Adam Ennes

                                            Poetry

Change is the Only Permanent thing

When thoughts disappear like sunny days in December, the time to think about my loss is abolished, gone like the snow in July.  My heart can no longer be alone.  My will to be anything has been destroyed.  I thought I was stronger than this, I always kept my thoughts free of blockage throughout my days.  Yet her.  Her smile.  Her lips.  Her touch, her skin.  Her scent, my nose.  Her eyes, our gaze.  To convey my feelings and thoughts of loneliness to one who seeks solidarity is a false hope of renewing old qualities of relation.  Now, we sit, and I still smell her, the scent of beauty that calls me to caress her neck and breath lightly upon her soft ear, but no, no longer can we partake in this sacred thing.  This thing, I say this thing, this thing drives me mad with the emotion of burning desire and passion.  This thing pushes me away farther and farther to the edge, closer and closer, to an end.  But it has already ended, a week ago at most, four days ago at least.  At least.  At least, no, at most we made love one last time, or is it the last?  My passion bursts from my heart and ignites her desire with the eternity of loss being forgotten.  Have I been forgotten?  I will never forget, nor will I ever regret, loving you as much as I do.

Circles

If there’s one thing I want people to know.  It would be to realize life is more than control.  In reaching for control you only set yourself up, for loss.  How can you lose if you have nothing to lose?  In doing so, you can succeed in failure.  In not doing so you can know the feeling of your feelings.  Inner thoughts are more important that outer wants.  To find balance is to be content.  To be content is to know your thoughts, to control not the outer world, but in controlling your mind you can be the king of your world, existing in an equal oneness.  By realizing that actions are relative, actions work for you by non action.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Flip Flop                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     What is the nature of all things?  Is there such a thing?  Try to meet it and it will not appear.  Try to follow it and you’ll get lost.  The way of all can change with circumstance.  Molded through different situations, it changes, the omnipresent way of life.  Scouring rock floors with water over time will open the Earth.  Though, however soft something is time will always make it strong.  So while attempting to be strong, know that if you do it for too long; you will become weak.

-

I remember being cold walking through the snow

 I wasn’t too old; but then again

 I don’t know.

 The time was two fold, passing so slow.

Low to the ground

Laid the snow

That I found.

Sprinkles landed on my face

Turned into droplets

And dripped away

Without a trace.

Time, again, passed by so slow

Yet time with

My pen

Drifts carelessly

Down, onto my paper

As the words begin

To grow.

They grow and they flow;

Through my hand

It will show!

That with age comes

Experience

With time comes

Consequence

Sequences give rise to my feet that plow

Coldly through

The

Snow

Mehdi

His hands were soft, as

I remember.

Now they are callused and worn.

Clenched tight to the Kalashnikov,

His light brown fingernails reflect

The Sun of a mid December.

Taking aim at tyranny,

Praying for victory.

Sitting in a Moroccan bazaar,

I saw him sucking on a hookah.

A gathering of men telling

Tales with their backs turned.

Hands clenched, once again, as

He tires to hold onto his

Freedom.

Date palms are surrounded by piles

Of khat, eagerly being chewed

By the men

Like candy.

The I say:

“Mehdi?  Can I hit that hookah?”

With a smile he hands me the hose and replies:

“Adam, You don’t speak Pashtun?”

“No?”  I curiously answered.

As I inhaled deeply, smoke

Cooled from the water pipe

Soothed my hungry lungs.

I tried to hand Mehdi the hose

But he just stared at it,

Not saying a word.

He stared with fear in one eye and hope in the other.

Something to celebrate?  I wonder.

He grabbed the hose and began to giggle to himself.

He began to speak to me while chilled white smoke

flowed from his lips.

“You must come visit us in

Tehran, Adam, your sister too, Amin misses her.”

Suddenly we are flying over the sea, over deserts, mountains and prarries, to his home town,

Where I can learn Pashtun.

Sept. 11th 2003; 8:09:31 PM

What causes man’s desire to destroy?  Is there reason?  Doubt?  Is it the suffering one group places on another that makes them retaliate?  Why must people hate?  It is willful to force one’s ways upon others, and yet war can be just?  I do not believe war to be just!!  If war were fought by men without weapons that bring bad omens, the time of change will be among us.  Put out the fire that burns in the name of war.  Fuel the desire for compromise; and communicate.  Have the evil and the good; or the good and the evil, sit down to discuss their circumstances.  The world was not meant for random destruction beyond the hand of Nature.  But who can change the hearts and goals of our troubled leaders?  Who can make them listen without having them declare a war?  Who can show them ideas that will not be crushed before consideration?  I can try, you can try, we all can try;  If at first we do not die.

Stop Pushing

There’s one thing I’ll never understand.

Is it all planned?

Controlled by a giant hand?

Boxed

Re-boxed

And put in a can?

To some extent we write it down.

But even a clown can frown.

So there’s always a change

Leading to some strange mange.

The day will come when we forget

To write it down

And still comes the change.

So why hold on to all of your

Precious ways?

It only lasts so many days.

Open your eyes!

Realize what’s true!

The last thing that’s left

Isn’t going to be you!

That Feeling Again

My thoughts and words are free to you, my lips can move with yours, I do feel free.  To do, what we can.  I arise to the occasion, of touch; you pulse through the waves of our liaison. As we rendezvous for what I wish would be forever.  Again our lips touch; I love you like a feather, upon your neck, below, your breast; and on your back until you fall asleep.  As I too will sleep; our sub conscience intermingling in a state not unlike touch, the touch of our inner minds, by blocking out sense; and when we’re not asleep we touch with our sense, for I do not count sheep.  But I still love you in all different kinds of ways.  We can clutch one another.  Through touch.

What If

One day, there will be a time

When there is no time

Known.

Time to us is but a facet of age.

Age comes to all but only if timed.

How can we know?

Our knowledge comes from what we

Think

We know.

Yet all that think know what they

Think they know.

At the same time.

Yet we only see one.

Us.

Not it,

Our Mother, Nature, who tries so

Hard to teach us.

Why?

For one reason.

We think we know it,

But we only know what we think.

When - Stopped Thinking

Once upon the time

Was a sage in his prime.

He voyaged with the weak,

And was anything but bleak.

His travels brought him lessons

Of natures ways and essence.

With this essence he learned

That no vengeance can be earned.

The one way, he says, is

Suited for all, and yet we

Can only travel the path

When we rid our hearts

Of dismay.

Our souls must be pure

Wisdom.

Wisdom is knowing how to be

Free spirited.

Free spiritedness must be acquired at a whim.

Whims come only so often.

Only so often may one become a

Sage.

So, travel far and travel light

For if one finds the way,

The path will give one much

Insight.

Chaos @ Hand

Tough cookies on homework

Bred

For success!!

I strive on what makes me go

Learning what I need to know.

Not something to help them control!

Thoughts spring up in minds

That dance in the will of others

Who live so true

To what they thought they knew.

But how could you know

If it’s all just a show?

Can we only react?

Everything

Changes a course of

Another one

Two

Three    Four    Five 

Alive?

Yes, Ignorant?

Only if we show what we think we know.

Ego

So many people have egos.  I’d say I don’t have one, if saying that didn’t prove I do.  We all do, if you think about yourself.  At least I can look at mine, can I?  It’s like looking in a mirror!  I can’t prove who I am by looking into a mirror.  My ego tells me who I think I am, so how can I trust it?  I can trust my judgment, can’t I?  I think that the more materialistic you are the more ego you’ve got.  Needing to look good to fit your ego, needing things, to fit your wants, wants fueled by ego.  Our ego as to where we think that the world we perceive, we can make rules and boundaries beyond natures.  For humans.  Egos are for humans.

Flustered

What drives man’s will?

The will to strive?

Will to survive?

Will to change,

But it’s already here!!

Cells.

Life,

Life’s strife.

To fight, is trying in failure.

For only success breeds dispute.

Like jumping off a butte,

You die?  Yes.

But you fly!!

If you try in life, who can say you failed?

Not me

Not he

She

Ustedes

Etc.

$

Life doesn’t need money

Why do we?

Life doesn’t want money,

Except for one batch,

Those rotten eggs that had to hatch.

That one guy who finds it funny.

I don’t need money!

But I do, because they are pushing

Us for all oft the wrong reasons!

I don’t want money

And I don’t find it funny,

That for some reasons strange

We still can’t change

The fact

That the more doe

The less control

Over your own soul.

#’s

Math is not the truth,

It is an assumption based

On the way humans understand

Their ways

Nor is math uncouth,

It is to be taken, thought about and raced!

Sought for, like guilty contraband.

End phrase

Something Like Me

Like a black stretch limo, I cruise down the streets looking for a place to park my elongated self.  The streets are layers of ice, which, like me, can be very slippery.  Slippery like the hands that hold an axe, forever chopping wood from the forest of my own soul.  The bush of life brings forth animals, who watch my actions.  Like the animals, I am one with the forest.  It shades me from the sweltering sun of a damp August.  Damp, humid.  All the same until the trees are cut, allowing the rays of heat to pierce through and dry up the place.  The place where my soul abides in times of warmth, and in times of cold.  Silly to think that I am a tire slipping across abandoned highways when really I am most like a boot.  Gripping sturdy rocks that form a mountain’s belly, pushing up daisies and shiitake mushrooms.  I am a fungus, one mycellial organism that lives under the belly of the mountain.  I can reproduce through the mushrooms of uncountable varieties.  My mind is most like the wind pacing back and forth through Elms and pines.  I am those trees, I am the Earth.

Thanksgiving Poem

The chaos of every day brings forth the confusion ravaging my soul.  Unpredictability reigns in the living room.  Steam dancing above the food as if doing the Macarena.  Apologetic tastes of the days after spawn from the events that so shape our lives.  Babies are crying in the imaginary minds of cousins while uncles pop the corks from bottles of cheap Romanian wine.  Incoherent things meld into greens, oranges, and reds that flood my wearied eyes.  Fingers slip against each other from the greasy turkey juices, nothing can be kept for sure; I feel loss approaching not delightfully mushy, or even attempting to speak German, she no longer wants her little hands on my waist yet her collage of scents get me all plumped like how a ripe watermelon wafts of spice travel through my nostrils, time slows down as my stomach gets weaker.  I continuously wait forever doing nothing but thinking of her.  Thinking, why is she not grateful for all of the love I bestow upon her?  Why must one be toyed with, played with, then not considered?  The lava like gravy makes me queasy, It gets hotter, oh shit turn it off, I’m to hot, I’m too hot!  I mean, the crinkle of leaves is just a warning of what’s to come, unexpected heat that can change the way we all see life.  The narrow squint; peeling my trust away layer by layer.  Taking away the feeling of closeness, it used to emanate through my being, now when I think of you I just get nauseous.

Ways

I talked to some squirrels today.

I tried to learn their way.

Iris started to go, but I wanted to stay.

Wait!!!!!!

Was it the stick I threw?

The smell of my shoe?

Or the fact that we loved to play.

What Once Was

Little dust bunnies float drearily along the green tinted floor that gleams from the sunlight permeating the windows above the sink.  Heat comes easily in this place of production.  Like the bubbles in the basin of dirty water, the mouse pops.  She walks in and screams at the sight of a deceased invader.  But who are the true native species, before there was a house, there was the mouse.  Yet the kitchen doesn’t listen.  Nor does she, happy to see it gone.  Sad to see it here, redness flows on the freshly cleaned counters.  Crossing over dishes and old popcorn kernels in a blue bowl before being brought to it’s end.  It used to clamber through the stove tops down to the lair so comfy and safe.  Away from this place one more time unknowingly getting struck by the unexpected, the vile fake cheese tempt not this little mammal, too late this little trap has had it’s way, as did she.  It’s way to late to set it free.  Lettuce spoiled by the proximity to death forces her conscience to dispose of clean green food.  What to do with this dead little vermin, she thinks, ‘must I move it away?’  It’s too late to let him stay….

My Love For Love, And Why.

I start to feel excited and I can tell my face flushes with blood, your gaze penetrates right to my soul and I feel like you unerstand me.  That is what I seek most, is to be understood, along with food, water, shelter, and love.  To be understood.....  I start to talk and I find that all of my talking is covering up the urge to kiss you, Sunshine.  You hug me like we have  hugged our whole lives.  I fall in love easily, why?  I don't know, maybe its because I love our mother so much.....  But as this is true, it is also true that I don't just fall in love with anyone.  Even though I love everyone and thing, no exceptions.  Although at certain points I felt very alone and forced myself to fall in love, and the result was proof to my so called instant karma, which I have graciously acquired (in other words, it didn't turn out good).  My point is that I know what I'm looking for in a woman...Intelligence, sociabillity (even though sometimes I tend to be antisocial, mainly because my work is super social), concern for herself (self esteem), the eyes that move me to love more,......well, lemme tell ya, I appreciate direct communication of feelings, I can't keep them in.  I swell with feelings, I feel the oceans move back and forth on the sweet and salty Earth as I gaze into your eyes.  The moons gravitational pull magnetizes my spirit through your eyes, and fills me with good vibrations.  I'm open.  Always open to life, we are here because of love.  The love of our mother Earth and all of the plants and fungus that kept it so for billions of years, is now being denied.  We feel her pain, but we think it is our own, it is far more than that, it is the pain of humans destroying their own habitat.  I am just as guilty as the other, and this is why I speak of it.  We are all awaiting a change....into a more lovely world.  We search for love because our mother Earth wants us to love her again, and the more we love our mother Earth, the more we can love each other.  I hope my love doesn't scare you, my love is deep, it runs like the water, covering every inch of the Earth before returing to your heart, from mine.  I long for intamacy, and embraces that last hours, passion over lust, patience over urgency.  I practice the benefit of all beings.  From what little I can to, I can do because I practice the benefit of myself.  Without doing so, how can one care for another?  I care.  In general.  I don't know why I'm rambling on.....oh ya, I love love love.