Heartthrob
Handsome man on stage with a deep and resonant voice,
Spoken softly or sung very loud,
Looking down at the small lit moons of faces
Looking at him with rapt attention.
He spoon feeds them verses
And they sing along.
He taps into their energy
And orchestrates the band,
Pacing the rhythms to swell and recede,
To follow the story line he shared
Decades ago.
It is a night of glory
And he loves to perform
Because he feels he is in the right place,
At the right time,
And so many people are listening.
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Friday, February 19, 2016
Poem: She Crossed The Line
She Crossed The Line
This girl crossed the line when she had a baby
And kept the baby
And did to the baby what was done to her
And what she was taught to do to her siblings
As the oldest girl in a poverty stricken home.
She was a child taking care of babies
And then she was a child become mother.
See her struggling amidst pop culture
Listening to love songs on the radio
While tied to the burden and joy of this baby.
Love fell softly as rain drops do
Tender moments of his responsive smile.
She played.
She pretended that all was well,
Would be well
Because dreaming felt so good, so necessary.
This girl crossed the line when she had a baby
And kept the baby
And did to the baby what was done to her
And what she was taught to do to her siblings
As the oldest girl in a poverty stricken home.
She was a child taking care of babies
And then she was a child become mother.
See her struggling amidst pop culture
Listening to love songs on the radio
While tied to the burden and joy of this baby.
Love fell softly as rain drops do
Tender moments of his responsive smile.
She played.
She pretended that all was well,
Would be well
Because dreaming felt so good, so necessary.
Poem: Hope And Fear
Hope And Fear
There is only now.
To hope for the future
Or to fear that the bad things that have happened
Will happen again
Is to ignore the present.
To deny present life
And fill it up with worries and aspirations
Is to remove our ability to change.
Dreaming keeps us in perpetual twilight.
The sun never sets
Nor rises
And we go nowhere.
We cry out that we are lost and in pain.
We beg for a few drops of hope.
But hope is the elixir of fantasy
And keeps us in denial
That we can care for ourselves in the here and now
Without the crutches of hope and the torment of fear.
There is only now.
To hope for the future
Or to fear that the bad things that have happened
Will happen again
Is to ignore the present.
To deny present life
And fill it up with worries and aspirations
Is to remove our ability to change.
Dreaming keeps us in perpetual twilight.
The sun never sets
Nor rises
And we go nowhere.
We cry out that we are lost and in pain.
We beg for a few drops of hope.
But hope is the elixir of fantasy
And keeps us in denial
That we can care for ourselves in the here and now
Without the crutches of hope and the torment of fear.
Poem: The Point Of Existence
The Point Of Existence
What is the point of existence?
Is it to move mountains,
Make big statements of revolution?
Surely all the mundane elements of life
Come into play in even the greatest intentions.
Do we spiral upwards lifetime after lifetime
On our quest to find the perfect balance?
The painful lulls are a part of the whole experience for everyone
Regardless of birth or circumstances.
I cope with this sense of futility
By moving on to the next thing.
The next thing may glimmer
Like phosphorescent fish in tropical waters at night,
Drawing my attention to the small but very alive
Pieces of me that need my attention.
I believe there is a focal point for all existence
A beating heart at the center of all interconnectedness
Pumping spirit everywhere
Even in the largest of black holes.
What is the point of existence?
Is it to move mountains,
Make big statements of revolution?
Surely all the mundane elements of life
Come into play in even the greatest intentions.
Do we spiral upwards lifetime after lifetime
On our quest to find the perfect balance?
The painful lulls are a part of the whole experience for everyone
Regardless of birth or circumstances.
I cope with this sense of futility
By moving on to the next thing.
The next thing may glimmer
Like phosphorescent fish in tropical waters at night,
Drawing my attention to the small but very alive
Pieces of me that need my attention.
I believe there is a focal point for all existence
A beating heart at the center of all interconnectedness
Pumping spirit everywhere
Even in the largest of black holes.
Poem: Peace
Peace
The boys meander finding places to hide
Coming together at nighttime near the bonfires
That cast shadows on ruined buildings.
No school, no work, distant families -
They come together out of loneliness.
They are young enough to feel
The lifeblood of heaven
And sensitive enough to feel
The sting of the submerged hells.
They live on the crust of hell
Still able to rejoice in the sky.
They do not look much beyond
Food and shelter and friendships.
These boys growing into manhood
Need to find their places of love.
When home is a wilderness on the edges of a city
And there is little structure and purpose to each day,
The yearning continues to build
For the peace of good love and good work,
The double helix of happiness.
The boys meander finding places to hide
Coming together at nighttime near the bonfires
That cast shadows on ruined buildings.
No school, no work, distant families -
They come together out of loneliness.
They are young enough to feel
The lifeblood of heaven
And sensitive enough to feel
The sting of the submerged hells.
They live on the crust of hell
Still able to rejoice in the sky.
They do not look much beyond
Food and shelter and friendships.
These boys growing into manhood
Need to find their places of love.
When home is a wilderness on the edges of a city
And there is little structure and purpose to each day,
The yearning continues to build
For the peace of good love and good work,
The double helix of happiness.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Poem: This Girl
This Girl
I’ve got her hand.
We’re on a wooded path near the water.
There is no smile on her lips.
No question in her eyes.
Her hand is docile in mine.
She is open to being led.
There is no other place she’d rather be.
She needs this place near the water.
She needs to see and watch the chickadees
On the branches near her face
So bold and curious
So much smaller than she.
I kneel before her
As if to apologize
But can only stare into her seriousness.
Her eyes are soulful.
She is unresponsive to lies.
Nothing could tempt her to smile
When she felt like frowning.
When she’s alone,
She dances.
I’ve got her hand.
We’re on a wooded path near the water.
There is no smile on her lips.
No question in her eyes.
Her hand is docile in mine.
She is open to being led.
There is no other place she’d rather be.
She needs this place near the water.
She needs to see and watch the chickadees
On the branches near her face
So bold and curious
So much smaller than she.
I kneel before her
As if to apologize
But can only stare into her seriousness.
Her eyes are soulful.
She is unresponsive to lies.
Nothing could tempt her to smile
When she felt like frowning.
When she’s alone,
She dances.
Poem: This Boy
This Boy
Once there was just the three of them:
Two teenagers and a infant,
And he was the infant boy.
He was as open as stretched and primed canvas,
As innocent as a lamb,
Responsive to any touch,
Sensitive to any sound,
Eager to taste,
But unsure about touching -
Unsure of the limits of his body,
Only strong enough to hold tightly
Onto the intentional finger
From some exploring hand.
Who was mother?
Who was father?
One was in a smell.
Another in a tone of voice.
A touch, a taste, a smiling face.
Would that it could stay right there,
But there was not only gentle stimuli.
There were yells and crashes
Grimaces and neglect
And abuse.
Music and peace.
Music and violence.
Gentle water,
Harsh touch.
Mad mother.
Mad father.
Retreating infant.
No where to go,
But inside.
Once there was just the three of them:
Two teenagers and a infant,
And he was the infant boy.
He was as open as stretched and primed canvas,
As innocent as a lamb,
Responsive to any touch,
Sensitive to any sound,
Eager to taste,
But unsure about touching -
Unsure of the limits of his body,
Only strong enough to hold tightly
Onto the intentional finger
From some exploring hand.
Who was mother?
Who was father?
One was in a smell.
Another in a tone of voice.
A touch, a taste, a smiling face.
Would that it could stay right there,
But there was not only gentle stimuli.
There were yells and crashes
Grimaces and neglect
And abuse.
Music and peace.
Music and violence.
Gentle water,
Harsh touch.
Mad mother.
Mad father.
Retreating infant.
No where to go,
But inside.
Poem: Backlash
Backlash
The backlash of poor choices
Will hit you like an oncoming wave;
It is built in to our ecosystem
The tides of cause and effect,
Low down to high up,
Repeat the karma.
Breath in;
Breath out
And continue an involuntary reflex.
You can pace it,
But you cannot stop it,
Unless you choose to die.
We, in the majority,
Choose to live and continue.
We turn the other cheek
As we curl up into the eye of the wave.
Then we are spit up onto the shoreline
Still intact, though gasping for air
With rough sand in our mouths.
The wave woke us up
By pulling us into close proximity to death.
We rise shaken, our vision blurry,
Clearing as we wipe away the salty water
To see the world in a different way.
Still there is the appearance of solid ground
Beneath the weight of our bodies,
But the sky is wider,
The air softer,
And the sounds sharper.
The backlash of poor choices
Will hit you like an oncoming wave;
It is built in to our ecosystem
The tides of cause and effect,
Low down to high up,
Repeat the karma.
Breath in;
Breath out
And continue an involuntary reflex.
You can pace it,
But you cannot stop it,
Unless you choose to die.
We, in the majority,
Choose to live and continue.
We turn the other cheek
As we curl up into the eye of the wave.
Then we are spit up onto the shoreline
Still intact, though gasping for air
With rough sand in our mouths.
The wave woke us up
By pulling us into close proximity to death.
We rise shaken, our vision blurry,
Clearing as we wipe away the salty water
To see the world in a different way.
Still there is the appearance of solid ground
Beneath the weight of our bodies,
But the sky is wider,
The air softer,
And the sounds sharper.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Poem--First Draft
The other day I joined a poetry writing group called Crazy Poems on LiveJournal. It's a group for poets who suffer from mental illness. One of the founding poets set up a challenge to write a poem about one's healed self and this is what I came up with--first draft:
************************
Healthy Self
I see my healthy self as a phoenix rising from the ashes
A 500 year old bird transformed by fire and reborn to fly again.
Here's how I fly:
I sweep my house clean, brush my teeth
Wash and dry my body, my clothes.
I open doors and windows
I call out to friends and strangers alike--
"Come sit by me and tell your story
We'll weave our tapestries together
To form a stronger bond."
I look up and see the harmony in the clouds
I wait for the rain to fall
Water is nourishment
Earth is for growing things
And oceans hold time
In the rhythmic swell and release of the tides.
Everything is out in the open
The fig leaves fall
And we are naked
As the day we were born.
The shame is gone
And I am smiling.
******************************************
By the way, Pamela Spiro Wagner, who suffers from schizophrenia, has a new book of poetry out called We Mad Climb Shaky Ladders: Poems. You can buy her book on Amazon. Please do, she is an extremely talented poet with much insight into her illness.
************************
Healthy Self
I see my healthy self as a phoenix rising from the ashes
A 500 year old bird transformed by fire and reborn to fly again.
Here's how I fly:
I sweep my house clean, brush my teeth
Wash and dry my body, my clothes.
I open doors and windows
I call out to friends and strangers alike--
"Come sit by me and tell your story
We'll weave our tapestries together
To form a stronger bond."
I look up and see the harmony in the clouds
I wait for the rain to fall
Water is nourishment
Earth is for growing things
And oceans hold time
In the rhythmic swell and release of the tides.
Everything is out in the open
The fig leaves fall
And we are naked
As the day we were born.
The shame is gone
And I am smiling.
******************************************
By the way, Pamela Spiro Wagner, who suffers from schizophrenia, has a new book of poetry out called We Mad Climb Shaky Ladders: Poems. You can buy her book on Amazon. Please do, she is an extremely talented poet with much insight into her illness.
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