Selling Our Souls

Are we really that far gone?

In this time and place

the darkness of a human

overshadows the light

and covers us in shame.

Many despair this darkness

as they try to make sense

of the trite words being tossed

at the expense of another soul.

You shall love God and neighbor

unless that neighbor is different

and then you look to denigrate

while the crowds cheer raising their thumbs

feeling vindicated without knowing

they have sold their own souls

for the price of thirty pieces.

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Where Does Poetry Come From?

Where does poetry come from?

Is it birthed in tragedy,

when a heart is broken

and fear darkens a life?

Is it created, when love is found

in that first kiss under the oak tree?

Does poetry only belong to the young

who see colors dance along the mind.

Or, does poetry come from a life full of mystery

where even the smallest grain of sand

is seen as an invitation into stillness.

I am old now seeking to find my poets heart

in the quiet moments of the day.

I listen for that young voice

crying out in my dreams and imagination

seeking words and images

long lost in the whirlwinds of the past.

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.

Wild and Free

Maybe it’s me

the way I think,

not in a straight line

and not in sequential steps.

As I look back 

on all those years

when I was told the path,

and I went the other way

not willing to be fitted

with bit and bridle of convention

but wanting to run free,

along the broken ridge lines

across the empty beaches

to feel the wind in my face

to stand in the rain

shaking my rebellious fist 

to the forces that try to chain.

Now I know the tale

of the Handmaid and her woes

being tied down by fear of others.

Lives are meant for living

pushing against the walls

trying to contain the hearts

of the artists and poets

whose words are dangerous

and not at all straight and narrow

but wild and free.

Poets 

Surrounded by poets

from ancient psalmist

to modern prophets

their words echoing

in the heart and soul.

This is my safe place

where imagination and dreams

are free to roam 

along the edges of the mind,

seeing the colors of the world

in the words they use.

Beauty

in the ugliness 

that surrounds our lives.

Shedding light

on the darkened corners.

These poets speak

their voices cannot be silenced

their passion never dimmed,

their hearts overflow

as the words spill out

watering the garden of life

with tears of joy.

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.

Personal Dilemma

My desk is littered with half read books

journals that I have barely scanned

bits and pieces of sermon notes

and reminders to myself to do something.

On my iPad there are unread poems

that I intend to get to as soon as I can

but there is always something else,

a death this week, a crisis of faith next.

I intend to write more poetry and prose

I want to reveal the inner fears and dreams

yet, those old voices creep shouting 

and my own ego is much deflated

as I would rather seek a place away

somewhere deep in the enchanted woods

where I may lay my head and dream in color.

Away from all of the mechanical noises

that burrow into the skull polluting the mind

and overwhelming my ability to just be.

I look now at this poem, this small offering

above it another half written poem awaits.

Deep down I know I want to write

then again, 

deep down fear crowds out creativity.

Where do I go from here?

How do I end this poem?

Maybe that’s the answer,

no poem is ever really finished

no poet can ever sit back satisfied

the world is so full of darkness

and I hold a palette of vibrant colors

as I seek to paint with the words I see

streaming across the subconscious 

like wild horses running across the plains

unfettered, unafraid, untamed and free.