Still River Flow

Note: even rivers make me think of mortality…. probably a complex or two there. Like and comment below!

When I drive to work

I pass a placid river

The reflection inverts

My world’s perception

for a moment the water

Is more saturated

Than the fall colored trees

And my multicolored eyes

Each day the picture there

Is the same, but each day

The river water’s changed

in me; it fills a new bank.

Each day, one more grey hair

Each day, another check box

Each day, new water molecules

Each day, each day…. each day

Until that river

Flows unchanged

And the driver

Has cycled through.

Reflections on a Dead Rosebush

Note: True story. Like and comment below!

We were with child, we writhed in labor,
    but we gave birth to wind. -Isaiah 26:18

Rose poems are cliche,

but I have a dead one.

I inherited the bush

from a careless caregiver.

 

I sat in a pink chair

best suited for grandma’s

at high tea or a man

googling ‘rose bush thorns.’

 

The internet told me

The bush is diseased.

There’s not a cure, only

resignation as it dies.

 

My hands want to pull

The illness from its veins.

My hands want to cut

The choking chafe.

 

But I am not one

to decide its fate.

I can only shovel.

I shovel myself.

I’m a Fundamentalist

We all are.

They tell me:
“Do not hold
One thing too close.”
But we all do.

They ask me:
“Who are you
To tell me so?”
Who are you?

They scold me:
“There can not be
But one thing!”
You have one.

Material things
Or open minds
Justice, peace,
Or get me mine.

Relative ethics
Personal truths
You live your life;
Your choice is made.

What you choose
Is who you are.
Mine gave all
at Calvary

Now what is yours?

Anxiety is Sticky

Note: I’m normally not a fan of/don’t post ‘journal entry,’ angst on a page poems, but what poet doesn’t write that kind. This one felt a little more creative than normal. Like and comment below! What is anxiety like to you?

Anxiety is sticky.

My student spread glue

on his hands and spent

and hour peeling it

off and he was done.

 

Anxiety is sticky.

The coke got spilled

by a drunk hand

In an angry swipe

We could have cleaned

but we didn’t and now

you shirt makes a noise

when you step across it.

 

Anxiety is sticky.

I put my hands

on the table and found

melted ice cream.

Nothing put it there,

No one meant this,

I washed and washed,

but my hands stuck.

 

Anxiety is sticky.

A link to a more lighthearted poem to balance out the angst.

Some Easter Musings

Note: a wee bit late, but had the idea at an Easter service. Comment and like below!

I watched a video

Where a toddler

Cried to her father

‘Make it go away!’

She pointed at the snow

Dejection on her face

Unfamiliar to the taste

Of bitter cold

But she could not devise

Like Peter’s scoffing cries

That flowers would still rise

And color yet return

Some Similes

Note: I hate pure angst poetry (because that’s what I used to write…. hehe), so I always try to find a place of solace by the end of the poem. How do you deal with anxiety? What does poetry do for you? Comment and like below!

A thorn in my side

reducing my thoughts

to a pinpoint focus

and until my head’s stuck

Bent to accommodate.

 

Like a dirt in a clam

With layer and layer

of spit to soften the cut

But that little rock remains

Until someone else comes

And that rock is a pearl.

 

An Open Letter to the Sun

(As Written by the Moon)

Note: Occasionally re-posting some of my old favorites. Here’s another recent favorite. Comment and like below!

Dear Helios,

Its been a long while
Since I’ve seen you
Sat by you
Or felt warmed while you
Wile away the hours
Flying across the sky.
Where the hell are you?

The pine trees bend and break under the weight of winter
Because you are away over that horizon.
The forests release their beastly creatures
While you are away over that horizon.
I am surrounded by darkness- and it’s your fault-
people are dying- and it’s your fault-
Because you are snug and comfy,
Far, far away over that fucking horizon

I have seen your brightness
and damn do I miss it
Cause really, it is my ill reflected light that’s casting
Shadows on the shade of this earth
By my lack of light,
Graves lay restless in the abyss,
By my lack of light,
The city streets release their demons,
Haunting this creation
And men stumble amidst the brambles,
By me and my dim reflection.

I’ve tried so hard to shine and
failed. Tried but there’s
An Earth’s worth of dust
And dirt between us.
Plus, time is passing,
My light is waining,
and soon, I’ll let the darkness
in. Let it win when every
Remaining light wisps away.

Dust reflecting onto dust.
This has become the norm
So my eyes have adjusted to the dark.
If you returned, you’d only blind
us, ruin us.
So maybe just don’t come back.

But even as I write this,
Even from up here,
I feel a little warmth in the air.
A red-blue mural beauty is
Forming amidst the clouds in the distance,
a sunrise, forcing even the deepest blackness
To flee and wither to a shadow.

So, I guess I’ll see you soon.

Signed,
The Moon

The Way Less Travelled

Note: strong borrowing from the great Robert Frost and scripture. Comment and like below!

I’d walked for hours and found a fork

The road diverged in two.

He took the one less traveled by

The choice is not that easy.

To the left are trees and plants

A few strewn rocks and dirt.

To the right are shrubs and grass

A sanded path and woods.

For many hours I thought and sweat

But could not near decide

The night grew long, the beast drew close

With panic near I prayed a sigh.

Then behind the trees

A backlit color in the canopy

The clouds pressed up by red

By its light I saw the trail.

The leftward was tempting me

A faint decline. No rugged turns.

A hand to help and bluebirds sang

“Now follow only what you yearn.”

The rightward way was difficult

Rocks on which to stumble

And beggars taking all I had

Until I’m left to ramble.

Your burden’s light

The choice obscure

But test my heart

And lead me there.

Word, Words, Etc

Note: For a far better version of the sentiment in this poem, check out Futile Devices by Sufjan Stevens. Comment on how mine compares below!

Words like an inkless pen

Etched blankly on your heart

Over and over and over

And over I try to write beloved

Onto each vesicle and chamber.

 

Words like an inkless pen,

Good for a prison weapon.

To harm to hurt to pry

To threaten and to riot.

Here they do their work well.

 

But still I write my words

In an inkless script: beloved.

A Toy’s Glory

Note: A few times in everyone’s life, somebody says something that changes them. Recently, someone close to me said “you’re not a disappointment” and it’s been ringing around my head every since. Like and Comment below!

Every boy, every girl has

a collection of toys.

 

The red blue lights on the cop car

A string to pull ‘to infinity’

Robots folding, bugs crawling

Barbarians with axes

And holy knights of faith

with crosses on their shields

And a sword engraved

“The Word of God.”

 

But who am I?

 

I am a nothing toy.

My fur is clay, mucked together

In oils left behind of overuse.

My eyes were lost.

I have no lights, swords

Talents, hidden compartments.

I barely have stuffing left.

 

I remember

 

For years I watched.

You giggled with the cars

And battled the barbarians and knights.

I was target practice for the darts

Use to pacify the youngest.

 

And yet

 

When you grew old

And packed away your things

I was chosen.

On my best days

I was a mongrel used for catch

And yet I was chosen.

Placed in a chest

Kept to be your treasure.