Destination

 

 

  

You are here somewhere,

Hidden from sight,

Along a path,

That reflects the light,

That blinds me momentarily.

 

I walk amongst many,

And yet I am alone.

Nothing revealed,

In the emptiness,

Of  faces,

And the downcast eyes,

Of humanity.  

 

All I can hear is the hollow sound,

Of  footsteps

That echo off the concrete,

In a city, that is any city,

Anywhere. 

 

A hazy outline forms against the darkness

Of the setting sun,

Rich in colour, but lacking in warmth,

For I am cold and so is this day.

 

The leaves at my feet

Are dead.

A testament

To life.

And a reminder of the seasons,

That change.

 

And in the mist against the darkness

Is an outline,

Of a man.

With hands that bear witness,

To the writing,

On a note.

 

It is a ticket,

For a destination,

That no longer exists,

And a time,

That has long expired.

 

So I continue to search,

For you.  

 

 

Haunted

A march of angry raindrops

tumbles from the sky,  

No one really questions this

or stops to wonder why.

The sun returns each morning

as she is apt to do,

Whispering to lonely clouds

upon a sky of blue.     

 

Extending with her fingertips

She leaves a golden glow,

Forming silken threads of light,

Like ribbons in a bow.

As old as time the ocean meets

the river as she flows, 

Softly clasping willow vines

That bends in mild repose. 

 

Thoughts spring forth from quiet lips,

And wander as a cloud,

I stop to voice these words that form,

And whisper them aloud,

 

Oh pitiful this naked soul!

Left to crash upon a shoal,

Cut adrift by wayward tides,

As sand upon the shoreline slides,

 

Into the depths of deep despair,

A painful cloak of tears to wear,

Left alone to face my fears,

Do they exist if no one hears?

 

And somewhere in the night I call, 

Then prostrate to the ground I fall,

My heart pierced by a mighty lance,

Nothing left to time or chance.

 

Left here to bleed,

Yet always wanting,

Barren eyes,

 

Haunting, haunting.

 

 

 

Moods…

Well, as I look outside my door I see a gathering of clouds. These grey clouds match my mood quite nicely. I am feeling quite overwhelmed by a mountain of work and it would seem I don’t even know where to start. On my bed sits a pile of papers scattered everywhere. And as time winds down and deadlines pile up, my mood is beginning to settle into a downward spiral. I am fighting against my normal reaction to excessive work. Procrastinating or running away seem like viable alternatives. However, in the end such “coping mechanisms”, become counter productive. So, I pace the floor of my small room and wonder where to start….Is there such a thing as “stress paralysis”? 

If this is so, then I am suffering from this condition quite acutely. Academic papers leave me feeling like the dried and whitened bones you see poking out of desert sands. They literally peel apart and destroy any semblence of enjoyment in writing. The material is dry and boring and fashioned in a particular manner. For me, this is a pardox, I love to write, but only creatively. Oh, I have suffered from never fitting into anything that resembles academic life. Jail would be a better alternative. However in the end, ”you do what you have to do so you can do what you want to do”…

The poem “haunted” describes how I am presently feeling.  There is such sadness in wanting what you cannot have and I think this feeling is a part of the human condition. In life, we are always searching for something greater, something beyond ourselves. But what? This endless search for what we desire or cannot have drives many thoughts and forms the foundation of many wonderful poems. Ah, the search for meaning and the desire for something greater than ourselves. But will we ever find it?