Simple

It’s simple

erase,

the loss,

the pain,

that emptiness,

erase it all,

move on,

smile,

laugh,

hide those scars,

behind sleeves,

those bruises,

cover them,

hide it all,

don’t weep

don’t live grief

exposing

us living with pain,

loss,

emptiness,

scars and bruises,

behind

sleeves

in silent caverns

of memory

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Poetry Speaks

Poetry

speaks in tongues

that shine within

the darkening days

dismantling our walls

built upon sands

that shimmer and shake

exposing dragons

in nightmares

revealing scales

thick with grief

As Fall Ends

Fall leans into winter

a reminder that we

need to lie fallow

to rest and prepare

our hearts and souls

for the coming of a child

who brings peace

into our conflicted world

time of sabbath

embracing the silence

as nature renews

frost coating empty fields

denuded trees stretch limbs

into cold gray skies

a scent of snow

on the breeze

mixes with wood fire

from darkened homes

as people give thanks

resting in that peace

of knowing God’s presence

in the deep silence

that calls us to be still.

Lovers

I look into her eyes

deep blue waters

where I drown

in a sea of passion

love

eternal, precious

living love

that breaks chains

our bodies touch

we rise on a wave

high into the heavens

touching eternity

where angels dwell

and our hearts sing

a sweet song

the song of a love

that never dies.

Apologies

I apologize,

for all the poor poetry

that I write,

breaching every rule

telling

not showing,

the weak reflections

and cliches

to mask my languor

as a writer and poet.

I should read

more of your poems

that are manna

feeding the psyche,

bridging the chasm

between worlds

in need of words

that soothe and soften

the harshness

of anger and deceit.

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.

To Parker J. Palmer

You are an elder

or so I’ve read

a sage

filled with wisdom

for the age

a voice of reason

in unreasonable times

I read your books

and wonder

if I will ever achieve

that place of honor

of being an elder

filled with wisdom

whose words

are quoted

by the likes of ones

like me

who strive to write

with the same passion

and depth

or will I fade

into the twilight

a mere shadow

of who I once was

whose words are dust

that blow away

in an autumn breeze

never to return

lost forever to time.