There’s a secret place within
me, and long well I’ve known it.
A hidden, sheltered space where
light and shadow dance with my Muses.
Only here am I safe, if no Continue reading →
First, the inspiration for this poem:
I’ve held a lifelong love of birds. I’ve owned many (among my mother, sister, and me, we’ve had parakeets, lovebirds, cockatiels, an African grey, moluccan cockatoo, double-yellow naped Amazon, and a blue & gold Macaw), my grandfather used to feed and watch the birds around his house (binoculars and the Audubon’s field guide to north American birds (which I inherited) were never Continue reading →
Every year I live, growing
older, realizing what I
have yet to learn, recalling
earlier years with fondness:
I miss the innocence of
childhood, I long for the
summers of my youth….
Long-lasting days were filled
with tree-climbing, friends,
and riding our bikes.
Strenuous games of tag,
rounds of epic hide an’ seek.
Creating stories to play
out with our toys: Pound Puppies,
My Little Ponies, Beanie Babies….
Hours lost in play without a care.
Warm summer nights, no
rules, sleepovers and staying up late.
Gathering with our families around
giant, crackling bonfires,
making s’mores til midnight,
filling jars with lightning bugs.
Simple pleasures fueling
Reality was whatever we wanted.
Life was full and happy;
we were indomitable.
In childhood, we dreamed of bright
futures and where we would go,
the dreams we would reach….
Only twenty years later, and
I barely recognize my reflection.
Happiness and innocence
bowed to tragedy and
responsibility even as
childhood yielded to adulthood.
Long since, my hair began to
grey, calluses formed (both
figurative and literal).
Now fine lines make their
entrance, mirroring those
of heart and soul upon
face and hands.
Such is the wear and
tear of life upon this state of
humanity, of time upon
Responsibilities now weigh as
age keeps encroaching.
In adulthood, I remember the
joy of innocence, yearning to
return to a time, a place,
where dreams could come true.
Reality proved harsh and
and I feel
Note: Lack of ending punctuation is intentional.
Far from my best, but this has wanted out these past several days that I’ve been wallowing in the mire of my funk.
Life is a poem,
And poetry is music.
Eyes to see the imagery.
Heart to beat the meter.
Every breath a rhyme.
Life is a poem
Composed of many stanzas.
For each its own lines,
A different story to tell.
Chapters of life, verses of song.
Some may comprise a tragedy –
Full of loss and many tears.
Heartbreak and loneliness,
Or being set adrift.
Keep open eyes; it’s not over.
Others will be a comedy –
If only in hindsight.
Perhaps just a chuckle, but
Laughter with friends who’ve seen you through.
Another heartbeat, another stanza.
Moments of high drama will come,
Then pass into fond memory:
Great successes and tiny failures,
Accomplishment of dreams and goals.
Draw a deep breath – now write the next verse.
This is just to tide you over til i complete today’s poem:
Memories, like a secret lover,
Visit me beneath night’s cover;
Snippets of days long past,
And dreams that couldn’t last.
Presently they’re before mind’s eye,
Lest in the past they die.
Keep every memory alive,
Never forget – for that I strive.
Because i don’t foresee myself composing today. And besides, these fit my mood mostly, except for the last lines that are slightly more positive, hopeful, and forward-looking. Those three descriptors do not work right this moment…
From February 26, 2013
Captive forever, I am held
Hostage to ball and heavy chain,
My mind – my prison – confines me.
Depression forges dark links that
Shackle me to each of my fears,
Fettering me here, endlessly
Stationary, unable to
Move. I can fight if I want, but
‘Tis no use, for depression’s grip
Holds fast, constant, drags me quickly,
Under supervision of fear,
Back to my invisible cage.
Sometimes, when angry I grow, and
Weary, of such small enclosure,
Near delirium, I erupt
In frenzied rage that changes naught.
My perpetual torment: the
Life I desire lies beyond
Reach. Closer I cannot will it,
Nor wish it easier attained.
Fury misdirected and heat
Of wrath this chain won’t melt, nor ball
Crack from my bitterness frigid.
A life with depression and fear
Must be endured until strength and
Resiliency are trained. Then still
Will they follow, ever-present
As a shadow, haunt my steps; though
Now, their prison’s disempowered,
They remain leaden memories.
…when i miss a day, or when i let the abyss inside me win.
For yesterday, here’s one from February 12. This year.
Burning inside, forever
Running from wounds inescapable,
Overcome by haunted memory;
Kindled pain reignites
Endless visions of horror,
Negating forward progress.
Dread conquers and tramples,
Reaming soul, rending heart;
Every fiber of self – hollow.
Arising from blood and mud,
Marvelous, the Phoenix appears,
Soaring one more time.
Old acrostic poem, rediscovered on my old livejournal (as are the rest of the “from _…_” entries I’ll be making), from a prompt in a writing group i subscribed to:
This night, beneath the trees, with
All the stars a-light in the sky, you
Kiss me softly until my
Eyes well up with tears.
Moistening my cheeks, they fall,
Yet you catch them on your fingertip.
Tracing the shape of my raccoon eyes,
Even now you say I’m beautiful,
All my hair in disarray.
Reason thrown to the wind, I
Succumb to your gentle touch.
God, i remember that night as if it were yesterday. So beautiful; it was one of those moments. I can’t believe it was 5 years ago. I did exactly whatyou will read: sat in the dark, feeling and writing. Nothing spectacular, really, just thoughts as i observed my greatest Muse. Only later did i decipher overlapping lines, across pages, of nearly illegible scrawl….:
Walking home at dusk while a spring thunderstorm is born. It is raining lightly, and each raindrop falls inescapably on my face like cold needles. Rarely have I ever felt so refreshed and cleansed.
Later, when it was storming in earnest, I stepped out out into the darkness and forces of nature to smoke a cigarette, where the cool wind caressed me and held me in its embrace, yet did not touch me. I was warmed against the chill by a warmth coming from inside, completely independent of the weather around me. Now I have deigned to bring a chair, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter to scribble away blindly in my notebook and write purely from the heart. And to be a silly, stoned hippie and enjoy the look, sound, smell, and feel of this night. It smells so fresh. A sign of great powers long dormant reawakening. It is so inspiring. I am completely awed by the power of a simple storm, of nature, for the first time in far too long for such a beautiful, amazing occurrence. I stare around myself, stunned by the beauty. Thunder rocks through me, my entire body and being, and lightning streaks across my vision, blinding me. All the forces of life seem to envelope me. My mind is freed. Not only by substance, but by the simple act of writing in near darkness, not even looking at it, but writing directly from what my eyes are seeing and my heart is feeling, not caring or knowing how it will come from the tip of my pen. Again, for right now, this is enough, and it is all of me.
Sitting here, it is altogether thrilling, comforting, and frightening to spectate on nature left to itself. The sounds of frogs, crickets, falling rain, rolling thunder, and the occasional crack of lightning is the most beautiful symphony I could hope to hear. We should try to spend more time secloistered with nature. It tames the mind to a state of inner tranquility. We should not let life stress, tire, and enslave us so much that we miss the beauty of the world around us. We need daily time to be at peace, to just be still and listen to the music of the earth and be soothed. Even in the turmoil of a thunderstorm there is a certain peace. All is as it should be. The world is waking up again, and it is a new beginning.
I look on with such sadness as people shuffle hurriedly to their cars with heads ducked down against the rain and chill, ignorantly missing this beautiful display of nature of which we are fortunate enough to bear witness. They miss the simple pleasure of locating the stars and moon under a veil of clouds as the thunderstorm fades away.
I feel so blessed to have had this experience tonight. I do feel an exquisite joy, but there is also an exquisite sorrow. As always, it seems that I have a masochist’s curse to always feel pleasure accompanied with pain. I wish I could share this experience with someone, anyone, who appreciates it and aches to take it all in the way I do. When I’m with them, I try to make other people see it and appreciate it the way I do, but they just don’t get it. They don’t feel the way I do. They look at exactly what I am, but they don’t see it, they don’t feel it. They look at it, then back to me with an inquiring eye and ask, “so?”
That breaks my heart.
Open your eyes!
Every morning when I wake up, I experience an exquisite joy.
That is how I want to live my life…