Mining My Poets Heart

Poetry is my escape

into the realms of the mystery

that lies deep within.

Poets open up the landscape

where new vistas are viewed,

horizons filled with light

exposing the truth hidden below.

I write poetry

to peel off the scabs

of a well worn soul.

Exposing the rawness underneath

to the healing light

giving sight to my blindness

and breath to my corpse.

Loves lost and found

memories mined for the treasure

that lies there for the taking

in the words that play across

the dreamscape as I sleep.

The mystical pathways

long lost to human memory,

our connection to that

which lies outside of our realm

found in the poets heart

and in the poets soul

Poetical Metaphor

A true poet, 

sees the rise and fall of the tides 

a metaphor of life

tossed to and fro 

as waves pound the shore.

The true poet 

looks at the sunrise and sunset 

sees the brilliant oranges 

and reds against the clouds,  

and the light behind the light.

The true poet looks at the caterpillar 

munching on a green leaf

seeing the butterfly within its fattening body

ready to spread it’s wings and fly.

The true poet,

writes of love

in it’s purest,

even when that love

breaks open a heart.

The true poet looks at life, 

in all of it’s forms

expressing the human desire 

to love and be loved.

The true poet

lives in the heart

of the imagination

bringing light to truth

whispering loves breath

that calls us from

our darkened prisons.

The Child That Never Was

I could see it in her eyes

the memory of that day

as she lay in bed waiting

a doctor,

a nurse

she knew it wasn’t good.

The child died

it was that simple

the life carried within

was no longer.

She yearned to touch

to hold, to see

that which she had felt

all those months

even now

her arms ache to hold

that child she never saw.

The years go on

time does not always heal,

the small casket buried

holding her heart.

Hey! Snowflake

You’re called snowflake

as if you are weak,

blown about by the winds

melting away quickly.

Yet, they do not know

that each snowflake is unique

a one of a kind

crystalline form,

a complex geometric pattern

that floats on the wind

to be caught on eager tongues

of children laughing.

Shaped by nature’s hand,

when combined 

a force that closes cities

stop trains, 

forcing us to slow down,

to remember 

we to are unique

one of a kind,

complex geometric patterns

that will one day

melt away

leaving only the green

planted so long ago.

Silent Run

Today is the anniversary of the loss of USS Thresher (SSN-593). I wrote this poem several months ago as my shipmates on the USS Glenard P. Lipscomb (SSN-685) were gathering for a reunion. It’s for all those who risk their lives as they venture out into the deep and for the families and loved one’s who await their return home. 

Slipping under the waves,

into the hostile sea,

Standing together,

ever vigilant, ever listening,

plumbing the dark depths.

Sleeping in coffin like racks,

Dreaming of family and home,

standing watch in red light.

The sea silently going by

as we traveled through,

leaving hardly a trace,

Living today,

remembering those days,

we remember others,

on eternal patrol.

Brothers like us,

who stood their watch,

and also dreamt of family.

Reflection on the News

It comes as no surprise

to see how we react

to the news that shocks

us to the core.

It’s easy to blame the past,

hindsight is 20/20

and of course,

we would have done it better.

It would be nice if people

were so easy and predictable

not creatures of habit

seeking what’s best for them.

Yet, that’s not the way,

hasn’t been since that fatal bite

in a garden lost to memory.

I’m a Bouncer

I’m a bouncer,

not that kind of bouncer,

the muscular, no necks

who stand watch

over the dimly lit nightclub

watching designer dressed people

sipping their specialty cocktails

while the jazz band plays

eyeing one another,

seeking that one time love

that really isn’t love

but a need to feel something

even if only for a moment.

I’m a bouncer between words

seeking the right combo

playing all the wrong notes

with no rhythm or blues.

Needing to feel something

in the poetry of my life

if only for a moment.

I bounce because I’m scared 

of what might happen

of where the words will take me.

I used to bounce on an old sofa

in the basement of our house

listening to the A-sides of 45’s

on an old Sears and Roebuck

record player I got for Christmas

and there, with music playing

I would bounce and imagine

what some call daydreaming,

of adventures beyond my walls

being the hero who gets the girl

the one who saves the world.

Now here I sit, imagining still

daydreaming away, some say,

as these words flow out.

Nothing is perfect

nothing is easy

so I continue to be just that,

a bouncer needing to feel

if only for a moment.