Writing Poetry

 I’ve been writing a lot of poetry these past few months, well, let’s just say I think I’ve been writing poetry. I’m definitely not a classic poet, I don’t do all of the rhyming or understanding of what constitutes a decent poem. Yet, I continue to write these poems and once in a while I get a few positive comments and quite a number of likes. 

 Lately, I’ve begun to reflect on my writing, what it means, what I intend it to mean, basically those great existential questions of self worth and what my life is about. Most of what I write starts as a short verse or just one word. From that one short verse or word, I start to write, usually a stream of consciousness until I exhaust that vein of words. I then look over what has been written, read it out loud to hear what it’s saying and then make edits. Many times I surprise myself at what I’m reading. It’s as if my mind and thoughts are no longer my own as I write down what I’m hearing inside. Another voice, ancient and elusive, seems to be seeking an outlet as I write. 

 Ever since being struck by that car door, over a year ago, this voice deep within has been ever present with me. I see the world and all that is around me in a different light. I see the flowers and trees, the birds, and the life around me, coming even more alive. There is a vividness all around, an achingly beautiful, yet fearful world, that screams at my heart to write about. I really can never explain these feelings, as I am still seeking to make sense of what I’m hearing and writing about.

 So, I will continue on this path, I will write more poems, delve into sacred prose, seek the Spirit that underlies my very life. Some will resonate, some will just purely suck, all of it will be mine. 



It’s like digging out of an avalanche,

nothing but darkness and cold,

suffocating under the shear weight.

Trying, to make the arms and legs work,

moving tons of debris away seeking light.

Each hole I punch out, fills again,

each handful I grab gets only heavier.

The act of digging is emotionally debilitating,

I want to just rest, to close my eyes,

allow the dark and cold to overtake.

If only my mind would let go of the thoughts,

that litter the landscape of the interior.

Looking at the road, seeing the past,

wondering about the future, living in the present,

the rustle of dry leaves underfoot, crunching.

I Started to Write a Poem

I started to write a poem,

had no idea where to go,

nothing comes to mind,

as I sit here all alone.

It’s not easy just to write,

something prophetic,

something profound,

nature takes its own course,

and I’m just an old man,

whose thoughts are a jumble.

So, I started to write a poem,

of what I see all around,

the children bustling off to school,

as parents look relieved,

the yellow busses filled with young,

bright, green leaves on trees,

flowers drooping, colors fading.

Late summer sun shining,

grasses dry and brown from drought,

this world just keeps turning,

not thinking what we are about.

I find that love grows deeper,

each year as we trod along,

life is like these poems I write,

a bit messy, a bit trite.

So, I do only what I can,

and continue to write

Hard Writing

The writing becomes hard,

a moment of clarity,

followed by a tempest of doubt.

I try, to understand,

the thoughts that lie deep.

Realizing, my own deficiencies,

the voices of the past,

declaring my faults.

Yet, I write,

poems that prod,

digging deep into my heart,

exposing my dreams,

as well as nightmares.

I’ll never be a classic poet,

God never gave me that gift.

Instead, I struggle,

to understand the feelings,

that lay below the surface.


How does one connect, in this connected society. 

We look down at small screens barely looking up. 

Busily typing away using only thumbs. 

So busy we can’t even use words.

Little pictures, the emoticons of life. 

No longer do we linger over a long, lazy lunch.

Nor do we sit and gaze, just to sit and gaze.

Ever busy, blowing through life in a digital age. 

A phone held up high seeking enough bars.

frantically searching for that hotspot. 

One might just miss the latest gossip.

That Hollywood starlet, starving herself to death, 

to satisfy the cravings of the disconnected. 

Prayer Life

There comes a time when one feels,

that crawling along the Camino de Santiago,

on your knees and against the wind, going uphill,

is easier than swimming against the tide,

of human indifference.

Yet, swim I must, as well as crawl,

down into the dust from whence we came.

Acknowledging that I cannot go alone,

that my essence and breath, the fabric

of my soul comes from your love and grace.

My heart reaches up, my hands in prayer,

seeking rest in the silences of the deep.