Dashing to Delirium

The Dungbeetle's Grizzly poem for 2015.

Dashing on upon this world of busyness and sun-kissed light
in pattern well beyond our grasp, we dash to left and right.
We dash alone, we dash together
through mire and forest we dash in search of youthfulness forever,
young and sleek, gnarled and bleak,
we dash across the landscape
as if to dash is, oh so, very clever.
With troubled minds and doubts to share
by twisting path our desperate dashing leads us - absolutely nowhere.
We hurtle forth on marble blue,
we follow diligently by cry and hue,
through rainbow realms of unimaginable space
as if, by chance, we might succeed in this endurance race,
as if we’d signed some unlikely ultimatum
that all our random dashing
might eventually lead us to the eye of calm delirium.

We dash about, we scream and shout
in solitude or Grizzly glare
we never stop to stand and stare
for all the others do the same
as if this form of self-discovery is just some trivial game.
In breathless motion, dark commotion
like ants we dash and march in maniacal trust
that we will survive somehow this crazy dashing lust.
Just to get there - happy to complete the race
or, perhaps, to journey onwards with an exhausted runner’s grace,
consigned, at last, to posterity’s harsh compendium
we become an open book that speaks only of a cut and thrust delirium.

From earth and cosmic dust we come
to begin our pilgrim's progress to delirium
through starlit realms we roam and run
then, like all the other stars above, we catch alight
and burn with passion through the night.
It is a sudden change of state
that transforms us into beacons, every one,
it is as if a butterfly is born
to illuminate the darkness of the maelstrom.
Travellers on a pilgrim world
thus, we journey forth, yet in constant jest we’re hurled,
our little lives leave glorious trails across the twilight sky
and slowly we become aware that we are blessed with choice
as the space between us resonates and roars
- to the music of a clarion voice.
From the very start, from lonely pseudopodium
to conscious beings full of hunter’s fear
we’re swept along by some impulsiveness
that we may call “our cheer”,
that leads us to a bright continuum - a wonder-full delirium.

Eventually the dashing mind becomes a tranquil pond
the body can do nothing but obediently respond.
And so, the quest goes on, but not in dashing mode
the journey, now a pilgrimage along an endless road.
A window is thrown open, the light pours in,
the pilgrim is still running but is now a shining beacon
who never, ever weakens; for whom the "dashing" world is done,
for whom the marble is his hOMe where only gratitude is won.
We look as if we’re just the same, the marble spirals on,
not alone but held in the vice-like grip of gravity and Name.
The passengers are driven, they follow paths of old
their deceptions are forgiven, their myths and sagas penitentially retold,
the pilgrim, henceforth, must obey all the Laws of Nature,
compostible decay and a self-sustaining momentum along the greensome Way.
Thus we spiral on and on - upon our endless journey,
towards a new-won state of joyful brilliance and our own, perpetual delirium.

© Dave Kelf, 2015