Life is Often Confusing

In 2016 I spontaneously decided I could and would try to write poetry. I was reading poems by Robert Graves, Wilfred Owen, and the like. Owen's Dulce et Decorum Est is raw and unapologetic and I latched onto it. I feel it's directed at those, who think they know what real struggle and suffering is, but sit comfortably behind desks boasting about glory and sacrifice in a far away land. A persons ability to survive situations that should kill and destroy them always fascinated me.

So, what am I trying to say? In short, I wrote some stuff about some things and included some more things that I felt/feel people could relate to and in the spirit of a run-on sentence that I could write deep into the ground, I've made this page to bore you with. Thank you for reading.

Back to Old Ways

I fall back to old ways, falling on my heels

head first. As the stump of a tree complacent

with roots sunk deep, into the earth

of my routine. I fall back to old ways,

lethargic, losing steam.

A Sleeping Eye

Tonight’s sky is pitch, a deep black that is

as clear as it is dark. The bright crescent shape

resembles the opening of a familiar feature in the sky.

The eye of a giant, it waxes and wanes,

observing the minutia below. The beast moves

and grows, increasing its view as it doubles its size.

The giant is rivaled each day, and the creature

has little power to resist. A blinding glow suffocates

him until the land reflects purple and blue, when he

is no longer shy.

Returning, it is wide open and the giant eye

spreads an equal gloom. Under this glow, it is

worshipped and pondered over by small-minded

things and sometimes, they look up and call

it a moon.

Where did he come from, they ask

why does he stay, could the black

pitch return one day and the beast has

abandoned the sky?

The meek would exist lost, no longer would they

feel the pull or sing glory to the great sleeping eye. The

small-minded things would remain small, and the ancient

unfathomable mystery of creation, would remain lost in

the pitch-black sky.

I'm Cold

What does this mean, says the sapling

to the stream,

I’m alive yet frozen.

These things happen, the stream begins to explain, the cold wind blows,

Somehow it’s fear our mind has chosen.

What sense does that make, the sapling wonders, am I not as alive as you,

How do you move when I’m now still and confused.

I am a stream of consciousness you see, always locked in motion even when, all else seems frozen,

Maybe you’ve retreated, away from anxiety and abuse.

I feel no safer here frozen, the sapling laments, time here speeds by and I shiver,

My mind is sprinting yet I feel of no use.

Please persist and try not to despair, the stream begs, your feelings are not uncommon,

Life like my waters rise and fall low, circumstances cannot last let in hope, reconcile the present and your past.

The stream pauses……….

The sapling sighs…………

You can feel again my sapling friend, though it is cold now and you feel tortured, things can mend.

Life can get warmer

Life isn’t always so cold

Life will begin again

Stay with me, fight back and be bold.