accidental poet

 

Some things are beautiful to watch.
Like a child finding an idea in the midst of play,
or an adult, even if late, falling into comprehension,
seeing beauty, truth and balance where previously everything was chaos.

Even more, I enjoy seeing everything through others eyes,
becoming their tongue for that moment,
I know how they feel without them telling me,
I know what they want to say even if they don’t know themselves.

They’d refuse to accept that I do if I told them so,
so I write it instead,
and watch them nod in agreement.

I accidentally stumbled into expression,
of imagery through words,
this thing they call poetry, prose and the subtlety of it all,
accidentally a poet where I’m meant to be anything but.

W.E.

be alone

I guarantee,
there will come a time,
you will regret not being alone.

You’ll scurry like a cockroach when the lights come on,
scathe walls with skinless fingers,
walk barefoot and barren back,
trying to flee from the noise inside,
and you’ll see people for who they are,
all cowards,
afraid to be alone.

What strength and sinew,
men and women who choose the life of solitude have,
without so much as the flutter of apprehension,
without any doubt,
they breathe.

But what spine and love,
those that choose to return,
and effuse their wisdom into the fabric of humanity,
have better yet.

Ay this,
the paradox of losing and finding your self,
to be selflessly of servitude.

Try as you may,
listen to the hucksters of academe,
or the deluded,
hypnotised by technology and science,
the secrets remain with the sages and saints,
with the barefoot troubadours,
with the barbarians and nomads,
desert folk and mountain people,
farmers and shepherds,
the loners,
those who have time,
to simmer their thoughts,
thrash open their wounds without shame,
and suture themselves in front of us all.

I’ve never seen a thing of repute,
roll of the tongue of a man infatuated with attention,
nor a woman that needs reassurance at every pulse of her vein.
I’ve not seen hands that wait for eyes to ogle,
create a thing that benefits us all.

You’ll cry a tear yet,
for not embracing more solitude.

W.E.

Quiet rapport

I’m patient like that.

Where others will demand and hold you to account,
I know vulnerability waits for a soul to be ripe with sincerity before it spreads itself,
before it undresses.

I know that if I bottle my anxiety and show a face of indifference,
I run the risk of losing many,
but the ones that see with the eye of their heart also know me from a thousand thousands.

I’m patient like that,
because I know where I’m from and how I’ve travelled to be here is beyond just forty two years of worldly existence.

I’m not just matter and that’s what matters,
but I never let that matter to the point that it’s all that matters.

We matter said no one of intelligence and worth except who think their lives are but a series of what people owe them.

I’m still patient for them.
Waiting for their poems to undo themselves.

I’m always a poem away from myself.

W.E.

release

Give in to being overwhelmed,
or don’t,
you’ll be overwhelmed either way.

The reality is,
choice is only a comfort idea.
The mature person knows,
it’s a thing ordained.
Is it hopeless?
Hardly,
rather, it allows you to focus on what’s important.
W.E.

Image Credit: Brandon Kidwell
http://www.brandonkidwell.com/wisdom-for-my-children

Dear grief – 26

Dear grief 26,
I haven’t seen Dad in three years,
this morning, before dawn,
I got to smell him,
and hold him,
and feel his silken strands of hair on my face.
It hurt so much more than I thought it would.
I wept, and thirteen hours later as I write this,
I weep.
It’s taken my eyelids this long to break their silence,
my throat, this long to burst from its cage.
Now there’s rage,
shame, not guilt,
that I didn’t bow more,
kiss your hand more,
massage your feet more,
just a whole lot lack of more.
Waves of hate inside me,
towards me,
and there’s no recompense,
no console.
There he is abundantly graceful amongst God’s servants and here I am drowning in sin.
There really is no rest for the wicked,
that gnaw of your soul,
taking notes,
like a stenographer of your deeds,
tattooed in your heart,
beating between your lobes,
ringing,
reminding,
that grief is not ‘a thing with feathers’,
it’s a fucking jumbo jet with engines ablaze.
Fuck, I haven’t cried this much in a day ever.
You’re the best fucking man I’ll never be.
W.E.