One and Done #6

Where do I find the time,
to get out of this cultural grind?

Grindin’ up my soul,
locking my hands behind,
hand cuffed.

I can complain,
say that life is rough,
but when I’m stranded and silenced,
I have no time for ambivalence.

Peering through the darkness,
looking for that straight and narrow path.
There’s a place for catharsis,
a release – a cleansing bath.
It’s not about who gets the farthest.

It’s simply about finding the road.
Or you can let yourself corrode,
lose hope and be trashed by the waves,
of ever changing whims of the masses,
with nothing to believe you’ll become slaves,
and when you approach your dying graves,

You’ll wish you had walked your own path.

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Hopeless and Hopeful

When I awake,

and feel this ache

I think that I,

may have made a mistake.

The pain that’s pleasant,

Things clearly confused,

It’s easier gone,

but better this way.

Does she know what she does,

when she looks in my eyes,

as the world fades,

I stand paralyzed.

I stutter, I stop

I stumble, I fall

Falling or flying

I find myself dying of love.

Dying but living,

Getting and giving,

Lost but found,

the worlds turned upside down.

What are these feelings,

so hopeless and hopeful?

The “I” that is not me

This I is not me.
I write this I for you.
But you see with your eye, my I as me.

After you’ve read my poem,
you ask me how I am.
I’m fine of course again.

What I write is not
the same as what is
written about me.

Why then if you know me,
me is all you see
when I am writing fictionally?

The thoughts are mine its true.
The words of course are mine too.
But the person in the story isn’t me or you.

That’s the description of fiction:
Truth immersed in story.
A falsely true depiction.

A dark winter night of the soul

A bed of snow gently lays
upon the ground of this winter night.
Peaceful, calm, beautiful.

The pure white sits untarnished
from the next days rummaging.
A still, all encompassing beauty
floats upon the chilled air.

A different chill
than the iciness of my heart.
An undisturbed serene
stark contrast to the violence
and agitation in my soul.

What was once white
Is now tarnished by bruises
from years of thrashing into the darkness.

The night is no darkness
Compared to my soul,
and yet I feel the pure snow falling,
the beautiful white accumulating.

No longer outside, but in.
In me, there is still purity.
Hibernating beneath
the cold, calm snow
lays a dormant rose.

Soon will be the spring time,
Passion and purity erupting to the surface
Of this frozen ground.

Nostalgic Amber Air

When, under the noonday sun

The bristle of late autumn’s breeze blows.

Winter is nigh and the chill is alive

but today the children still play

under the noonday sun.

One shouts delighted

with the first and last crackle

of the fallen Fall leaf under toe.

 

Parent’s watch awaiting

another season to pass.

Autumn had kissed the earth

with her amber lips,

but left Just as quickly.

Taking her cheerful color

and leaving her icy heart.

 

The children are content with

even the greatest of change.

For them each day changes

in many a way. But for those

older folks, who have seen

days change to years. The coming

of winter brings with her fears.

 

When life is not new and

is in it’s waning hours,

when the bride and the groom

have danced, experienced first embrace

and walked hand in hand till death

did they part.

 

Will you sit with me and observe

the lively little children

who dance among falling leaves

as the gentle breeze, sways the foliage?

Full of hope and wonder

as we were when younger.

We watch the amber air

and breath nostalgic hopeful thoughts.

So you don’t like your breakfast?

Son, you don’t want to eat your cereal?

Ok. Close your eyes and think,
Of the most splendid castle in all the lands.
Now hold out your hands,
And discover it’s made of candy,
The moat is chocolate milk,
The surrounding hills are cinnamon rolls.
Taste the forest of lollipops,
Run through the field of cotton candy,
Swing off the vines of licorice
Into the pudding pond.
Climb the ice cream mountain,
And look out over your candy kingdom.

Now open your eyes and eat your Wheaties,
Be glad you don’t live there cause you’d probably have diabetes.

One and done #5

Square stucco ceiling tiles,
Bland cream color,
Maybe yellowed white.
Who knows how old
They are
being replaced.
Shiny new crisp steel ceiling.
The first improvement to this office,
In only God knows how long.
And I am here at my cubicle.
If those old tiles were yellowed,
What will my time here do to me?
At least the tiles are now retired.
And me? Only time will tell
In 40, 50, 60 years?

If you are wondering about the title “one and done” go back to the first “one and done” I wrote and it has an explanation of what I am doing when I write a one and done poem. The title says most of it. No editing no process just the poem as it comes. I hope you enjoy my other stuff.