One and done #4

Daggered Surgeon
Dagger to the misplaced heart,
Deep and deadly wound is felt,
But from the surgeons hand,
Who holds the bladed tool,
The dagger is a scalpel,
The wound a small discomfort,
In the healing of the heart,
Restrengthened to beat fervently,
Carved for some greater purpose.

I was sitting in a bus station waiting for my bus to arrive and my mind went into poetry mode. I was thinking about passed girls that I had really liked, but for one reason or another and in one way or another had parted from me. I know none of these girls was the girl for me, and I don’t lament their leaving now. The fact is however true that when they did depart my life I was left with a deeply felt loss. Sometimes for a few days, others weeks, a select few months. The first two lines of the poem popped into mind and the rest followed in less then 10 minutes. It is short and fairly simple, but I believe it to be very poignant.

One and done #2

I don’t like this one as much as my previous one and done, but that is what this exercise is for; to write and play with new ideas. If you’ve ever driven through Kansas you’ll understand how I’m feeling now. Enjoy.

One and done #2

It kind of sucks driving through Kansas.
Big sky country is stretching wide open air.
Yawning I gently close my eyes,
To dream of more exciting places.

I open my eyes and I’m still in Kansas?
I slept six hours, this really isn’t fair.
I just want to be out of here without saying goodbyes.
So I drive faster not to leave any traces.

But really Kansas you KAN kisS my ASs

One and done #1

It has been far to long since I last posted anything. I apologize to my vast readership for this lapse. If this post shows up in your mailbox because you did foolishly quickly subscribe to me and then just as rapidly forgot about me; thank you for reading this post again.

In an attempt to re-kick-start my writing (I say re-kick-start because I have already tried to kick-start and I foresee many re-‘s added to that chain in the future) I decided I would start a poetry practice I am calling one and done. I will, when I have a moment of time, write a poem in one take and post it here. No revisions, no major forethought or conception, I will write what is in my mind in the moment and post. I hope that through the midst of the dung pile that will ensue we may find some diamond encrusted pearls.

So please buckle up, keep hands and feet inside the blogosphere, and hold on, pictures will be taken of your face throughout the ride and will be over-pricedley on sale at the conclusion of your ride.

One and done #1

Philosophy, the dreary mucking of bloated thought,
So important it shall always exist though often forgot.
Justification for many sinful pleasures.
Sometimes however holding fast to truly glistening treasures.
Treasures if truth, truly beheld, a majestic upbuilding,
But to often the lies fill our eyes, and heart, and our spirit these lies are killing.

Thoughts on writing

Pardon me for taking a break from poetry for this post. While I intended this blog to be most entirely poetry, it is my blog and as such I shall be permitted to write whatsoever I should like. So permit me to delve into the straight forward, self reflective style of writing for the remainder of this post, and be sure to know that yes it will relate to poetry by the end.

Today as I walked through a cold yet gentle rain falling on my jacket I found myself slipping into reflective thought. As I sat in class, or at work, and as I walked the halls of my university I continued to think. My mind wandered from poetry to philosophy. From adventure to love and from life to death. I pondered myself and those I observed around me.

I realized all of my thought was ordered towards rational understanding. An understanding of who I am and where I am going. As I walked past other people and overheard their conversations I began to question their reason for living and their reason for acting. I found myself profoundly unable to grasp their experience. Hearing a few seconds of conversation to my left I looked to see an excited conversation. Humorously intrigued however, I did not know how another person could so emphatically converse about a topic I found so dull and uninteresting. Later I experienced myself questioning the motivation of many people I passed. I judged them to be striving only for recognition and accolades.

This moved me to question why any of us do anything we do. Is it for title or recognition that we pursue a venture? Is it from social pressure that we make our decisions to act in this or that way? What is it we feel that drives us to action? What is this experience of pursuit that we all feel?

If you have read this far, thank you. If you have found yourself hopeful that I have an answer for these questions I have posed, I must regrettably say I do not have those answers. So now you may be asking why I have shared all of these thoughts. I presented these thoughts to you to show why I write.

I do not have the answers to life’s questions, but I live daily, seeking, growing, developing, loving and learning. I cannot experience the life of another, but I can profoundly experience my own life. I can share my stories and I can read or hear others stories. It is in this experience of the life which is intelligible and yet inexplicable that we seek our purpose. We experience the universal, the divine. We experience something greater than ourselves and we know it and yet cannot explain it.

This is why I write. I write because I experience and am seeking understanding. I can create a new world, characters, and stories to help shed light upon the experience of life. Through literature we can dive into universal experience. We can dive towards truth. We can seek understanding.

In conclusion. should you have read this far, I urge you to continue reading, writing, searching and loving. Encounter the universal encounter the divine and live this life you were blessed with. Why? You may ask. God only knows the answer to that, but never stop striving toward that why.

May God bless you.
M

Why to write

For why to write?
Ideas may ignite.

The written word
Is power unstirred.

Ideas can spread, understood by the head,
But then they are fed to the heart.

But an idea unsaid is an idea unread.
Therefore unspread an idea is dead from the start.

What of an idea bad?
They can turn the world mad.

Untempered power,
Will soon turn sour.

This is the tale, caution’s your scale,
Let truth prevail in speech.

With travail we cannot fail,
To follow this trail, for truth to avail we must teach.

The soul of a boot.

The windblast strikes my face violently.
I turn away burrowing further into my jacket.
The angry gust quickly blows out,
But the snow is still falling.

Falling gently unrelenting.
Such peaceful calamity.

Hiding my cracked red lips in my scarf.
I catch the last glimpse of a large snowflake upon my jacket
Before it melts, never to be replicated.
Thrusting my hands back into their pocket homes I trudge along.

Fleeting snowflakes fall.
Beauty gone so quickly, tragedy.

My nose blushes at the touch of winter.
Red ought to depict passion, but here is felt in pain.
And my eyes glance up to the grey sky,
To intake all its irresplendant mediocrity.

Dreary dimly lit days,
Where the masses walk unwavering .

I put my head down to count my steps.
Each next step, more important than the one before.
But there is always one more. Always moving,
never present to the footprints now left behind.

The snow boot’s tread,
Tells the whole story.