One Day at a Time

museum in Turkey, stone weapons, stone tools, museum tools–By: RS Jacobs (c) 2012

Every night I get to thinking

Of what my life has become.

I think I grew up while blinking,

And I still feel just as dumb.

Maybe he and I switched bodies,

Wishing on a magic lamp.

This college-age guy still thought he’s

Way back there in summer camp.

 

Think what you know me by.

That’s how I will stay.

See the real me through the grime.

We don’t see eye to eye,

Because your “one day”

Is my “one day at a time.”

 

Yesterday when I was a kid,

They asked me what I would be.

But twenty years, who would have bid

On that kid still being me?

I wanted to join the force,

And now I live to protect.

I’d have killed to ride a horse,

And I’m not giving up yet.

 

People think dreams are distant,

If they happen at all.

But asked to name mine, I can’t,

’cause I’m living them all.

They all think nightmares don’t end,

That they’ll last forever.

But I see around the bend.

That chain is severed.

 

Think what you know me by.

That’s how I will stay.

 

See the real me through the grime.

We don’t see eye to eye,

Because your “one day”

Is my “one day at a time.”

 

Every day I start up thinking

Of what my life can become.

I see all my problems shrinking,

Count my friends, and see the sum.

I wish you could see through my eyes

In the dread darkest of days,

See all the struggle yet realize

Cheese at the end of the maze.

 

You think you know – you think I don’t see;

You fear what is staying – you wish I could be

More than I am, more than this grime,

More than the me that I am all the time.

There’s something to say of the man I’d become,

But you’re wrong if you think I’m twiddling my thumbs,

 

Because your “one day”…

…is my “one day at a time.

********************************************RSJ2012************

Death’s Court

–by: R S Jacobs

The ashen soil is littered with broken, discarded hilts.
The earth and stone are spattered with darkened, disheartened stains.
Blood-scarlet moonlight descends as arrows cease their falling.
No lofty goal is fought for; all herein indulging guilt.
Each of us fights our battles all alone; surviving pain.
But I am still here, resolved, to finish this damned calling.tomb, stone tomb, underground tomb, tomb of the kings, Cyprus, Paphos

I fight alone
I fight alone
No allies, no support
I stand alone
I stand alone
No backup, no cohort
This is my own
This is my own
My audience – death’s court.

When the battle began, I thought I had an army.
I stood a chance, I could prevail, with them on my side.
Evil would fall, victory won, the day would be mine.
But this force was beset with lies; they would betray me.
And those who stayed were not enough; each one turned aside
For their interests prevailed, and mine were just left behind.

I live alone
I live alone
No loving, no good night
I die alone
I die alone
No gravestone, only spite
This is my own
This is my own
My audience – death’s court.

I fight alone
No allies, no support
I stand alone
No backup, no cohort
I live alone
No loving, no good night
I die alone
No gravestone, only spite
This is my own…

My audience – death’s court.

isms

man looking out window, man alone, museum, man thinkingR. S. Jacobisms:

 

Life, at times, is about losing what you value, and gaining an appreciation for the value of what you still have.

 

What you seek will come to you in time. What you run from will find you quickly.

 

I take a step forward, in faith that I will take another, and not take my next one back. Here’s to progress, and to finding joy no matter what.

Bleed

by R.S. Jacobs

Day breaks and you want to sleep.
Rise, don’t shine, the world’s too much
To handle. Too hard to keep
Starting over; keeping touch
With those few awesome people.

Red arteries bring the new blood in;
Blue veins take it back for more.
Days like this, your patience has grown thin
With the trash life has in store.
How long until the red bleed begins?

Life blood oozes slowly out
Through a thousand paper cuts.
The biting salt removes all doubt;
Citrus sting dissolves the rut.
Scars are left in skin throughout.

When the red itself will let
The flow go for time unknown,
It’s up to you – renew and get
Rid of your own bad-blood tone.
Stop the bleed, flow-change, you’re set.

(It Is In) The Eye

by RS Jacobs (c) January 2012

eye, painted eye, blue eye shadow

There is no strength in the size of your arms,

Or chest, or legs, or back.

All you do with those is push things around –

Pull them, move them, break them.

No mass is needed to show your strength;

The weak can be strong, too.

True strength is found in those who have the heart

To stand, defend, and love.

There are no smarts in the years of your school,

Or grades, or cards, or facts.

All the good those do is puff yourself up,

And make you look the best.

Wisdom is not found in your diploma;

Your “fools” know that is true.

Wisdom is found in knowing your mistakes,

And what to do with them.

The weak can be strong and fools can be wise;

It all lies in the heart.

Wielding the Wand

[You have to hang on till the end!  Here is a shortened version of yesterday’s post…to get you to the punch line more quickly.]

by: RS Jacobs

He sat there ensconced in polished brown safety; he stared straight ahead. There before him, glowing in brilliant light, was everything he cared to know about, and so much more. Looking ahead as he did, he took on the power of the Fates themselves. He could peer into the past, study the present world, and even discover the future. He could observe, in a distant fashion, the private lives of his fellow man. Struggles, victories, sorrows; all were laid bare to his all-seeing eye. In mere moments, he could journey from forest, tcourage, courageous girl, girl in hoodie, girl with light sabre, girl with sword, light sabre, wando desert, to the depths of space. This was his telescope and grabbing claw to every universe — all in one.

At his left hand sat a sampling of the fountain of youth, seemingly seething with the energies of life itself. At his right, manna from Heaven. With the world before him, and life on either side, this was no man who graced this place with his presence, but a king.

Without diverting his gaze from the wonders that darted about his eyes, this king closed a meaty hand around the weapon of his choice: black in color, smoother than river stones, and studded with glory, but no larger than a wizard’s wand. Despite the size of the thing, the incalculable power of this weapon could end whole worlds, then bring them back as if they had never left. This rod of power could seize the reins of time, and seize them it did.

Taking on a countenance most pensive, he stroked his grizzled chin and sat in deep thought. Reactions to what he had seen raced through his head like hunting falcons. But this pondering only brought him to realize the gravity of his findings, and his hand rose to his face, as if to keep it from falling off.  He contemplated the power of the black rod, and when he could take no more, the black rod was brought up again. The flashing lights and echoing sounds were dismissed. He closed his eyes, exhaled a slow, deep breath, and said,

           wand, remote control, watching TV, watching television “Five hundred channels, and nothing on.”

(Now that you know the punch line, go back and read Tiresome Visions for the full story.)

Tiresome Visions

by: RS Jacobs

September 2011

 

He sat there, like so many of his porcine relations before him. Ensconced in polished brown safety, he stared straight ahead. There before him, glowing in brilliant light, was everything he cared to know about, and so much more. Looking ahead as he did, he took on the power of the Fates themselves. He could peer into the past, study the present world, and even discover the future. But there was more; he need not stop at observations of the fabric of time. He could observe, in a distant fashion, the private lives of his fellow man. Struggles, victories, sorrows; all were laid bare to his all-seeing eye. In mere moments, he could journey from forest, to desert, to the depths of space. This was his telescope and grabbing claw to every universe — all in one.

At his left hand sat a sampling of the fountain of youth, an elixir of immortality. It hissed audibly, seemingly seething with the energies of life itself. At his right, manna from Heaven; the odor so rich, it could be said one partook of it with the nose, rather than the mouth. Every now and then, he would take it upon himself to enjoy a taste of these culinary riches of unfathomable worth, then to sigh the sigh of a man liberated from his heavy load. With the world before him, and life on either side, this was no man who graced this place with his presence, but a king.

Without diverting his gaze from the wonders that darted about his eyes, this king of mammon reached, grasped, and finally closed a meaty hand around the weapon of his choice: black in color, smoother than river stones, and studded with glory, but no larger than a wizard’s wand. Despite the size of the thing, the incalculable power of this weapon could end whole worlds, then bring them back as if they had never left. This rod of power could seize the reins of time, and seize them it did. He used this tool of devastation to suspend all time as it stood, so he could observe the finer details, then all resumed as if uninterrupted.

The king was satisfied with the rod’s performance, and it was returned to its place. In its stead, he took up a tome endowed with the brown recliner, recliners, chairs, living roomknowledge rivaling the Oracle of Delphi. For beyond even the power at the king’s disposal, was the wisdom of the tome. Details on its silky pages foretold things that even the king had yet to see, but that he would in time. Sights yet unseen, sounds yet unheard — that was the realm of this tome of infinity. The king studied its pages closely, taking his attention from the light for a few brief moments, to discern the nature of his inbound premonitions.

But what the king saw distressed him greatly. A dark expression twisted his corpulent face, and the tome was closed and set aside. Taking on a countenance most pensive, he stroked his grizzled chin and sat in deep thought. Reactions to what he had seen raced through his head like hunting falcons. But this pondering only brought him to realize the gravity of his findings, and his hand rose to his face, as if to keep it from falling off. The king thought of all he had observed, and of the feeling most satisfying brought to his body by the food and drink. He contemplated the power of the black rod, and the untapped prescience of the prophetic tome. When he could take no more, the black rod was brought up again, and the flashing lights and echoing sounds were dismissed. He closed his eyes, exhaled a slow, deep breath, and said,

wand, remote control, TV, television, watching TV

            “Five hundred channels, and nothing on.”