What I Want To Be…

Do you ever ask yourself who you want to be?
I do, and mostly, I know, but there is confusion
and a need to grow into me, upward, onward,
stronger, further, into maturity. Yes, I know 56
should be grown-up, but there is still some kid in me.
I want to be a publisher whose first client is me,
and take the world by storm, inevitably.
I also want to record some of the songs
I let loose into the air, never writing down,
just enjoying the richness of
creating words and sounds.
I would like to be a Laureate since the Poet
is an undeniable force in me. Dreaming, dreaming,
silly one, all a coward can be
is marginalized and hidden in obscurity.
I could coach someone, but I lack credentials
and have no proven success to make me worthy of faith.
I would like to advocate for the mentally ill,
being a prime example of our competence
when given advantages allowing us to live functionally.
My real purpose is love, accepting everyone, reaching
those who might be overlooked or cast away – showing
even in the worst of times, there is through love
a way to make it into a brighter day.
Some people say God is dead,
they have not seen Him in the love of others.
Jesus cannot reach the world without we allow,
Him to be seen, obviously, in us. I would be one.
Money is not mine, and out of my dungeon,
I may never climb. Still, if I could, what
dreams exist in my heart and mind.

This was paragraphs, still a poem, so I added line breaks. The rhyme that kept creeping in told me I had to take it from prose poem to broken. I see myself being hugely open over the last few days here. It is not really my way, shadows taunt and scare me.

Okay, your turn, what do YOU want to be? Can you take steps to make it a reality? Dreams do not come true without a plan.

A Pardon

I do not forgive
Myself a single evil
The shame, guilt, riot;
Peace, like a snow-white dove, flees,
Its presence is often foreign to me.
If I allow some pleasant dream
To linger, spreading love within
My wretched ebon starless soul,
The incessant voices will insist
I am wrapped in delusion reading
Positivity where none abides.
My tenacious unforgiveness would
Kill me, were I never halfway able
To believe Jesus is on my side;
Love, though at times I fail
To recognize because of a mind
Almost drowned in a gulch full
Of mistakes, failures, horrid
Transgressions that append despair,
Oh, Lord, precious Lord, be You near.
The shield I raise to conquer
All these damaging despondencies
Blazes with Christ set flames
My freedom to ensure from each toxin,
Every torment, vicious pain, all fears,
That would pierce, destroy me
Heart and soul.
You, my Lord, make me
Powerful, whole, encourage bravery, boldness,
Inspire me to reach beyond me
For Love, the hope of Heaven, and success;
Lord in You, I find a desire to continue on,
Despite the darkest shadows of all hours.

This was written because of a prompt in Writing The Life Poetic, which is an excellent poetry craft and inspiration book. I have to have prompts from time to time too.

It is interesting how the suggestion perfectly fits, where I have been emotionally hanging out. I wrote the first draft, as you can see, in my journal. As it often does, bringing it to the screen brought changes.

I hope you find inspiration for your own creative work and bring to life something that will help you live.

Be well, do well, speak well, and love hard as you can.

Poet, I Am, and Will Be

I see halos around you, you, you,
Even you, I always have, they terrify;
Cause, why when I see me, is there none?
All of you have a purpose; I have words.
A mind that stumbles, breaks, into rhyme,
Alex calls me out, says to quit reading his mind –
Cause my lips sync his words ahead of time;
Evidently, my brain does predictive scripts
Without my joining, permission, or volition.
I asked, “Only you?” He replied, “No, everyone.”

Being a poet reaches unto nothingness,
Letting whispers, not with clarity, but full-intention,
Slide words, like low lying fog, catching
On the page to travel, ephemeral to readers
Unknown, without rules, to spark imagination
And perhaps engage creativity, so my disappearing
With the vital verbal storm is matched within
The one who pages reads, and captures
The essence of whoever I am, or whoever is me.

Categorically I am uncertain, my life a mess, abnormal,
But there is the thing, undeniable, I, on Mother Goose,
And the right King James Bible raised, became at
A ripe early age, a poet, and have all my days
Chased after what is afar beyond this ordinary hour.
The tempest cannot derail my longing for the words
Of love and perfect yearning, clinging in the sparks
Electric that light up fragile shadowed gray spaces,
Bringing life, cherished faces, thoughts enthused,
Unruly, set free from prison to in freedom roam,
And give, oh now, give silence, nothingness, a pristine home.

Remember, we, literary creatures, poets, all features, are subject to interpretation, not always realistically rendered, and partial to artifice. There is truth, then there is life. I will not insult your intelligence with meaning, because if I said I knew, I would be deceiving. The words flew, I caught a few. Now, you have them, do as you will do.

Hearken Silence

The silence, it hides,
Yet is felt, a blankness,
A disintegration,
Reality’s fabric disrupted
In an annihilation;
Never to be rectified.
Yet, left here, this moment
The splintered, frayed ends
Of this tenuous life – rope;
Must be navigated, searched,
For a reason in the unreasoning
Unfairness of this lonely evolution.
The dew still blankets the grass,
Sun again blooms warming mornings,
Dust collects, and meals are required;
But even as the fond lyrics play
The silence sneaks into the heart,
Divvying up those parts unscathed.
Tragic dislocation, lack of elocution,
Undone echolocation, because
The missing piece will not be found,
Those who inhabit the memory
Lend no voice, make no comforting sound,
But the partition cannot forever
Hold, life is brash, bold, it breaks
Down barriers and behold,
Beginnings filter in and silence lesser grows,
What leads to overcoming, becomes
This moment, hour, day;
Building begins life victorious
Makes a new, wholesome way,
The silence dims, the shadow fades,
Love finds a fortunate home,
On a new arriving day.

Keystone

When the windows are all closed,
The locks engaged barring doors,
We must find the keys, or remain
Without entrance to our destiny;
Others can lend us assistance
If we give them an opportunity.
Sometimes we see a closed portal
And turn ourselves away
Because searching for the key
Is hard and locations past
Still hold our interest, rooted,
In comfort zones, we know well.
Growth, change, learning,
Are our reasons to exist,
Walking through the doors
Is what we are made to do;
Our creativity is a boon
Even giving us our keys.
Storm the doors, unlock
The windows – allow the freshness
Inside for the secret of happiness
Lies in the brilliance of accomplishment;
We all have potential we fail
To recognize, but we must
Our strengths, passions, realize,
Knowing within us God created
Talent and ability, vision to achieve
A life full, free, loving, given to shine;
We are placed to nurture the world.
Discover the key, make history!

I know she does not directly relate to the poem. The Wookie is just a part of those gifts that keep me present and moving forward. She does not care for cameras though.