Category: Poetry

Amateur scribblings often over rhythmic, rhymey, shallow and too Freudian.

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QOTD

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things." -Henry David Thoreau

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We all grow weary

The daily grind. People say such flippantly. But it wears on us. Grind. Dulling the edge. Like gears without oil. And our performance drops. Then our enthusiasm wanes. Leading to more stress. GRIND. Along comes motivation. Acceptance of the mistakes. A revitalization. But to escape the beatdown. You must work three times as hard. grind.

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A need to be numb

There’s a point in the night
A choice to be made
Power through
Or give up the fight

When the time comes
The brain turns foggy
And hides distracting thoughts
Creativity flows

But hesitate
If you slow
The fog turns solid
Hit a wall

Pass out now
Or pass out then
Both a loss
Neither a win

There’s a point in the night
A choice to be made
Sacrifice the wee hours
And give up the day

Whatever decision
The clock ticks
The night comes
You fade away.

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And it goes on

I died but I kept on living
To prevent others from suffering my fate.
The chore of living broke my resolve
I bear witness to my mistakes repeated
By those I swore to help.
Lambs to the slaughter
All I can do it watch
For I died but kept on living.
Life without spirit
Is nothing more than death without an end.
Coffins never closed
Bodies never decomposed
Zombies all around
On some grand purposeless walk-about.
From point a to b and back again
Always feeling the same thing.
No spark, no variety, no fire.
Passion gone
Buried with the deceased
Even though he still breathes.

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Hump Day

My inner middle schooler likes the middle of the week. This time of year, the walk to my son’s bus stop is dark. Jupiter shines in the sky but clouds obscure other heavenly bodies. The muscadine grapes have ripened to perfection. I accidentally knock one to ground. Pity. The weather is beautiful yet a storm threatens. The distance rumble of clouds and chaos are apparent only to me for the storm that threatens is in my head. I fend it off by building a high pressure system of calm and positive thinking. The storm, a low pressure system, moves further into the distance; at bay, yet ever present, waiting for other systems to build. And Jupiter shines in the calm skies.

Jupiter

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7 Cups of Tea, by Lu Tong (795 – 835 CE)

The first cup kisses away my thirst,
and my loneliness is quelled by the second.
The third gives insight worthy of ancient scrolls,
and the fourth exiles my troubles.
My body becomes lighter with the fifth,
and the sixth sends word from immortals.
But the seventh—oh the seventh cup—
if I drink you, a wind will hurry my wings
toward the sacred island.
Translated by Christopher Nelson

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Passion

Stars have blossomed in the night sky
The last wafts of smoke rise into the purple
Framed by tall pines covering the horizons
The flames have subsided
A loud crack, snap, pops from a remaining log
In the ashen pit
A bright red glows within the coals
Oranges and yellows echo the memory of the recent fire
And emits warmth
A memory of the burning, passion
Stars vanish
One by one millions of years after they extinguish
Violently
The sky darkens
Stars disappear more quickly
Clouds blanket the purple turning the sky
First grey then black
Thunder claps and the first rain drop
Falls on the coals with a sizzle
Hot timber in the pit screams
An ember is splashed
It winces, darkening
Then resists, glowing more strongly
Water falls from the sky, faster
Pouring
The ember glances around
Seeing other embers doused
Forever
Fewer to support each other
Chilling
Yet the ember fights on
Striving to produce
Heat
But losing
The fight
The light
Gone.

Beneath a bed of ashes
So wet on the surface
Awaits an ember
Feeling the cold
Holding onto its own heat
In hopes to be discovered
Uncovered
Resurrected
To bring forth a fire.

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Tick tock

It’s the last day of the month
I’ve never felt so fucked
Deadlines loom
Choices to be made
Life goes on
Day by day
Future becomes the past
Days go too fast
Opportunities missed
Obligation in the way
Watching kids grow up
What would Chapin say
Tick tock
Another beat of the clock
Time is an illusion
Created by man
Used to fill the void
Used to drive us mad
Disproven by physicists
We exist all at once
Until observed
Then we’re fucked.