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Poetry in Black and White

~ Life's cares in words and art…

Poetry in Black and White

Tag Archives: introspection

Most Die on the Vine

22 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

introspection, poetry

Most Die on the Vine

I look at life so different these days
I see trees of green, skies of blue
I also see withering leaves feebly feeding a healthy mind

I look at life different these days
I’ve only just begun to live
I also see discarded nourishment all around

Life is different these days
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
I also now think the only sun in any eyes rise in my own

Life these days
For you, there’ll be no more crying
I also know as long as there remains breath, heartache skulks

These days
Would you know my name
I also know my name is less important than who I am

Days
Hello darkness my old friend
I also know that while darkness may be found in broad daylight, darkness is not as unfriendly as we think

Days look at my life
I hurt myself today
I also know when I purpose to achieve presence in the “now” pain melts like summer ice creams

Days look at my life differently
Who can say where the road goes
I also know, despite the world’s onslaught at homogenization, we build our own paths if we dare…

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Things Gone, What endures…

02 Friday Sep 2016

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

introspection, life search, looking for life

Bike ShadowThings Gone, What Endures…?

Bike rides with me and JB
Chasing Dawna and Sally
Too frightened to catch them
Too compelled to not try…

The slamming of wooden screen doors
A sure sign summer approaches
A hook latch which clattered on each closing,
A sight and sound I never knew I’d miss.

Hand-cranked ice cream at church picnics
25 strokes per person
Earning your bowl with muscle
Pleasure from contributing almost as tasty as the treat…

Bottle caps on soft drinks
The pleasant swoosh of escaped carbonation
The metallic clink of the cap hitting the counter
Always searching for that damned opener beforehand…

Dialing a rotary phone
The ZIP! click click click click click
Locked into the proximity of the phone by a cord
Talking on the phone a special privilege

Long distance calls
Where every moment stood precious
$900 phone bills when you’re in love
The gulf between you narrowed by mere sound

A milkman delivering glass bottles of white heaven
An inch of cream on the top
The excitement of delivery almost as thrilling as the taste
A bygone era my children could never fathom

Life with no phones
Road maps crammed into glove boxes
Camping without communication to the outside world
Phones were for home and workplaces, not your every step

45 rpm records stacked on a fat spindle
Dropping sweet tunes as the tone arm always knew where to find them
Delicious sounds of creative genius
Delivered in vinyl disks

Moonshots
Miraculously brave astronauts riding insane explosions
Everyone breathless as the engines roared
Dreams seeded in little writers’ minds…

What endures?
The cacophony of over-communication drowns us
The disconnect from wonder deadens us
The distance we travel from our very souls threatens to destroy us

Planned obsolescence makes our televisions die more quickly
Plastics turned us into a throwaway world
Microsoft always finds ways to fleece us
As does most every major company on earth

BUT

Dreams endure
Hope endures
Love endures
Passion endures

Not so odd to me that all these come from within
That which is external to us, does not feed our souls so much
The packaging of our world makes these items tougher to find and maintain
Yet, they do…

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See the Wind

16 Friday Jan 2015

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

introspection, see, seek inner peace, wind

blowing_windSee the Wind

Find yourself alone
Within your heart of hearts
Wander through your cobwebs
Find out where you start

Sift through dusty memories
Seek your inner you
Walk the walk of world escape
Find your inner truth

Wars and killing all around
Negativity blares its ugly horn
They won’t be sated and satisfied
Until you’re old and worn

Stroll your inner soul’s dark halls
See what others flee
You may find this world’s insane
First you must act to see

See your inner strengths and fears
Stumble through your failings
Understand you own viable strengths
Despite the cynical wailings

Release yourself from this world
Free your heart within
All it takes is your intention
Your ability to see the wind…

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Murky, Mysterious Mirror

20 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

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Tags

inner peace, introspection, search

UniverseWho Are You?

Where do I go to find you?
Elusive shadows
Wisps of breezes
Reflect the incomprehensible meaning of life
Ever swirling answers my direction
While asking questions ten to one

I thought I found you – in her
Bright smile
Love deep and pure
Honesty
Ever lifting my damaged soul
While I struggle to know you from the reflection in her eyes

Here appears our last of meeting places
That land where intellect meets soul
Cacophonies of mind
Fears of the cessation of life shared
Ever perpetuating our existence
While peace remains our shared desire

Where am I to find you but here?
Buried in expressions and thought processes and emotion
Flowed from within through the fingers
Connection
Ever fleeting, yet bulging with life
While meaningless answers drift on the winds of humanity’s delusions…

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Poetry Double Header

26 Sunday Aug 2012

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

heart, heart poem, introspection, love, love poem, melancholy, passionate, poem, poetry, writer's mind, writing, writing poetry

How about a double header today. At least a double header. I will only speak for myself here. For me, NOT writing becomes a malady. A disease. Actually, more appropriately spelled and emphasized as a “dis-ease.” This comes with much introspection and observation of life.

I wrote the sentence “astonishing how quickly life passes” from a person who posted online about the passing of Neil Armstrong. That statement is nothing new. Many have said it, and many will continue, including me.

The astonishing rate of the passage of life lives in me as a writer. Always has. In fact, part of the core of my inspiration and motivation to write finds its source in this fact. We don’t live forever. Temporal is such a devastating but perfect word.

I often struggle with life. I tussle with it. I wrestle with it. I resign myself to it. I rage against it. I caress it. I cherish it. I love it. I hate it. I find life unequivocally fascinating and enticing. I find life exhausting and depressing. I find life in every emotional aspect I can.

Then I write it. I write life. Good. Bad. Ugly. Sublime. Beautiful. Toughing. Real.

Then I don’t.

That’s my issue. My problem. My solution. My damnation. My salvation. I have a lover, or should I say, in Lennonesque fashion, my lover has me. First up on the double header:

My Lover

I need your voice, your warm hello
Your lovely smile that warms my soul
I need your time and special touch
Your soft embrace that’s never enough

I crave your passion, your intensity, your care
Your fountain heart, your billowed hair
I crave your presence, your breath, your thought
Your inspiration that’s never bought

I’m a junkie whose life rests in your arms
Your tendril fingers lead mine to charm
I’m a junkie whose realization came clear
Your mistral wind draws muses near

I’m lost without my lady’s attention
Your willowed breezes carry sweet intention
I’m lost without this lover’s swirl
You’re my indiscretion, writing, you’re my girl.

 

When I abandon writing for the “work” I must do, or even the day I must live, a dissonance forms within me. A need. A desire. A passion. I hollow spot that desperately needs filled. A flame that must burn. A tear that must fall. A wan smile that must creep to my lips. A laughter required to burst upon this world. A broken heart that must incinerate into phoenix ashes only to be reborn again.

Then there’s the “real” world. That hateful place where passion and creativity are “nice” but unimportant to the money-driven. Cast aside as weak and “hobbyistic”, my real world only lends lip service to my dreams. I must fight for my dreams and aspirations.

That’s a tough order when these dreams and aspirations are without form and void. Isn’t that the ultimate description of creativity? Without form and void? Something coming from nothing? Yet the “real” world demands explanation. Cross examination. Judgement of worthiness.

If you cannot live and make money in the “real” world, your worth is greatly diminished. Oh yes, that is until you actually come across with something tangible. Potentially salable. Consumable.

I’ve found the elusive kindred spirit to be a great desire. Someone who understands in this day of greed and avarice and power and external pleasure, that life truly exists on a breeze. Whether the day be nuclear hot or Neptunian cold, life wends its way through our temporal existence a fleeting, invisible wake that only can be seen in its after-effects.

A more consumable, tangible, and “reality” driven piece of writing that temporarily bridges the gap between the two worlds gets delivered something like this:

Her Digital Window

That slightly worn path ‘neath her digital window
Entertains warm, loving eyes that soar in the night.
Head full of rain, sorrow laden heart, yet
Silent melodies drift up to her in word caresses.

Dreams waft through breezes leagues from her shore
Curling and lazy and impassioned and more
Hopes cling through wreckage and pain and loneliness
All to fill her path with the aroma of love.

Could days so frantic, so full, so intense
Leave room for the night with its melancholy romance?
There are times when two walk this world together
With all the stars cheering their way.

Will she look out along the path ‘neath her window,
Grin and welcome a song in the night?
Stars then, in all their glorious symphony
Shall pale behind the twinkle in her eye.

Time steals what moments we may share.
Days too often rule like a heartless taskmaster.
Her slightly worn path ‘neath her digital window
Grows roses who strive to reach the light of her smile.

 

Why would I say this is more “consumable?” Simply because there are those who waffle between the “real” world and the emotional world. In fact, most of us must do this. We must survive and no one will feed us and take care of us for simply being in touch with emotion and writing about it.

The same is true of all artists. We all must support ourselves in order to pursue the creativity that lives within. So when writing resonates with the broader, more money driven populace, I say it becomes more consumable. The writing then “justifies” our existence to others.

I’ve found I am much too concerned about this “justification.” I’m too concerned with what others think, when I literally cannot know what they think. This may be part and parcel of what it is to allow your creativity to be exposed to the world. I know I struggle to find that kindred spirit who understands, who I can turn to at any time and get empathy and a knowing nod.

On this rainy, double header day in central Florida, my musings exposed for what they’re worth. To me, these musings in print keep me sane, fulfilled, and justified. I can only speak for myself.

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