An Ancient Ruthless Language

I do not want to be bitter in the end

DNA is an ancient ruthless language

That which is encoded to be aware

Is encoded to decay

Awareness an advantage

An evolution

Sometimes a difficulty

As the world spins

Bitterness would indicate regret

Which is purchased

And is sustained

By the illusion

That self-determination guided us

Yet the options we have

Are small, but meaningful

Such as the choice of bitterness

About the fate we are dealt


Acceptance of that which blocks our path

And shall never move

To find meaning in stillness

To find peace the inevitable

Gene G. McLaughlin 2015

Fate Is Not My Future

The opposite of pain

Is acknowledgement of pain

The path to control

Is the acknowledgement of none

Fate’s not my future

It is what I’ve done

Gene G. McLaughlin 2014


Doorbell rings who is it?

It is the postman once again

Postman what do you carry?

I bring you complications

And the dawn of a brand new day

I bring you salutations

From the voices of yesterday

Did you not expect it?

My deliveries are always on time

Could you not deduce that?

I would arrive at mornings chime

Looking at the postman

I can see jest in his eyes

He knows my years are more than a few

And I can see through his guise

You bring me what I did not expect

Maybe means to fill some needs

Or something from a past once wrecked

Maybe new growth from a bag of seeds

Mr. Postman I know enough of fate

To approach all things with doubt

I know there is never a clean slate

Nor a risk less route

But I shall not fear the unknown

That is just the same as being blind

Or disregard paths that are shown

Out of fear that they are not mine

Mr. Postman what speaks to you?

Tell me not I know it is pain

Mr. Postman you are not alone

And in each moment there can be gain

Bring me what you will sir

I am not afraid

Bring me what you will sir

Without calligraphy or masquerade

I know what you deliver:

Spirit always questing

Spirit always true

Spirit never breaking

Spirit always renewed

Spirit blind with sorrow

Spirit bound with pain

Spirit gently borrows

From the hearts small and subtle gains

Gene G. McLaughlin 2013

The Vulture

The vulture picks away at the bones

In the heat of the sun

Carrion before him

A feast of rare

Portion and quality

Looking about at the plain

Feeling the wind

Gentle and warm from the sky

He thinks of the sky

The warm spots he finds

Floating for hours

Surveying all that is below

Beauty and bounty

Plunging his head into the

Wet decay of carcass he

Hears their sound in the distance

His brother and accomplices

Come to clean the landscape with him

Full, his time is done here and he arises

Taking flight and elevating toward a perch

And grasping a large branch

Sun baking the skin of his head

Drying the juice of the carcass

Surveying what is around him

Heat dust life sun water plants

And bones

He is the creator of bones

Dry white and dusty

Defiler defender devourer

And disinfectant

Watching a small rodent

Thinking of life and death

Not two sides of a coin

Not an equation

But separate

His domain the edge

Death not beauty

Death never beauty

But sustenance

The issue not desire

The issue not direction

The issue acceptance

That no desire

Changes the beauty of life

No direction away from the

Bones that all become

His brothers squawk below feasting

The breeze and sun whispers to them


I will not be bitter when it’s time to go

When my eyes close upon the sky

I will not mourn for what I did not know

When my last moments arrive

What I had

Was enough

Gene G. McLaughlin 2013