’s pulse beneath neon sheen,
No more the comfort of the glowing screen.

The bright side of the planet slides out of sight,
Old cities flicker, dissolving into the night.
Elevators stranded between hushed floors,
Winds howl through hollow towers, clawing at locked doors.

The curtain falls on meaning, memories blur,
The world’s old stories fade—no voices stir.
What is a life, but lines we learn to say,
A fragile script, swept suddenly away?

Dust settles quietly on abandoned stages,
While relics of the living outlast their ages.
Certainties fade into silence and dread,
Echoes lingering long after voices have fled.

We gather fragments, clutch them in the dark,
Absence carves deep silence where longing once sparked.
When the world falls silent and certainty is gone,
What dares remain—a story, a song, the will to carry on?

Yet in the stillness, the heart recalls the dawn—
A music unfurling where shadows are drawn.
Notes rise from silence, from all that is gone,
A vow that beauty endures, and carries us on.

“Survival is insufficient,” so the old voices say,
We ache for meaning, not just escape from decay.
Among unfamiliar faces, hope flickers and thrives,
We tend simple miracles that keep spirit alive.

For what endures, when all the world is dust,
But love, and art, and memory, and trust?
We wander through ruins, drawn to one another,
Each unknown face echos a sister or a brother.

The past persists in shards: a faded page,
A photograph, a rumor, a bottled rage.
We mourn the vanished world of glass and steel,
Yet find in broken things the power to heal.

The soul endures when flesh has slipped away,
A chorus of longing woven through the gray.
We speak of light, but shadows still divide—
Who claims the future, and who is cast aside?

We carry burdens, heavy as the years—
Regrets and love, and unacknowledged fears.
Yet even in ruins, new wonders arise,
We craft hope from fragments beneath altered skies.

When all is stripped away, beauty calmly returns—
In the hush between heartbeats, astonishment burns.
What purpose remains, if not to dream and create
A vision so radiant it outshines fate?

So let the curtain fall, let night descend;
We are the stories we tell, my dear friend.
From the hush of twilight, new beginnings take flight—
A steadfast faith guiding us into the light.

Though time may scatter all we understand,
We hold each other’s ghosts with gentle hands.
We walk through the ashes of all that has been,
And kindle tomorrow from the embers within.

Threshold of Night

26 Thursday Jun 2025

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Life fractures swiftly—the hourglass cracks,
A hearth’s warm comfort, then all goes black.
An ordinary life, so vivid and serene,
Splinters in silence where joy once had been.

Grief is a wave that knows no shore,
It knocks us down, then returns for more.
We ride each surge, unmoored, undone—
A tide that ebbs, but whose haunting is never outrun.

We bargain with shadows that linger and stare,
Whispering pleas to the unanswering air.
We line up their shoes in the still of the room,
Clinging to rituals that cannot exhume.

Magical thinking—the last thread we spin,
A tapestry woven when hope is worn thin.
The mind, in its orbit, circles the dread:
How can it fathom a loved one is dead?

Memory loops, a fevered reel unspooled,
Unending “What if”s, relentless and cruel.
Did love not matter, did faith not bind tight,
When fate’s blind hand extinguished the light?

We read, we study—grasp for command,
As if wisdom could sculpt with a trembling hand.
We gather the fragments, patch words to the whole,
Yet knowledge dissolves at the edge of the soul.

At the threshold of night where all certainties break,
We find only silence in sorrow’s deep wake.
The mind, once a lantern, flickers and waits
Where randomness rises and meaning abates.

The rituals finished, the ashes sealed in stone,
Yet absence still lingers in rooms once our own.
No priest, no chant, no marble’s cold grace
Can conjure the warmth of a vanished embrace.

Dependency, a double edge, both shelter and snare—
Was marriage our anchor, or hope in thin air?
We walked once as one, now shadows aligned,
Bereavement carves hollows in heart and in mind.

So life resumes—each day a hollowed role,
Each moment echoing fractures of the soul.
We gather the pieces of laughter and pain,
Haunted by shadows memory cannot contain.

We live, we love, we lose, and we ache,
Carrying absence in every breath we take.
Yet out of the wreckage, one truth we will claim:
To grieve is to honor, and keep memory’s flame.

The Unheard Symphony

25 Wednesday Jun 2025

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The engines stilled; voices faded, withdrawn.
No current’s hum, no echo of command.
A spectral quiet settled, dusk to dawn,
Draped silence, vast and holy, on the land.

At first, a void—where shadows seemed to creep,
Then wind emerged, a sigh through ancient trees,
Whispering secrets that buried stones still keep,
A language carried on the patient breeze.

Next, water’s voice: the river’s gentle flow,
The ocean’s rhythm on a lonely shore,
The rain’s soft patter on the leaves below—
Life’s liquid pulse, unnoticed, lost before.

Then earth itself—the groan of shifting stone,
The mountain’s murmur, deep and slow and old,
The crack of ice where frozen streams had grown,
The planet’s ancient heartbeat, fierce and bold.

Then creatures sang: the wolf’s lone howl out of sight,
The cricket’s chirp, the eagle’s sovereign call,
The rustle where keen hunters prowl at night—
The wild’s raw beauty, rising past the wall.

Then inner sounds—the pulse within the wrist,
The breath that flows like tides against the skin,
The mind’s own murmur in the deepening mist—
The soul laid bare, cleansed of the world’s loud din.

We felt Time’s weight—the stars’ cold, distant chime,
The root’s slow climb, the petal breaking hold,
The patient turn of seasons, grand, sublime—
Eternity in fleeting moments told.

At last, we heard what silence truly breeds:
Not emptiness, but life’s presence vast and deep—
The universe in every blade and seed,
And in that quiet, wisdom long lost to sleep.

For silence showed the world was never still,
But thrummed with life that noise had long concealed—
A cosmic hymn no human craft could kill,
And in that sound, our souls stood bare, revealed.

So here we chase our purpose through the din,
Mistaking noise for proof that we exist—
We build and strive, yet lose what lies within,
For life’s true song is what we most resist.

We fill the void with echoes of our fears,
And call it progress as the wildness dies;
The meaning sought eludes our hurried years—
A silent truth that waits beyond our lies.

Starlit Dialogues with My Shadow

24 Tuesday Jun 2025

Posted by in Collapse of Industrial Civilization, Mental Health

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Beneath the sweep of eternity’s vast thrall,
Where galaxies in quiet reverence call,
I wander, shadows trailing faint and near—
A silent twin, whose secrets haunt my ear.

We speak in whispers, language spun from night,
Of questions lost to answers out of sight—
“What waits beyond the lantern of the soul?
Does stardust yearn, longing to be whole?”

My shadow laughs, a gentle ripple in the shade,
“Are you the spark, or just what the dark has made?
When flesh dissolves, will you become the light,
Or drift as but a faint echo through the night?”

I ponder stars—each one whose secrets are sought,
A cipher blazing through endless cosmic thought.
Their fractured ancient light, a signal sent too late,
Reminding that time and fate will never wait.

Yet in the hush between each cosmic breath,
I sense a yearning, deep beyond mere death.
Is death a door, or just a transient pause?
A final merging with life’s sacred laws?

My shadow threads its fingers into mine,
And murmurs if purpose hides in grand design.
“Perhaps,” it says, “in endings you will find
The birth of wonder, unconfined by mind.”

I search for riddles whose replies remain untold,
Spiraling inward, where all mysteries unfold.
Each pulse a question burning in my chest—
Is seeking truth itself a kind of test?

My shadow smiles, a knowing, gentle guide,
And parts the veil where fragile selves divide.
In moonlit stillness, I embrace the quest—
And sense a riddle beckoning me from my rest.

So let me wander, wistful and amazed,
Through starry halls where timeless spirits gazed.
For in the cosmic dance where light and shadow trace,
I find hope that endures in shadows we all chase.

Echoes of the Unheard: A People’s Chronicle of Blood, Bones, and Resistance

23 Monday Jun 2025

Posted by in Capitalism, Collapse of Industrial Civilization, Corporate State, Empire, Inequality, Mental Health, Neo-Colonialism, Oligarchy

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Upon the shore, the sails unfurled—a shadow split the sand,
The Arawaks, open-handed, met the strangers on their land.
But steel and hunger answered gifts; the blade betrayed the hand,
And memory’s first encounter bled sorrow through the land.

The victors chisel chronicles, their glory set in stone,
Yet deep beneath the monuments, lost voices weep alone.
History’s map distorts the truth—its borders, blurred and planned;
The silenced and forgotten ones still haunt this stolen land.

A nation’s myth is mortared with the bones of those bereft,
Each monument to progress built on conquest and on theft.
Can gold and glory balance out the suffering and the pain,
Or does the ledger overflow with loss that can’t be named?

The color line, a scar across the centuries of blight,
Millions bound in bondage, stripped of dignity and right.
Yet whispers stoked resistance, hope burning out of sight,
Their courage, fierce and quiet, set darkened fields alight.

The poor and desperate, shipped away, indentured, whipped, and sold,
Their hunger turned to labor, their resistance crushed, controlled.
Class lines hardened—fortunes swelled as hope was overthrown,
The promise of equality a seed that’s never grown.

The memory of nations is not the memory you knew,
For nations are not families, nor interests shared by you.
The past is not a single tale, but conflict, clash, and strife,
A struggle for compassion in the shadowed halls of life.

If history is but a tool for those who hold the reigns,
Then every page that’s left unturned perpetuates the chains.
But hidden in the margins are the moments that resist,
The fugitive, the rebel, and the dreamers who persist.

To mourn the victims is not all, nor to condemn the strong,
But seek the fleeting moments when the powerless belonged.
In every age, a spark of justice flickers, faint but clear—
A lesson waits in listening, for those who choose to hear.

So let us read with skeptic’s eye, with empathy and doubt,
To find the threads of common cause that history leaves out.
For justice is not handed down, nor progress preordained—
It lives in acts of memory, in all that’s lost and gained.

And so the ledger closes—not with peace, but with a scream,
A continent’s inheritance: the violence of the dream.
Beneath our cities’ towers, the bones still shape the land,
And sorrow carves its memory where monuments now stand.

The silence of the vanished, the cries that went unheard,
Are buried in our language, in every history’s word.
Yet from the ash and shadow, a question will demand:
Who dares to claim the future, with blood upon your hand?

Equality’s Grim Reckoning

22 Sunday Jun 2025

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Through shifting earth and ancient stone,
Ambition’s seeds were darkly sown;
From hunter’s fire to empire’s dream,
The scales of fortune tilt unseen, supreme.

Beneath the state’s cold, armored shell,
Where power’s paradox holds sway and dwells,
The few ascend as the many fade,
While peace is forged in cruelty’s trade.

Upon the world’s vast, shadowed sweep,
The Four Horsemen in silence creep—
War, plague, collapse, and revolution’s hand,
Unleashing storms that ravage the land.

No gentle hand nor iron law decreed
Could stem the tide of wanton hunger, need;
For every hope, each dream released,
Was torn apart by the savage beast.

The rich ascend, the poor restrained,
Until disaster breaks the chain;
Then ashes mix, distinctions blur,
And all stand equal—ranks no more.

Yet after storms, new seeds take root,
New hierarchies soon bear their fruit;
The cycle turns, the gap expands,
As power flows through eager hands.

So ponder this, O mortal mind:
Is justice but death’s gift to find?
Or can we forge, by will or art,
A kinder world, a fairer start?

But history’s long echo, deep and vast,
Coughs: “The Great Leveler dies as storms pass.
Without the horsemen’s grisly call,
Inequality reclaims us all.”

When the final reckoning has run,
The Horsemen scoff at what we’ve won—
For in the silence that follows strife,
We find equality in death, not life.

Where Peace Threads Light

21 Saturday Jun 2025

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In silent dawns where waking thoughts arise,
The soul recalls peace in its ancient guise—
A tender hush to still the world’s unrest,
A hope that heals the ache within the breast.

Beyond the veil where time and self entwine,
Peace threads its light through every grand design.
It does not ask why stars first came to be,
But summons softly, “Find the calm within the sea.”

What is the self, if not a fragile spark,
That seeks the sun, yet falters in the dark?
Peace is the fire that guides us through the night,
A beacon glowing with pure, unending light.

In every war, shattered glass mirrors the soul,
Exposing wounds that only peace makes whole.
The cost of rage is etched upon the land,
But peace rebuilds what hatred could not stand.

To know another’s pain is to forgive,
To recognize that all deserve to live.
Peace is the bridge that spans each distant shore,
A silent vow to suffer never more.

The world’s a shadow cast by thought’s design,
And peace, the truth all seekers hope to find.
It is the song beneath the clash and cry,
A silent witness to questions asking why.

Without it, every joy is stalked by fear,
Each triumph fades as sorrow draws near.
Yet peace endures beyond the fleeting hour,
A timeless force—love’s everlasting power.

So let us ponder, in this fleeting breath,
The meaning found in life, in love, in death.
For peace alone unveils what we can be—
True harmony in deep diversity.

And when at last the final dusk descends,
May peace remain, our solace and true friend.
For in its light, all sorrow finds release—
Creation cradled in unending peace.

The Paradox of Freedom

20 Friday Jun 2025

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Freedom is a wildfire racing through the corridors confined,
Consuming what once held us, leaving fertile ash behind.
But what is freedom—just the blaze that breaks us free,
Or the tender shoot that rises toward what yet may be?

It is not the freedom to wound, nor the right to turn away,
Nor the chase of false dreams guiding us to stray.
Freedom is not chaos, nor comfort of the known,
But the quiet resolve to walk a path alone.

To be unbound is not to drift on tides with no return,
Nor to cast away the lessons we still must learn.
True freedom moves with wisdom’s silent, steady hand,
And anchors us with purpose in life’s ever-shifting sand.

We seek it in stillness, in the wild and boundless air,
In the boldness to speak and the grace to truly care.
Yet freedom is not captured in the boldest, bravest cry,
But in the steady flame that burns and will not die.

It is not the absence of every constraint,
Nor the mask of perfection, nor the pose of a saint.
Freedom is the wisdom to bend when the world demands,
And the purpose to hold firm when storms assail where we stand.

Some believe freedom is the right to roam as we please,
But wisdom knows it is more than a life lived in ease.
It is the burden of choosing, the shaping of soul,
The fire that tempers us, forging the whole.

Freedom is not granted, nor swiftly attained,
But the work of a lifetime, endlessly sustained.
It’s the courage to question, the honor to forgive,
The valor to transform, the will to truly live.

It is not a treasure claimed by sword or decree,
But a journey inward, unfolding quietly.
To be free is to walk with both shadow and light,
To embrace the uncertain, and draw strength from the fight.

Let us hold freedom close when the world turns cold,
A beacon of hope more precious than gold.
For though shadows may gather and silence may fall,
Freedom still rises—the fiercest flame of all.