the first thing you see when you look up
is a sheer rock face
punctuated by dramatic shadows
that rise up from the sea and tower over you
silent, massive, like specters that haunt and protect
this mountain looming
solitary over endless waves
the moon in the east and the sun setting in the west
reds and yellows of the rays
illuminating this temple of Jove
what’s left of it
simple, strong, masculine
a series of arches like monstrous eyes
gazing unto nothing, nowhere
indifferent to you and me
indifferent to us all below
gazing far far past us
to what we cannot see
anymore
they built their temples high
to be closer to their gods
and their gods are now all dead
but their ghosts linger still
and they are still magnificent
but strange and twisted
they are no longer the golden limbed
the fleet footed
the fair haired
the thunderous avengers
the mighty kings they once were
they are old now and they have retreated
back somewhere
to a place that’s not darkness or light
that’s not shadow or sun
it’s almost as if they are always just behind everything
just there until you look away
shy now, timid, quick to retreat
weakened and grey
unable to punish those who mock them below
unable to show themselves
claim lives, start wars, ruin and build empires
to destroy and create with the arrogance of their power
but you see them, they are there
not for everyone
not for the proud and the powerful
who live out their few days in the full bloom of their youth
laughing at gods and the like
not for those who never even thought
there could be anything that escapes their will
not for those who think they are gods themselves
who hold their destiny in their hands
and who value the self above all else
those who live that tiny moment in a life
those few golden decades
in the prime of their power and youth
and then succumb to all the same things
they once thought they were impervious to
selves all strewn like leaves in autumn
all lying beneath the trees they’ve been torn from
the gods cannot be seen by those
who have hated gods
and replaced them with something as narrow
and tenuous
and fickle
as an I
maybe it’s because I’m older now
and don’t feel as strong as I used to
maybe it’s because I feel some things
have slipped away for good from my grasp
and I regret the past more than ever
now that it’s feeling late to change some things
and I feel more unsettled, more out of place
I, I, I
I am/is more homeless in the world than ever
but I look up to those temples
those temples on big mountains
those temples where we once wanted
to be closer to the gods, to feel their power
their reach, their span
those temples
those temples that have become cheap mascots
that decorate tourist brochures and photo albums
those temples where the priests and the worshippers
have long since fled
and been replaced with indifferent security guards
and ticket salesmen
and jabbering tour guides
yapping trivia at hordes of vacant eyed tourists
snapping photos as if trying to capture meaning
capture greatness, capture grandeur
in a hollow frame
without giving anything of themselves
just consuming it, devouring it
and always ending up unsatisfied, empty stomached
hungry, trying to fill the emptiness with the next beautiful thing
to be captured in the next frame
to be reached with the next cheap holiday package
as they plod clumsily around
those temples that are now decorated with demeaning lights
in between fashion shows and concerts
and entertainment
Mighty Jove
God of Gods
whose worshippers vanquished empires
and conquered the world under his reign...
his temple now adorns a coffee mug
and a keychain.
the sun sets, the reds and the yellows fade
the darkness slowly takes hold
but still the last thing you see
when you look up
is this temple
and the last thing the light leaves
are those old lonely ghosts
that still gaze sorrowfully away
to where
we below can never see
they built their temples high
to be closer to their gods
and their gods are now all dead
but their ghosts linger still
and they are still magnificent
but strange and twisted
they are no longer the golden limbed
the fleet footed
the fair haired
the thunderous avengers
the mighty kings they once were
they are old now and they have retreated
back somewhere
to a place that’s not darkness or light
that’s not shadow or sun
it’s almost as if they are always just behind everything
just there until you look away
shy now, timid, quick to retreat
weakened and grey
unable to punish those who mock them below
unable to show themselves
claim lives, start wars, ruin and build empires
to destroy and create with the arrogance of their power
but you see them, they are there
not for everyone
not for the proud and the powerful
who live out their few days in the full bloom of their youth
laughing at gods and the like
not for those who never even thought
there could be anything that escapes their will
not for those who think they are gods themselves
who hold their destiny in their hands
and who value the self above all else
those who live that tiny moment in a life
those few golden decades
in the prime of their power and youth
and then succumb to all the same things
they once thought they were impervious to
selves all strewn like leaves in autumn
all lying beneath the trees they’ve been torn from
the gods cannot be seen by those
who have hated gods
and replaced them with something as narrow
and tenuous
and fickle
as an I
maybe it’s because I’m older now
and don’t feel as strong as I used to
maybe it’s because I feel some things
have slipped away for good from my grasp
and I regret the past more than ever
now that it’s feeling late to change some things
and I feel more unsettled, more out of place
I, I, I
I am/is more homeless in the world than ever
but I look up to those temples
those temples on big mountains
those temples where we once wanted
to be closer to the gods, to feel their power
their reach, their span
those temples
those temples that have become cheap mascots
that decorate tourist brochures and photo albums
those temples where the priests and the worshippers
have long since fled
and been replaced with indifferent security guards
and ticket salesmen
and jabbering tour guides
yapping trivia at hordes of vacant eyed tourists
snapping photos as if trying to capture meaning
capture greatness, capture grandeur
in a hollow frame
without giving anything of themselves
just consuming it, devouring it
and always ending up unsatisfied, empty stomached
hungry, trying to fill the emptiness with the next beautiful thing
to be captured in the next frame
to be reached with the next cheap holiday package
as they plod clumsily around
those temples that are now decorated with demeaning lights
in between fashion shows and concerts
and entertainment
Mighty Jove
God of Gods
whose worshippers vanquished empires
and conquered the world under his reign...
his temple now adorns a coffee mug
and a keychain.
the sun sets, the reds and the yellows fade
the darkness slowly takes hold
but still the last thing you see
when you look up
is this temple
and the last thing the light leaves
are those old lonely ghosts
that still gaze sorrowfully away
to where
we below can never see
