xxvi. Climbing Back

April 18, 2011

the easiest thing to do is to just let go;
let your fingers loosen;
let your grip undo;
let yourself… fall.

The darkness down below is so much more comforting
than the light above.
The sun rises –
the sun falls
but the darkness is constant.

in the dark you can feel so at one with yourself,
when in the light
you feel alone,
you feel lost.
In the dark there is no alone; there is nothing.

the path just feels too long no matter how far you have come.
In the dark,
there is nowhere to go,
nothing to look back on,
only the moment and eternity as one.

the darkness is a place to go to leave the world behind,
to catch your breath,
to bear up,
to get back on your feet,
so that you are ready to face the light again.

the darkness is the only place that you can feel strong
but do not let the darkness become your home;
find the strength
to climb back
for the light is life and the dark is a hellish place once your eyes adjust.



Originally written for the @PoetsHereandNow forum, linked here.


xxv. The Arts

April 15, 2011

If paint-by-numbers is art,
then what we have is romance.

If karaoke is music,
then what we have is love.

If this is poetry,
then what we have is passion.

One cannot always choose the way things will be.
One day things just didn’t work out the way they should.
One day I was just a few minutes late.
One day I fell ill and couldn’t leave the house.
One day I fell in the road on my way and never made it.
One day I fell in love.

xxiii. Sunset

April 15, 2011

Driving into the sunset.
Really, that’s the dream.
Be it driving to
or driving from
or driving with,
it’s what we want.

To leave the world behind us
and escape to a place beyond the horizon
or else be headed for that brighter future,
that greener grass, that better life –
a loved one, a job, an opportunity –
or else to be lost in the moment
on the road under the sun holding the hand
of the only person that matters.

The car, of course, is important:
It must be fast, sleek, brightly colored.
Top down, wind in hair, sunglasses on,
one hand on the wheel, one not giving a damn,
sunset swallowing you up.

That hollywood ending.

But that right there,
that’s the problem:
Rolling credits; they’re the problem.
Title songs; they’re the problem.
Because when the sun goes down
and you’re still driving,
or when your car stops
and you’re already there,
what comes next?
The movies all ended but you,
you have to go on living.

xxii. Scar

April 14, 2011

Nothing makes a spark like love –
a flame you cannot hide;
a torch you bear with pleasure
that cannot be controlled.


Nothing leaves a scar like love –
a mark you’ll never lose;
a tear between two souls
that never heals.

Nothing leaves a ghost like love –
the memories you won’t forget;
the shadows in the corners of your heart
that won’t be lit.

Nothing leaves its mark like love –
that look that will not leave your face;
that stunted smile, those tortured lips
that will not be at ease.

xxi. Gone

April 14, 2011

fear in your gut,
can’t move, can’t run;
stake through your foot,
barrel of a gun;
stuck in a rut,
true love, no fun;
never made the cut,
now she’s gone.

xx. Books (The Schmoth)

April 12, 2011

The people in the books you read
are all so much better than me.
There are smart science guys
and spies with keen dark eyes;
handsome jocks and
sports stars strong as oxen;
romantic Cassanova’s;
insatiable lovers;
wealthy royal heirs;
mysterious neighbours from upstairs;
actors who are actually worth their hype
and soft sensitive types.
So every time you put your glasses on
I worry that come morning, you’ll be gone;
gone to find the men that haunt the pages,
teasing women through the ages,
taunting guys like me
who are trapped in this reality.
I’d burn them all to ash
or trade them in for cash –
I’d throw every last one out
but still I doubt
that you’d forget
about the men you’d met
and dreamt of having for yourself
inside the books upon your shelf.

xix. Old

April 8, 2011

I, Old Man,
rock like a fishing boat on stormy seas.
By way of steadying myself,
I walk
with a cane
and sit
at every opportunity
like a baby just learning to walk.
The time
at far too fast a pace.



Inspired by this discussion thread on @PoetsHereAndNow‘s poetry forum.


April 7, 2011

It knocks you to the ground
and leaves you drowned
in deep red blood
and even if you’re found
it’s far too late.
You just don’t care enough to come around –
the mere idea of getting to your feet is effort
you don’t have the energy or interest to make.
The smile you used to fake
has fallen from your face,
has run like cheap mascara
when the tears come – and that same bitter taste
and that same blindness tears bring like headlights
of a car are coming right your way
and just the same, you cannot move
but not through fear, it’s
’cause you’ve nothing left to lose.
There’s nothing there to choose
that’s better than this hole that you
have been kicked into six feet down,
waiting for the dirt to cover up the hurt
that you can’t feel anyway enough to force a frown.
And when it hits, it’s like a hammer
bones shatter, nothing matters;
it’s just a scattered stumble
’til the end comes with a stammer – people clamor just
to make it to the finish line and know it’s over once and for F all.
And when it is, you’ll be there with your finger raised up at
whoever made this awful maze and threw you
in at dead last place just so that they could watch
you work the days away and make it though
the games they play and somehow keep
on going, never really knowing what
you’ve done to be dropped at the butt-end of this joke,
this lack of hope, this constant poke at open wounds,
that we call life.

One time
I climbed right
up to the top, all the
way past that bit where
the branches’re all close
and it’s easy to reach out
for the next hand hold and
find the next step and then
push on up. Right on past the
bit where that old bird’s nest
sits, falling apart (there was
nothing in it, by the way)
and kept on going, all
the way to the top.
It was pretty
scary up
but I
it, one time.



Written for @TheUndeniables‘s Writer’s Workshop