silent nights voided days the human pulse fades away lying still in slumber bed daddy finds his boyish head asleep on pillows fluffed at noon now compressed by hallow dread.
running home workday done daddy falls on bended knee to watch his son being fed opiates, a final call police and dealers, absent lovers too all relinquish his human goo.
silent nights voided days daddy wanders crumbled earth releases anger, bottled grief showers only begotten witness life is simply rotten.
Rest in peace Adam, 21, aspiring chef and accountant.
Good morning. Yes, it is morning where I am. Most likely afternoon and heading towards evening near you. May the days and nights for you be blessed and encouraging going forward this new week. And evermore.
At the moment, my creative life is a bit dulled. Im listening to books on tape to fill my mind with imaginative feasting. I chanced upon Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago 1918-1956 while reading a June 2018article written in First Things.
Two hours into the book and several poems popped out at me. I love to listen 🎧 and take notes 📝. It helps greatly with my concentration and my comprehension. The takeaway from the first two chapters? Nefarious ideas in the wrong hands are dangerous. Every heart bleeds dark.
How to tell the truth.
the pottery, thrown from the cupboard lay in pieces, a heap to bury laughter of the past
they hurry you to frighten you
their names slip into insanity forever vanished from blue sky broken branches of a dying tree
shaking dumping the crunch of littered leaves under foot
notice the still orange flower silent repression without the freedom to rise caught in light rays turning future seeds into prisons
the passing of past into future without a map now becomes silent paths in the gardener’s hands
“If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?” Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
Being either
too much
or not enough
Buried in the Noise
i dream
but nothing can be as i want it to be. Oh well?
Not sure i am painting the truth
or if i am,
i don’t understand the sights
and truly lost is where i can be found.
February 2018 Buried in the Noise was a chapbook I had intended to publish before my mind changed. I never found the fortitude to proceed with the project. Today, I look at my poetry website and cringe, growl, weep, and wish i could organize my thoughts. They are scattered seeds that occasionally sprout.
My life lived in thirds. The missed chances, no longer regrets. The regrets never molded by my hands. The mannequin standing naked in the window was never meant to be dressed.
I started filling out Proust’s Questionnaire December 2019. I finished it today. The dream finally clear and in focus.
On a July morning, in the height of summer, the ants are busy on the sunflowers. Today, I wake to the same routine regardless of the weather. The coffee poured, I light a candle.
They are hens in their own right.
Glistening green in the sun’s heightened shadow, I wonder if i should write a letter to a friend. The thought fleeting. I don’t want to add my emotions to his already pocket full of pleas. I let my mind settle into this opened space. Drum out the crinkle of autumn leaves and find solace in my reverie.
When we return to the land, will our hearts be able? The hours bend into baskets, carrying our troubles downstream, where the beavers damn us for wanting freedom. Will we ever furnish a house with all our plans?
You see me. I love my love in thought. Can you know the waiting fires the bones?
In every vision black consumes the mind. Defines the boundary line.
In moments of clarity I sing. In moments of despair I moan. In this moment I spy the green seeping from your eyes.
We step in the shallow pool where leaves gather in cooler days. The reds, yellows, and oranges ripen with the setting sun. Browns crunch under our shoes. Your fingers wrap around my wrist, clenching my pulse to see if I respond. I don’t. But I do.
I reach for the new growth you promised me years ago. I see it now. The tender green shoots sprout from your heart.
Every day starts with a new thought. Today was no different.
The past few days I have woken to water views of The Atlantic. Her blue waves are far worse than mine. The first day we met, I settled into the sun breaking free from her horizon. The warmth cut the chill enough to sit on the deck chair and zen the morning away.
I suppose this morning is a warning that the carefree moments never last longer than a brisk wind’s cold slap to the face. She woke up wild. I woke, arms wrapped around a blanket, hot mug in hand, giving thanks for her hospitality the past week. And for a relationship that has just begun.
Life is lived on levels and arrived at in stages. —Edwin Louis Cole
Good morning. As the turning of days and as the grass sprouted from winter slumber, I found myself at a point where I realize I can tarry no longer. I must be courageous and serious. I must be willing and full of hope. I must grasp every word that spills from my heart and wring them dry, until I no longer see the darkness inside. What then should I do when the light allows too much room for curiosity? The despair I roam within ebbs and throws me into oblivion. I must be willing to try and write what I set out to create. Even if I fail. I must no longer tarry as if my days are endless. Grey is as good of a place as any to either brighten the world with hope or darken it with tragedy. I hope my efforts will lift us to hear the galloping of freedom drawing ever near. That heaven’s promises of long ago will not cease to keep heads from drowning under the growing storm. I sense the road has arrived. I cannot deny my calling any longer. I cannot be a child of milk and cookies. I must be willing to learn and sift knowledge. To discern the day’s signs and the evenings quandaries. To be, is my last attempt at fulfilling my heart’s rhythm. The beating lasts but a few days more. I am ready to accept my fate. Let it be so.
If we fail fail to see the wind coming at the break neck speed of a metal horse on tracks,
If we fail fail in our comfort food, shelter and clothing scraped together with goodwill given as scraps to wild dogs,
If we fail fail as foreign spies on fellow citizens drumming up grievances and rounding up heads rolling in wooden bowls we ravish our own hands.
We fail. We won’t change history any more than armies before us. We drip in mother’s blood and scour our bodies of father’s filth. We bury bones in rags doused with our enemies vapors. And cheer. Cheer our own demise as we beg for freedom from our own ills.
