Poem: Spin


We cannot help

all we meet

yet we may try

Some may refuse

others deny

some simply carry on justified

Burdens carried may be real

heavy and piled high

it turns into all a person feels

Some troubles start small

and continue to grow

into things that

loom tall

casting shadows of doubt

upon their inside walls

making their lives

close in

until they are left

to spin

spin

spin

on the tip of pain

blurring all the faces

as the world goes by

A hand reaches out

to help and try

But their orbit

has spun off

madly

into the sky

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Poem: Walls


Behind a wall

are sounds I do not

always know

The green trees

I see

hide voices rising loud

above souped up

cars

it sounds like shots

into the crowds

the wall

hides it all

Some walls

stand by

silently

in between

those wanting to come near

and cross beyond

while others wait

to make sure they can’t

while creating waves of fear

And some walls

make people

cry

and pray

and touch

their mourning souls

while their hands

slide upon its

limestone sands

We hold walls

inside our

complex selves

to play

hide and seek

from

real life beasts

who have come

to reside within

and we crawl inside

a darkened

crack

laying still

hoping it will not

find us

Walls

keep in

and

keep out

yet

quiet stones standing

as humans fall

fall

fall

 

 

 

 

Monkey On Our Back 


There are times we all feel the monkey on our back. Maybe we put it there, flipping it up as we were too busy with life. It became more and more burdensome, weighing us down as we carried it around. Tried as we might, we couldn’t pry it off because it clung with a mighty grip and our back became the perfect ride.

There were days we knew it was there even though looking over our shoulder it was impossible to see. But we could feel it’s little fingers scratching at our skin making it crawl. It would make weird monkey noises close to our ear so only we could hear and we would think: I must be crazy.

For years it rode like this, perched on top of us, hitching this endless ride. Until one day we realize it’s a burden to drag along this nuisance, this unwanted tag along. We think maybe we can ditch it, throw it off somewhere and let it find its own way. 

Reaching around isn’t easy, and getting it to let go is no simple task. The monkey hangs on for dear life. But finally we can grab it by the tail and rip it off. It’s easy to fling it into the forest somewhere, hoping it will find a monkey family. 

And now, for the first time in a long time we can stand up. Our back feels light. We walk down the road now, unencumbered and free. But we are ever diligent for primate hitch hikers. 

Poem: The Artist 


Turning inside out 

exposing raw reality buried 

under layers of hidden sinew

meant to stay tucked 

the quiet fist of crazy

crouched behind daylight 

They dragged it out

in slanted moments 

It came at times 

unwilling 

and others 

leaping out of its den

But once loose

It pleased Pandora 

and never would return 

Now free to torment 

its fire burns beauty 

until the brilliance 

dies out

Weary


Some days, try as you might, that old sense of weariness seeps in and takes ahold. Maybe all the fighting to keep the dark at bay and to work really hard at life believing in all that’s possible, can sometimes simply be draining. It feels best to hide away and try not to think too much during  these times. 

Nights are restless and days achy. But still we push our way through routine because it feels normal. And then tuck back to the shelter of a quiet hide away–where no-one can ask too much of us. 

It’s not the goal of life to feel this way. No. Like a pestering family member who keeps visiting without being invited, but an obligation to let them in. They are family after all, kin, and a part of your life.

So you tolerate the annoyance, this mood. It will pass eventually and leave. And hopefully, like the relative, it will leave eventually, and with it a feeling of relief and hopefully a great gaping peace in its wake.