Of Contemplation, Morality and Philosophy

 A Garden’s Beauty

When color matters more - Do you see the dying blooms?
Don’t you know that flowers fade - into brown and yellow tombs?
Would you curse the purple flower, that stands in fields of white?
Nothing grows forever, and our darkness chokes the night.

Do you see the single flower - in a shade you’ve never seen?
Do you curse its vile fragrance and see the color as obscene?
When difference matters more - Do you know you'll turn to seed?
There is no flower like jealousy, but there is the human weed.

Within a field of flowers, there is color without disdain.
Every petal shelters - as they grow beneath the rain.
Even the purple flower, finds a home in fields of white.
Nothing grows forever, and our darkness chokes the night.

Is not a garden’s beauty found - mixed in colored hues?
Do you wonder if they laugh at us - Our ignorance must amuse?
For us, we think, we are different, but they know we turn to seed.
There is no jealous garden, but there is the human weed.

Copyright March 2006 
Gary Pilarchik


The Weight of Materials

Do I succumb?
Am I not already drowning?
Beneath the weight and wares,
Of iron clad and chained materials.

Do I need - even more?
Beyond the boxed bulk I own?
To possess or to hold deeply within,
I will break the surface and breathe again.

Copyright January 2013
Gary Pilarchik



Uncorked

Fresh, like the scent of pine.
Warm, like a third glass of wine.

The world seems less stale,
when you sip out of the cold.

Copyright December 2012
Gary Pilarchik


 The Art of Being With…

There are glimpses of perfection,
defined clearly as life’s purpose.

And there are eye’s that see this,
until they age away into adulthood.

Glimmers shine and shadows impose,
but mostly we fail to see what sits.

As age continues and eye’s weaken,
the glimpses return - though never gone.

It is the child and aged man that sees,
life’s purpose is the simplicity of being with.

And it is those between - that are blind;

Lost in defining, comparing
and measuring themselves.

Where finger paints and moments,
fade into possessions and achievements.

Where cost and stature become,
their muddled belief of perfection.


Copyright December 2012
Gary Pilarchik


A Lower Form

Worms that wander and wiggle
From rain, they cross the road
Scraping their skin
Racing the drying sun
Feeding the feasting birds

They can not see where they wander
They do not know why the wiggle
The rain chokes them
The road wounds them
The sun burns them
The birds swallow them

They have no thought, no history and no blame
No reason to make this a better place
For they are only earth worms

And they do not predict the rain

Copyright September 2005 
Gary Pilarchik