Is discovering new things
when down in the dumps
Is discovering new things
when down in the dumps
I woke today in a fog.
But autumn’s now in view.
There’ll be more days of sky high temps,
though fortunately just a few.
My body’s burned with a patchwork tan,
the grass a patchwork of brown.
Smiles await bluer skies,
but for now I’ve still a frown.
Perhaps today I’ll write a poem,
better than those before.
I used to say that every day,
but now I’m not so sure.
Like the seasons, time does change,
creativity comes and goes.
Inspiration’s all around,
but negativity grows and grows.
I need a cool crisp morning,
with leaf of red and gold.
Though summers can be wonderful,
this one’s getting old.
Maybe it’s just a fantasy,
thinking words will find their way.
Maybe the fantasy’s over,
of being joyous every day.
Peering up from my lap,
I see the fog starting to clear.
Though my paper is still blank,
I know a story’s near.
My eyes now wide open,
my pencil’s sharp and new.
Optimistically I scribble a word,
the clouds now but few.
One word turns to another,
a third leads to a line.
Verses soon will follow,
and again the day is mine.
I’m glad this patchwork is over.
And I’m sure that you are too.
I’m thankful for your time today,
my inspiration being you.
I’m off to see a wizard, the wonderful wizard of odd
It flutters all about waving a feathered rod
But first I’ll take a nice long nap
Wake up then find my thinking cap
I’ll sharpen my quills like a warrior’s blade
And joust with parchment where magic’s made
Then dig into my helmet, always full of goo
Hopefully to yank out something that is new
I never know what or if it may be
Until the ink dries then I’ll get to see
What magic has this wizard left?
Something clever or something deft
Sometimes the words all disappear
Then time has passed, wasted here
Though journeys un-ventured, high or low
Are the adventures you will never know
So follow your wizard and you will find
Those magical wizards are mostly kind
Though often absent, never fret, I’ve a hunch
Some wizards are just out to lunch
To all the writers never known
To the few from which we’ve grown
From their words the future’s sown
Rearranged to call our own
To all of those that do it now
From palette pure to graven brow
Investing all we dare allow
Divesting that we can’t avow
Time records in poem and prose
Imagined journeys no one knows
From euphoric highs to deadly lows
The tide of emotion forever flows
Looking back at history
Or hypothesizing infinity
Sensations felt we can’t see
Ink bled sets us free
Where to start, that depends
Our time alone shared with friends
Yet all stories must have ends
Well submerged is where life blends
Write the dark to see the light
Time always wins the fight
And when you lay awake tonight
Rest assured our future’s bright
Outside my window perched in a tree
Tis a winged demon that caws at me
At me it caws and caws all day
Till darkness consumes then caws go away
Tis then a candle lit, awaiting peace
Creative spark await release
The hourly chime hourly chides
This spark within creatively hides
Searching I pace in this tiny room
From shadow to shadow returning to gloom
Going in circles around in a square
Till wearily I slump back into my chair
Through random lacy limbs I spy the moon
With gentle breezes the patterns I swoon
Patterns swooning dance on dingy walls
The net surrounds and the demon calls
Consciousness concedes, silence relieves
In the dark the dark the mind believes
Rest and wait or rise and scream
Choices few at the edge of a dream
Wax drippings lapping pages bled
Of serpentine spine and heavy head
Blackness cloaks the demons night
Their quills aplenty shade the light
Demon, oh demon please let me be
Yet still they tap, tapping for me
Tap tap tapping on my foggy pane
Tap, tap tapping with no refrain
Without refrain demons tap in kind
Tapping demons tap, tapping my mind
Is this tapping, tapping to remind?
Or is it tapping to seek and find?
Oh demon cloaked with hidden face
To take from you is my disgrace
Your gifts adored left on my sill
Yet to rest on your back I am still
To be only still is reverse
Dive or fall, a lover’s curse
To soar or sink is to immerse
The spirit wishes to guide the verse
This spirit and I of common goal
Each to rise from the hole
One to fly, one to scratch and claw
Each may fall, one to caw, caw, caw
Our bond’s made to find a link
If to trade my soul I wish to think
I wish to think another’s ink
Of golden quills and wine to drink
In gilded glass I wish to wink
Then step away until I shrink
Till all is gone with a blink
But for the ink, I wish to think
I think I think, I think I see
I think I see light shines on me
Sight and sound now distortion free
The path’s clear toward tranquility
If to be a final rest, now’s to be the time
Drifting in an open mind is to be sublime
Or if to rise and most joyfully find
I’ve awakened as a different kind
To be warm of heart and cool of mind
Forward moving and never behind
Of filigree hands to align and chime
Tis then the taps return, tapping in time
Taps on the window from arms of the past
To embrace their grip the future’s cast
When cracks appear in my shield of glazing
The demon swoops for the dawns hazing
With inky beak and beating wings
Caw, caw, caw the demon sings
They dance upon the empty pages
Quills ablaze their fire rages
Then morning breaks the lidded seal
Illuminating all thought real
Am I to be taken or to consume?
Or wake to sunlight returning to gloom
Betwixt the shadows exposed by the light
Tis demons craft conjured last night
With nary a blotch nor stroke askew
Flawless leaf scribed by I know not who
I dare not share these words unknown
Through my window they have flown
The prize of demons cawing in a tree
Thus return I must this gift given me
Poetry is speech
From hearts not minds – unconfined
Grammar cast aside
A net full of holes
Will always fill with something
Without there’s nothing
Hands write history
A mind writes philosophy
Hearts write poetry
No Down Side
not about making things up,
it’s making things work.
If love made as much
as the time I spend writing,
I’d no time to write.
Love is beautiful,
when all else is not. Love is
all when from the heart.
The harder I try, the harder it seems,
I’ve wasted much, reams and reams.
I’ve tried writing of infinity but couldn’t find an end.
Tried to write of society though I couldn’t offend.
I tried to write of death, can’t write in the dark.
Tried writing of youth but lost the spark.
Scribbled of sorrow, tears cleansed the sheets.
Dribbled of conquest but I had no feats.
I tried to write of time, that didn’t last.
Wrote of the future, thought of the past.
I’ve written coldly until my lips turned blue.
So I wrote of warmth and penned volumes for you.
My heart’s now thawed, boiling blood rises to brain.
Bleeding emotion doesn’t have to cause pain.
A trying life’s journey is what’s inked of late.
Perhaps it is now I’m writing of fate.
Confusion is life
Befuddlement is wonder
If not – try harder
Seek to entertain
And be entertained seeking
Seek not and be not
Write of what’s known?
Than to write would be easy
When one knew nothing
I tried to force a poem today.
But poetry doesn’t work that way.
Seems all my words are kept at bay.
Thoughts simply sculpt what hearts convey.
With wheels unturned can’t play with clay.
That doesn’t mean my mood’s cold and gray.
Or that my feelings for you have gone astray.
Flourishes flounder, neigh to stay.
Gladly “I love you” I can always say.
My pencil in hand – mind set free
Erasing the chains binding me
Safe in my world of poetry
A better friend there cannot be
No rhyme or reason there’s to flee
No shackles of society
No meter of conformity
No question of sincerity
No judge, jury or guilty plea
No door can stop my slender key
I’ll wander through infinity
Another side of life’s journey
Draw lines that know no boundary
Return with words for all to see
Arrange them well – create beauty
Then thank my little piece of tree
I know not what of poetry.
If it sounds Latin it’s Greek to me.
Yet pages turned new words learned,
emotionally concerned more is yearned.
Emboldened by fantasy I ward off attacks.
Slivers of truth yet slip through the cracks.
In a masquerade of hither and yon,
a poet’s mask is what I write on.
Sadness lurks beyond a child’s grin.
The truth bleeds hidden within.
All parabolic permutations I can’t define,
calculating the depth of every line.
So I’ll jump up and down, rattle around,
feet in the air and ears to the ground.
I’ll hear the sounds I note before bed,
where arranged tomorrow, unless I’m dead.
On a canvas of life we paint every day.
Some burst with color, some dull and gray.
Each stroke has consequence, broad or precise,
all mediums large though most will suffice.
Hue’s all made one from another.
Texture’s built on a base we smother.
Shadows lurk in black and white.
Brilliant moons portray the night.
Love is felt on glowing skin
Hate pours from the blood within.
Seas of green churn, gallant ships tossed.
Crews-o-many flounder, all forever lost.
Happiness’s awash in the bright blue sky.
Sadness gives it time to dry.
Realism reflects an instant in mind.
Abstract’s more real when meaning you find.
Yet in two dimensions we do all conform.
Our edges and corners define the norm.
Then we sign, frame and place on a wall.
There hung with the others, all very small.
A wordy poem
no one reads. Haiku condense
The poet concedes
Once a word written
fiction is literally
Like poetry a
migraine reminds us of how
little bodies do
outline for tomorrows draft
of tales without end
Some say I’m aloof
lazy, stupid and a goof
Their presence the proof
My goal is to write
the first eighteen word haiku.
I’m counting on it.
We mold and sculpt every day,
we try to create a better way.
We pinch and pull, pluck and pound,
though never is the best form found.
Yet press on we must without a doubt
or eventually we’ll all dry out.
Sticks-a-dozen by chance collide
Metaphorically making a box to hide
Abstracted distractions of imaginary space
Where the views transparently clear
Through these walls we shape around us
To shelter us from our fear
Though this box a cell when not a vault
And the combinations given by default
When sticks and bars are the same
The outside’s kept out and inside kept in
And nothing’s ever lost or found
When there’s nothing ever within
I need a formula to know when best to write.
I write randomly most every day and night.
Rarely is it very good but sometimes it’s all right.
In search of inspiration everywhere I go.
Some hit in an instant, some never show.
Moods always vary as the poems reflect.
The good and bad, I think are quite easy to detect.
Sometime when feeling good I’ve nothing good to write.
That ticks me off assuring a terrible night.
But when feeling down writing helps me feel all right.
Yet the time is spent either way,
though always writing of yesterday.
Where’s the balance, it’s there I’ll go.
So if anybody knows, please let me know.