Poetry is an interesting form of writing. For me, at times, it comes easy, seemingly flowing out of my fingers into the keyboard. But then when I want to write about a specific subject matter, aka my son or a gathering, the words seem to falter. The two poems below are of the first type, where little thought about them occurred and I simply wrote what came to me. I like this form the most, although, the more deliberate form might work too, the jury is still out. Regardless, it has been a year of poetry for me. More than that, I have preformed most of them on my instagram feed. Who wudda thunk it!
Haggard Young Man
Haggard young man, alive, aware, full of regrets. Half a century at his back, a life walled up with stones of silence. Decades of duplicity, the jester, the priest, the duke of anywhere. Feigned recklessness and bravery adorn his armour, glistening, velvet cape draped round.
Knowledge for currency, stacked neatly in a vault. Riches beyond measure, burn brightly, fuelled with poverty poured out, drenched brands burn cold and blue with fury.
The drunk king demands more wine, the warrior’s sword shattered. A mage alone in the corner doubts visions now clouded in haze.
A whale not in the distance stalks the boat. The tempest rages, waves crash hard on oiled hewn boards, and still the sailers whisper, afraid to act. Alone, afraid the man awaits his due, black waters beckon, the path marked, bones, straws, signs, announce rejected instructions.
His face set like flint against the task, trust just out of grasp. The night fades into orange, and dim light brings delusions, fragile dreams offered up, smouldering ash filled bowls.
Haggard young man, alive, aware, alone, without home. Half a century at his back, nowhere to call his own. His glass filled with soft tannins, brick red rimmed, once fresh, now fit for tired tongue.
Visions of a new journey, flit around the edges, gates open wide, a king and his subjects sit in ashes. A hot wind blows, pulling the plant up from the cracked ground. Refuge, anger, pain, alive in its shade. The haggard young man, for now, waits impatiently in uneasy rest.
Bullshit
Mutual affection, gazing in unison, fixated on common objects demanding attention.
Two or three gather, perhaps more, common presence declares a community, fellowship. Hearts laid bare, hopes and dreams foretold, revealed, caressed, dashed, restored.
BULLSHIT
Emotions reigned tight, hearts walled in stone. Words laid down carefully in manicured patios proudly for all to see. Polished patios constructed with words, carefully tended, ringed with high walls of busyness, self-made obligation. Polished patios carefully adorned with welcoming chairs of gleaming coals.
BULLSHIT
A bounty of nourishment, food, drink, conversation, prayer, and concern. Empathy, thick as onion paper flows freely, suffocating sympathy fills the room. Hearts laid bare, seized, too long only pumping air.
BULLSHIT
Deluded dreams, laced with angst and disdain. Bitter wine poured out in brimming goblets of hospitality. Ripe platters of loneliness distributed with cheerless smiles. Sisyphus holds court in the corner with yarns of adventure gone cold.
BULLSHIT
But did not our hearts burn, yearn, crave more? Buoyed hope carried upon inauthentic waves, shallow pools stretched wide with the promise of care and meaning.
BULLSHIT