What Tale do I Tell?

What tale am I to tell? 

Where does my story begin?

Where will it all end?

I look about and see poetry

in the trees as the wind blows through the leaves

in the songs of the birds nesting in the branches.

There is poetry in the love I share

in the tears I shed

in my own imperfections.

I look up at the clouds scudding across the sky

changing shape molded by unseen hands

creating a story that is timeless.

I am such a small part of the greater whole

seeking to discover that one great purpose

writing these bits and pieces of poetry

hoping to see in the words a reflection of my soul.

Perfection is a dream, a fantasy of youth

these words are imperfect as is the language.

It can never describe those deeper feelings

that lie at the core of my being,

a being fraught with fear and anxiety

of knowing I am not enough on my own.

What tale do I tell? 

What mystery lies at the root of my heart?

The roads I have travelled were never straight

winding through a landscape at once beautiful and terrible.

Through the gauntlet of people and places

faces haunting the edges of my memory

now I stand on the precipice of the future

as I stare out across a valley shrouded in fog

wondering where my story will take me.

Time grows shorter with each passing year

I now have arrived at a point where there are less tomorrow’s

and I can no longer sit idly 

as that enemy time, 

gnaws me down into dust.

All is sacred, all is holy, if I dare to look outward

fear is the cage created to justify our own failures

and I have failed and fallen so may times

yet, like the Phoenix I have risen from the ashes

to stand before the judgement seat of the Holy

the mystery of unconditional love

that calls us out of our tombs

unbinding our tortured souls

and bathing us in the light of truth.

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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.

A Drone Dares to Write

There comes a moment when you realize you suck at something so bad that it’s time to either shit or get off the pot. Writing, sure it’s not easy, sure it takes time and sure not everything written by you is worth reading, but there are those for whom writing is a lark. By that, I mean they write effortlessly. Now don’t give me some bullshit that it’s not all that easy when a seasoned writer can vomit clever lines and titles with the ease of a person having a stomach virus, the words just spew forth and all in a colorful pattern. Those of us, I should say, people like me, who have struggled creatively with everything they have ever tried (yes, I’ve tried plenty times to be creative) only to be beaten down by the critical voices both within and without. When I write all I hear are all those English teachers who only fawned over the literary geniuses in our class, rewarding them with extra credit and special one on one critique. While the rest of us drones were relegated to reading Jane and Dick books in the vast mausoleum that was called a study hall. We were the cannon fodder, the kids being readied for the factories and janitorial jobs that no one wanted to do, then the geniuses closed down the factories and the drones were truly flightless. Now, here I sit, doing what every English teacher told me I could never do and that is write, write creatively. As I enter into the later part of my life I write, a bit of prose, a bit of poetry pouring out my heart onto the blank pages. Really, what do I have to lose, all the ego and self respect as to my own creativity I once believed in, now litters those long dormant study halls of the past. I’m never going to be a “published” writer, as such, that domain belongs to the geniuses and spewers of fine words. Me, well, I’ll throw out my words like one throws spaghetti at a wall and see what, if anything, sticks which in the end only creates a mess but at least it’s my mess.