The Wait

I come to this place

to find myself imagining

where is my God

in the wildness of the wind,

where do I go to listen

for that voice so dear,

to once again hear that call

and feel the spirit within,

the wilderness is cold

the heart is broken

and now I stand here

in supplication and prayer

seeking the divine Logos

to speak to my darkened self

calling me from my tomb

into the light of the living One.

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Will I Ever Know?

Will I ever know what it means to be a writer,

will I ever compose that one great love poem

or guide a reader into a realm they’ve never seen,

or am I doomed to just sit here in the darkened space

struggling with finding those elusive words

that just won’t come no matter how much I call

sitting outside of my vision taunting me as I write.

So, I sit here alone surrounded by the wisdom

of writers who have struggled in their own right

and the ghosts of so many who have long since gone

who wrote those now classic works that live still today.

Will I ever know what it means, really, really means.

Words

Words drip

one by one

filtered

through gauze

a hazy weave

that strains

each word

that drips through

removing impurities

of my own thoughts

breaking down

into small pieces

each another word

born from more

creating

a new word

joining in

the long conversation

between self

and the soul.

The Note

She taped the envelope to the door

and then slowly walked away,

the years of regret and pain

had finally come to this moment.

The note was short and to the point,

the only way she knew

how to express her deepest feelings.

Her fear that he would one day explode.

as she touched the bruise on her cheek

still sore even after so many days,

yet, her heart bore a deeper bruise

the bruise of a betrayal of her love.

The years she gave to him

the children she bore,

the house she kept

now she took that note

sealed in the envelope

taping it to the one place he was sure to see it

and as she slowly walked away

out of the front door and down the path

she mused on what he might do

as she entered the taxi taking her away

back to her own true love

The Good Poet

The poet,

a good poet,

sees the world,

I mean,

really sees the world.

They not only see a sunrise,

they see the colors that dance across the horizon.

The changing shapes of clouds

being blown about the blue sky.

When they write about love,

they touch upon deeply held feelings

giving voice to our deepest desires.

Passionate kisses are felt,

the warmth of another person held close,

losing oneself in the moment

wishing it to last forever.

In the way they use words

that worm their way into a person’s heart.

Poetry becomes the portal,

through which we step into

an unseen world,

uncovering mysteries lying

just outside of our limited sight.

The Headache of Zeus

I’m looking for that perfect sentence

the one that will open this poem

the perfect metaphor never used

so that you will read my poetry.

I even bought a book or two

to help me on my quest

to find the right combinations

of those words that I seek.

Poetry for Dummies is one

that claims to help demystify poetry

only will it help demystify me.

I dream, dreams of words aligned

all in perfect poetic order

then when I sit to write they are a jumble.

Outside the sun shines bright

and I hear the birds singing

the world is slowly waking up 

as I emerge from the dreams.

Now I sit here writing once again

looking at the blinking cursor

on the blank screen of the iPad

trying to remember what I dreamed

in the midnight hours

because what I saw was that sentence

all pretty and perfect

just waiting to be birthed

a sleeping fetus

enclosed in a darkened womb

of my mind

the headache of Zeus

that refuses to be born.

The Mystery behind the Mystery

I want to cry out,

to confess that I don’t have the answers

declaring my ignorance in all things.

I want to show my hands and feet

no wounds there, no stigmata

no stripes on my back

these instead lay hidden

deep within the heart

in the darkened recesses

where the Spirit sighs

in the depths of my soul.

I feel the fraud, the jester 

speaking words of faith

like a snake oil salesman

in a time of the quick fix,

here take this and live

when all around death reigns

and the darkness gathers.

I look out onto the people

gathered in prayer

seeking comfort 

in the words I speak,

hoping to see the truth in images

distorted in fun house mirrors

as loud voices expunge the truth,

enslaving the minds 

in Orwellian silence

while the poet sits

listening for that one voice

in the midst of the noise. 

That one voice that brings peace

the one voice that breaks chains

the one voice that gives hope,

the voice that breaths life 

even as death approaches

giving light to the dark sphere

in which we live today.

The poet dares to write

the words he hears,

words that break down walls

and brings healing.

Words wielded as broadswords

cutting through the hedges

of the mystery behind the mystery

the Divine hidden within

shining its light into darkened corners

shattering the lies.