Poems of...

Poems of Disarray (Working On/Editing)

A Shift In The Wind

Moved away, sunk the door Can’t reopen, past or future Does not like certain, or uncertain, remaining still, harvesting me, Learning to be a prophet to my soul; anything else is past or future, never liking the present Past feelings abound, beautiful poems Future home supposed, and procrastination of hope Present is what is left, Stripped, left open; naked, rebound to repeat. enlightening…me When past becomes too familiar, nothing present Feeling every person, walking every path Presence has a soul, but also a life time A beginning, an end, questioning the thinking, the stillness…purpose and intent, Only to linger too long, forgetting life exists Knowing the path that feeds the soul, and still thinking…selfish Pondering presence, stones are relevant when thrown But the path must be cleared, or cannot see through, lacks presence, And I embrace, become knowledgeable Praised for being enlightened, even though grace was lost In the process of presence, And I at this time, bolting the door

Not A Real Place

This is not a real place, it does not have seeds and growth, does not take place Leaving behind what it calls grace, this not a real place It does not carry what lays on the floor, Picking out colors, as if they mattered Stepping on dirt, and not seeing it’s worth When looking up from the bottom, Faith does not divide, cannot see through Little boxes of division and forgiveness, for it’s worth, That sees something different, and divides the truth This is not a real place, the hole in humanity Little fragments of truth and forgiveness The whole of humanity, little pieces of faith, color and dirt, trying to abide…to a light This is not a real place, Faith does not divide pieces, clinging to disarray Divided pieces that went astray, Dividing the hole in the truth, makes the weak unstainable This is not a real place, not to last long, Picking up pieces, the hole, the stainable Sadness divides in disguise, as if it knew whole Do not look further, then what can hold, a pitcher of truth, That awaits by fire It will burn, and last long Forever would be Hell, a doomed stainable dirty floor, Finding fault in grace, That does not seek what lays on the floor Cannot carry it anyway…anymore This is not a real place…

A Fight For Life

It’s hallow in here Things don’t make sense Everything I left behind, is now floored and laid ahead As if to start again Which is foul, needing to take forth, only to move ahead Which came from behind, reaching this place It is not real Something thought, does not make tangible Laying it all down, only to calm the living There are secrets better off not said, but thrown to the wind They are hallow claims, that fight for the dead, Yet here I am Trying to bring to light, a tangible thought, That does not claim the living, but a fight for the dead Secrets that hold warm thoughts, That could make a tangible death

The Swell

Dead as flowers, that grow in the snow Dead as leaves, that wait for a breeze To be captured to the ground…and swell The wind awaits, coming in disguise As the dead do not want to be known, at least not from my eyes Shores that wait for heavy rain, washing out the dead, in order to reign Distance between the streams, and undertow, Washing away the dead, and waiting… For trees to remove their leaves, without a breeze There is nothing worse, then a possible acknowledgement of being dead Even before the snow and wind, begins it’s heavy reign Believing there is nothing left, In the water, or the breeze, That can calm or awaken the dead, and I to reach out, but not be captured The breeze taken by the wind, The dead knows the scenario, And the living does not weep, or acknowledge Leaves that need a breach, in order to swell As much as the seas need the wind, to bring the dead back, in and out Lifted from the swell, It does not retain value, Floating on wind or water, further and faster So no one can tell, nothing can be noticed… in the swell The dead nor the living, and I am neither

Cracks

Things come to the surface, eventually Water dries up Showing cracks in the mud Not just one, but many Permanently cemented Until the water comes And washes away Reveling nothing that once was Water is murky when mud lays beneath I don’t want to return to the water I know it’s secrets Much mud where soon cracks grow To show the plenty When water decides to reveal What it wants to hide But the drying time circulates Leaving mud, as hard as cement And I trying to tear it up To reveal the ugly truth Fingernails deep in mud, and bloody From tearing up the ugly cracks, mud, and truth But I am the only one who knows What lies beneath the water The only one who saw the years Of dried mud Water that circulates But I am not without fault I didn’t want to see What the dried season brung To tear up my fingernails Living and leaving The blood stained truth But I lived in the water Hoping the water would not evaporate And show the cracks That I knew were pieces of me Letting spread To cement into the mud Everything so true Now I live with my ignorance Worn fingernails, and blood I don’t want to step into the water, again I know where I’ve been

Years

Open your eyes, Don’t like what I see? Not you, but me Reactions to abuse, living life on egg shells Liking the sound, abuse and blame What you reflected on me, and I’m no use Can’t stop the cycle, that is subtle And only covers the raft, that I need to float away Don’t dig any deeper, there’s nothing left Abuse is subtle, when blinders destroy the truth So many years, abuse from whispers… To Dr. Jekyll, to Mr. Hide, the sweet nectar of lies Wondering where all the years went, And the raft drifts deeper out to sea, and I wonder where all the years lie

Fallen

I have fallen, The witching hour approaches As I gain strength… anger that fails to resonate; to ask for help Seeing something beautiful wither to dust and I have fallen Feeling the bruises that reign, through all what is left…not much And wondering if my stillness lead to this… Or lack in joy, or stillness of happiness, I have fallen… and I think I need help

A self of worth, not to ask for more than what was given Help lays upon the back burner, and screams are lost in smoke, but obey my touch Only to look up, an acknowledge of help Knowing all I will be given, Is nothing, not anything I have strayed from my path, given with plenty, longing for more than the view Realizing now, I need help And it distresses me, because I have fallen

Dancing Trees

Trees sway, move to the wind Rhythm letting go of silence, to sooth the soul As all Hell breaks out, the wind breaks free, And Becomes A Storm And trees dance to enlighten, and delight, Pieces fall from the rapture, to the paralyzed ground, that engulfs the mud And I sit outside, basking in the sound

The dance of the trees, believing it to be me, and knowing it is And the mud has no place, at least for now I will spare the leaves, and float on the wind Not spared from the dance… that is mine, and only mine, and I relax To speak like the wind, rustle like the trees, and bring about the dance Time spent going back, is where I am This is the day I picked, over and over again

The wind gives everything, a subtle true voice Trees dance within the wind, to break every windchime, to sooth the soul, or to annoy like Hell, it does not discriminate Taking cover is not an option now, there is too much to be said To give voices to what is a gentle night; to dance freely, not warily, into the night Fills the spaces, and another voice is heard; and the wind is pleased

Trees sway and dance Keeping beat to a rhythm of silence… but how can that be… But a breeze is a storm, Speaking silence and volumes Destroying, if not dancing… only to bend to the wind Be quite and gentle, the breeze says and let the dance begin She destroys as she rebuilds And voices are heard, and I listen

The Pieces

The Puzzle

A Presumption

So many Ophelia’s thrown to dust Stories of hurricanes and heroism, and songs not heard As I slide down to gain strength, Lonely Ophelia is now to be me, and there is only dust, separating you from me And a look to Ophelia…with only a Scream, Lost in the dust…don’t bring haste, to presume to know how it feels When truth and honor falls by wayside, wrapped up in a lie…to give to Ophelia, and life does not live

To be described as Ophelia, and rage against; because truth as a lie becomes exposed Given as a gift with honor and neglect…from me, And wondering where it ends, Given to a forward wave It does not start or end with Ophelia; It was not the gift that destroyed me, but the forward wave That turned the dust to mud, and a reflection of Ophelia in me, presumed dead Life awaits on the other side of the mud, given in deep water A reflection of me, given from Ophelia, soothes the soul, and calms the waves

Stupid Bird

That stupid bird, She did not see what I saw As she fluttered her wings past my muddy water and forgotten soul She did not see what I felt As she swooped by my ears with clean wings and clean heart, as I tried to capture it, and open it’s eyes But it cannot see past my sorrow, and dirty knees and worn hands To hear a flutter of indifference attached to my soul, And she still stood near and did not see what I saw

That lively bird that I made my own, now keeps swooping by to put breath into my soul, but it did not see what I saw But the presence of the feeling, was real enough, for the bird to flutter by again And I thankful, she did not see what I saw, But felt every being of my muddy waters and worn hands, knees The faithful heart of souls that I made my own, Oh that stupid bird, she did not see what I saw

Now gratitude pools around my feet, for worn hands and dirty knees, and flutters that gently grace my face My stupid bird felt it all, claimed the muddy waters and worn hands, knees, with her clean wings, and clean heart, setting me free And I did not look back, to see if the rock, brought her to the muddy waters Where clean heart and wings could not be seen; taking precision to it’s knees, and she set me free Knowing her flight, yet following through And I now run on two feet Towards clean water and clean heart And not to look back, for I know her fate, and she can now see

My lovely stupid bird of mine

Life Hangs In Balance: Death of a Flower 2 (corresponding painting, Grey Series 2025)

I kick the chair away with sadness, disbelief Knowing that all will be forgiven, from the one I walk away She has no future, and a door awaits A door with reflection, relevance, and sweet forgiveness

The shattered past will no long whisper Keeping me heavy, but gives me enough weight, strength To kick the broken chair away As I see myself sway, hanging from the rafters Life in balance…I know I have moved on, and the open door awaits

Roots

I have a home beneath the dirt, only recognizing what I sown, When dirt is cool, but warm to the touch I don’t ask for love, but will give you mine But won’t folly too long I am grounded, and steadfast to impression

Don’t expect me to wonder, I had roots before you came into view Not seeking what does not ground, not looking outside myself Touch is what lingers, and hard to replace I am grounded with roots, that far out way the distance. I have to go

No, following is what leads me astray I will not wonder past the water, because it’s not what I need A touch of a willow will not set you free, only bringing me to my knees And my roots will swallow, every bit of the mud left behind

Don’t look back, Because my roots travel…underground A safe pace to renew, in dirt and water No, I will not follow

(Enlight: Not to follow is dangerous, and changing. If you want to walk on eggs shells, you have to illuminate)

2023-