At times posting poetry gets so personal, so introspective, the urge to hit the delete button when uploading becomes more than an urge. It becomes a warning claxon that drowns out creativity and pleads for common sense to prevail. Why write from the heart? Why put word out to the world usually wrapped deep within? Sometimes the only answer is to close one’s eyes and hit send anyway…
There are times in life where clarity meets necessity. Sometimes this happens in regard to business or financial discovery. A eureka moment when life changes and horizons open to new beginnings, new opportunities, new quests.
I tend to experience the clarity/necessity clash in moments of emotional desperation. Not a desperation born of drama, but birthed from soul-rending need. Writing such words ring of melodrama and poor-little-me pity parties, yet I know better – or different.
Why can’t there be a man who feels deeply, so deeply that all life takes on nothing less than moments of blissful connection followed by years and decades of loneliness and divorce from all that life could offer. Again, melodramatic rhetoric? Or, possibly truth.
I wonder often at the possibility of selfishness running a healthy vein through my writing. That of which I write can tend to be internally global in nature. At times though, I feel the writing closely sketched out by the lack of a companion who could feel, empathize, create, breathe, experience life, breezes, snow, rain, a kiss, a moment, a sigh, the sun, shadows and shade, fields of daisies and grain, nights frozen or warm, pillows soft, music mellow, memories tender, loves inhaled in wistful recollections, strolls through forests recalled with a smile, the thrill of intertwined fingers, the longing of distance and renewal of arrival, where every tick of the clock embodies an opportunity to love.
I arrive at another crossroad of mournful decision. Decision to step forward in a continued quest reminiscent of Quixote. Are these but false caricatures I pursue? Nothing more than adult nursery rhyme phantoms that tease my steps forward into the oblivion of realization that life and love are nothing more than a lie? That these passions and inebriations of heart hold no more significance to a world hellishly cold and indifferent to the possibilities that one bond can hold two souls throughout eternity?
Now, you may say, I wax philosophical, yet I own no letters of philosophy. I possess no teaching in the ways of that high minded world. Yes, I care far too much what others think of me and far too little of what is good and cherishable in myself.
Who I am gets left to definition in electrons on a pretend piece of paper to be read and wondered over by minds and hearts I may never meet. And what good do these words serve other than to bleed?
The poisons of our age fall no worse than those ages before. Could this embody the future of mankind forever? At what point will we ever realize the importance of love, connection, forgiveness, understanding, oneness?
My preamble to poetry runs long this night. My eyes caress the digits in the lower right corner of my screen. 12:19AM delivers a soft smile to my face, my heart, and even my wounded desire.
So easy at these crossroads to give up and join the apathy of the world – to join in the march of lost souls all around and shut out the light of hope for love – but for a smile, a connection, a spark, an atom of hope. It does not take much for me. This is my bane and my strength, to forge forward in the belief that one day someone will step forward with me and life will finally begin.
I wrote on my iPhone today a note to myself, just like thirty years ago I wrote notes of poetry to my future self as well as to others. What I wrote today I will work to carry with me each moment I live and breathe:
“We can never have what we desire until we give ourselves permission to pursue it.”
I’m sure many before me have said it clearer, plainer, even better than that. But I wrote this to myself because I feel the onslaught of the sadness of my life washing over me, not as a tempest as I often fear, but a more insidious “seeping” that robs the life and hope straight from one’s soul.
I won’t write you love songs
They no longer exist
I won’t walk you down bonny lanes
You’ll only resist.
I won’t woo you on fair evenings
No whims in the mist
I won’t whisper my poems
You’ll never be kissed.
I won’t call your name softly
No tear laden cheek
I won’t long for your beauty
Nor the love I seek
I will cherish your devilish dream
Held tightly within
I will lie wistful at night
Hope always to win
I’ll never allow your spirit to die
Ghostly thin it may be
One day you or death will join me