Category: Poetic Musings

Confidence can be like a dried-out eggshell, tremulous in God’s grasp.

By writing, I define
Who I used to be –

From shouting out in glee,
To screaming at depravity.

O yon torn-assunder soldier
Staggering across the fields:

I know the trials of recovering –
Like blood on hands has spilled.

Like leaves in the wind, touseling,
My thoughts cascade around me

Left in moisture-warped bindings;
Scattered in boxes and web sites.

I have thought someday to collect
The wanderings as I would reflect,

But there are literally thousands:
What categories best represent?

My Love,

I do not know how to bridge to you.

Every day, I would be there with you.

Maybe it takes a man’s eyes to see what a woman only internalizes.

She had to leave because she kept seeking continuity where things remained broken.

(I love multiple meanings)

What was it like in the days before Covid disrupted our social “norms?”

(A sing-song sentence)

It only grows after the first bloom’s flush with continued receiving and giving’s nourishment.

Only then, with time, may we experience its full measure leading to its lasting legacy.

Born for heights of ecstasy, yet darkness takes the helm. Fearing what’s inside of me – but I should not be overwhelmed.

Ever have I wandered
Following your star

Searching for love’s answer
So near – and yet so far

Upon the wavelit sea shore
In skies with/without moon

At sunset you would greet me
In brilliance, I would swoon.

Demons that haunt must be attended
For souls once harmed to be mended.

On the edge of the world,
I can see you clear as day:

We are not so far apart now
As others would have us say.

No inner space left untouched,
Hidden crevices burn on fire:

Anything paused on hold
Is fuel for magma pyre.

As if I were a camel, the desert sands of time’s experience blow and wittle away at me – testing and abrading my measure until I am small enough to pass through.

Rise from the grave
O death-worn spirit

Call out your name
So that others hear it

Embrace your fear
So it understands

We’ve come too far
To be merely damned.

Some dreams must be shelved – and then pushed out the window to fall into gathered leaves, no longer carried and left to nature to reseed.

There is peace in being alone
Where self finds introspection

And nobody being at home is
Signal for creative expression.

Pick me up with strong, gentle hands,
Love-warming senses, skin, and body.

Let me stretch, become pliantly supple,
Unravelling into what I am meant to be.

At last sinking onto the bed, allowing gravity to rest its head.

Fragile playfulness peaks
Wondering if it is now safe
To emerge and be welcome

Attempting to recover goals in some cases can be like returning to a firebombed structure where as you attempt to sift through the rubble for anything salvageable, gusts of wind stir up the ashes of angst and vexation to choke you.

Intimate connections that I had thought and considered over now hit with more finality as I encounter proofs. I had not been hoping for more – but it still hurts to find myself on the outside of another sealed door with only the tiny, floating dust specs of memory to keep me company.

It became wrong to believe
Looking through love’s lens
Would guide me correctly.

Whether positive or negative, having any creates dependency by entwining emotional strings.

It is a myth that one must be in “a good place” internally in order to give grace to others.

Rather, it is a test of one’s indomitable will to continue doing so under the extreme weight of pain, loss, and trauma.

The heart seeks peace where it cannot find love.

Being one, honed to the hope of love,
I was misled by others’ ambivalence

Torn by the chaos of neglect as
I chased truth through complex.

I did not think to expect
A more complete person:

There was no recognition
Modeled in my experience.

There is a time of confusion
When before must become
Truly a part of one’s past.

Predefinition of the self
Relies upon constructs
Which no longer apply.

An open mind helps
When on the road to
Create new paradigm.

As winter strips us to our core,
We find what we are made of.

Wanting things which do not want one back
Is like claiming a dead bird for one’s hand:

There will be no rejoiceful singing –
Only grief for what has been lost.

Farewell my Bachelor’s,
A sweet adieu

So many years
That I have pursued you.

No hope lingers in a bloodshot eye
Staring at a sky’s gray-washed haze.

Knocks down to knees
Causing beg and plead

Where false confidence
Fed upon Fall’s harvests.

I knew it was a chance – it was such a wild gamble.

But how else can one expect love to payout without being willing to follow?

Would I make the same decisions?

Yes – and Yes again.

But, I cannot reconcile how love’s bright-winged hope came to such a bitter, flaming end.

Crisis of heart, lost meaning…searching for self in the remnanta of a past no longer relevant. Emptiness of losses’ disconnection.

When it all settles and the flood goes to ground, will he join me though I am tired as proud?

Standing on my own makes it hard to fall into other’s dreams – which is good unless I want to join their scenes. But, at what cost to being genuine?

To have a partner to love seems irreplaceable; but when love goes to ground, it’s untraceable.

Fragments once scattered return to where shattered, reforming as conglomerate.

Death is not the reward
Where suppression broke
Once valiance determined.

When at last the crush releases and the soul has been set free, there can be an initial lashback of it refusing to pursue anything.

Because it is safe to buck and kick without further threat of weight or whip, the wild horse once conscripted flashes hooves and bites any lead.

It may be that the self must first contract into dense oblivion compressed until antimatter’s explosion for regeneration’s propulsion.

An open wound may be sealed by cauterization, leaving the skin seared and aching where love’s lifeblood once flowed.

I believe it may be that “God” creates and assists opportunities, but that it is humanity that ensures they become our realities.

It took a while to find them, once the journey came to end. But dreams are like old lovers who with time become good friends.

I feel them when they bring the healing snow – and on a summer’s day, when they chase the clouds away.

Aloof and mysterious might be fun in silly games, but the heart requires more to ignite its sacred flames.

She longed for a cave that she could call their own with floors easily cleanable and a fireplace in the den; a dishwasher for routine and some earth for garden beds; tucked away off a lane where birds play in the hedge.

The bond forming between two friends felt like a parasite taking hold. Yes, they say that it can be a symbiotic relationship – but she was more suspicious than most.