Definition of a Poet

What is a poet?

A wanderer?

A solitary lake shallow on the edges…deep and vast at the belly of the beast?

A keeper of few within her soul’s home?

A fractured window omitting promises of hope peppered with disdain.

The owner of a little circle as close knit…

as a pair of Grandma’s macrame Christmas sleepers!

100_1225

What is a poet? An unhappy man (woman) who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music…. And people flock around the poet and say: ‘Sing again soon’ – that is, ‘May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.

Kierkegaard

 

Do Not Go Gently

I lay my head down last night.  Feeling a physical ache that not a word can describe.  I wanted to wallow in my pity.  I wanted to dunk way down into the depth of ‘what I can no longer do…’self reflection!  I have Degenerative Disc Disease.  Title or no title, medical term or not.  I often believe myself to have a pain so significant…It is a suffering not a soul born…has witnessed…AS I have.

There are moments in which I give time its due.  Promise the Powers that Be…’You can take me now!’  I am not suicidal.  I am in electrifying misery.   The Devil, Melancholy, can have what is reusable of my…Physical Self.

It seems at wit’s end.  When I envision; No more long walks in the wilderness, no hiking, no photography, no paying homage to the Mother Earth…That through a special blend of compassion, wisdom and self seeking…I find at the end of my rope?  A trinket that has been there all along.  I just did not look deep enough!

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Pleased to Embrace

imageedit_155_5554452776

Coming along in a storm.

An embrace that has not been beckoned.

Whatever the petition…

No matter the endeavor.

Or, pious fold.

There is no give.

Nor,

take.

From an unwarranted crippling hold.

 

With every embroiled step I take.

Aside my stubborn stride…

I feel it forsake a soul.

An embodiment of limbs that will not remain whole.

imageedit_152_7923952419

 

 

Starve the Ache

 

If I saw her I would have run.  But the shadowy figure had been me…and, I know what that means.

Just a hop, skip and a jump!  As, I am aware of every morning.  Even that athletic tussle…would not set me…free.

Awareness and chronic pain go hand in hand.

You cannot ignore…What you can no longer stand.

In the midst of night dreams.  There are aggressive ‘let me out!’  Bouts of terror.

Within the scope of words and phrases…I have searched.

Nothing has prevailed.

Deep-rooted is the ache that lives with me on earth.