The Rushing

The Rushing

Let’s just sit here and stare at the screen, shall we?

Let’s just sit here and stare

Thinking nothing, going nowhere

Life seems to be nothing

But a series of distracting interruptions

Destroying any sense of creativity

A giant ocean trapped by a dam of crumbling earth

How ridiculous is that?

Maybe that is the biggest frustration

Something infinite and grand

Seems powerless against a barren land

But all our great stories tell us otherwise

Often it isn’t what we see with our eyes

Often it is what we know with our hearts

Where beauty resides

Often there is the place of great freedom

The place of the unseen

Eternal hues of blues and greens

I can hear the rushing of the waters…

1/20/19

Birth

Birth

I can feel the poems

Some are like angst and depression

Some are like joy and peace

Some the words flow like the winds

Some refuse release

I think those are the best ones

The ones  that stay locked in the womb

Awaiting just the right moment to be birthed

Crying, gasping for air

Blinded by the sudden light

Covered in blood and sweat and tears

Those are the best ones

The ones I cannot write

The ones that I must feel

And continue feeling deep in my spirit

Until I can take no more

Writing has been compared to chore

But I see it as much, much more

I see it as a new life beginning

Call to Arms

Call to Arms

There is nothing quite like the emptiness

Of a poet’s mind and heart

Staring at this blank piece of paper

With an even blanker mind

The heart numb

The spirit still 

And though my heart and soul and will

Long for a deep expression

The minutiae of the day 

Have drained it all away

Is this really any way to live?

Is this really any way to live at all?

A whim, an act, a curtain call

Then a glass of wine to wash the day away?

Listless sleep, a restless slumber

Then the agonizing buzz of a raucous alarm

The same damn time, the same damn number

To announce it is time to pretend again

Is this any way to live?

Is this really any way to live at all?

Is this even really living at all

Or is it merely cheap gyrations?

In the midst of all these frustrations

There’s nothing quite like the emptiness

So I, determined, pick up this pen

This is my sword

This is my dagger

And with the glory of a warrior’s swagger

I will stick it as deep into this slumber as I can

Just to understand what life and love can be.