We see the future in jet packs and zombies,
Rosey rainbows / blackest black,
Hopes and dreams / nightmare screams -
Yet what of future past?
It was all a fog.
Blankets and sheets of unknown,
Draped over faith and doubt.
A slow rolling reveal of unfathomable nuance,
And the courage to find out.
Long steps on a short dock we’re born walking,
Long lines in a short play we’re born talking,
Long waits for a short break we’re born stalking,
And a lifetime of figuring out.
You can damn this fog but it’s all you’ve known,
It’s where you’re from — how you’ve grown.
We’ll probably never know a jet pack zombie past
So we just walk our planks,
Until the last.
To my future grandchildren, should they enter this world and ask –
“Grandpa, what was life like back then?”
Life was what it’s always been – kind of a crazy game. Couldn’t agree how to keep score; won and lost the same. Rulebooks all looked different; one person to another / one place to the next. Culture couldn’t reconcile different language / different text. We wrote compassion, read it as hate, acted on impulse, counted it fate. Borrowed against a future we didn’t quite believe in to pay for a present we couldn’t quite afford. And you, child — you…
Life, Death, Love, and Happiness
Contemplated their plight
In a dive with bricks for windows.
Noon was dead of night.
Any music was sad,
Drinks, served with a grunt.
Four stools stacked with questions.
Somber. Sullen. Blunt.
Life jabbed a glass with a cocktail straw, skewering hollowed cubes,
Eyes fixed a thousand miles past the walls of that smoky room.
“What is my meaning?
Can one truly know.
Everything to all and yet,
Why do I come and go.”
Death sipped from a whiskey neat,
“At least your days are numbered.
With domain eternal, what have I done.”
Happiness wasn’t herself today,
Couldn’t force a grin.
“I’m fleeting. Frivolous. Frayed.
A feather in the wind.”
Love was last to comment,
Drunken sick, a pile of pain.
“Nobody knows who I am.”
Writer. Designer. Developer. Hack.
Choose a course. Don’t look back.
Designers see. Writers hear.
Developers seek. Hacks? Our fear —
(Not good enough, smart enough, fast enough, worthy.
Not great by 18 / 25 / 30.
Not ready, too late, too busy, too early.
Too masculine / Artsy / Indie / Girly)
Titles we take, promoting our fears.
Aging. Promoting our years.
Degreed. Certified. Alumni. Petrified.
Pedigrees? Paperweights made of paper weight /
And the weight of “out on our own.” —
Heavy. Fifty thousand pounds sterling on shoulders once shouldered in backpacks.
“My dear sir, you’ve returned from your travels! Make haste, do join me within. Please do step inside. Hitherto.”
The words were not as crystal through the old wooden door, but nigh enough to grasp the sum. Hurried into the quarters, I sought for brief reprieve. The journeys of the day, I hoped, were at end. My head lazily drooped as a deep sigh punctuated my seat on an oaken bench. Nay, I’d scant taken to prying my shoelace when a call arose from the neighboring chamber.
“I believe… Perchance… Why yes! Yes it appears to be upon us. Let…
Carl Vervisch is a multi-disciplinary artist with 16 years of experience in advertising copywriting and a passion for orchestrating the written word.