The Nature of a Poem

A poem is a silly thing

It’s made straight from emotion.

Not really words, not really form

It’s something like an ocean.

A poem is a vastish thing

And yet it is so tiny.

It means so much in one small life,

But on the page is finey.

A poem is a fiercish thing

A nail made of words.

Tis true it’s small, but when it pushed,

The point comes through in thirds.

A poem is a growing thing

What comes out comes in.

It’s meant to let emotions out,

But that is what it brings.

Reflections on Age

It is a supreme goal of mine to absolutely never become old without first obtaining and maintaining a convincing, if not tried and true, English accent. Somehow, you can't really be decrepit then. I've been spending a lot of time where you hear people get so old that they start over-pronouncing their "r's" so much they sound like they're not only really close to dying, they're also extremely uneducated. They could be talking about the historiographical morphology of Ovid's Metamorphoses, and you still think to yourself, "Poor old guy. It would suck to lose your mind like that." If, however you happen to have a high English accent at around 87, you're suddenly the Queen. Then, you could tell people that Swiss cheese is the new California State Flower and people would admire your grace and elegance instead of realizing what Swiss cheese has to do with flowers or California and why in the world that could possibly be the Queen of England's business. Yes, it's much better to be a respected idiot than a forgotten scholar.

Prelude to Poem

I went for my first bike ride of the season yesterday; Mother Nature's been pretty brutal up until now. I went over this little bridge into a park and found an arch of trees with a tinsy little path going through it. I followed it in, and just as I suspected: it was a portal into a fairy kingdom! It had a stream and small paths and some lovely benches. And best of all, everything was green and alive. And secluded. It was like a little room of living green. I sat there for a while and knew I had to write a poem when I got back. So here it is!

To the Trees

I remember the trees

and their canopies

heaving with breathing.

Flecks of skyblue

glittered

through the leaves.

God was everywhere.

I try and remember now

as I sit on the floor

heaving and breathing

my quiet (despair)ation

As I eat my

small single serving

I try to

Remember

what it was.

What was it to breathe like trees?

Can you close your eyes and feel your own song?

Can you close your I's and hear its duet?

Can you follow?

Little robin sings his own Search Song.

All. Throughout. May.

He lives

(and sings)

And breathes

(and sings)

He lives alone

(but sings)

Courageously:

He is.

I am.

We are.

Intro

This blog was created under the pretense of being for you. It's not. Not really. I'm not saying I don't hope it can help you, but it is initially mine. Hope is the medicine of the miserable (Shakespeare, Measure for Measure) and the wings to the grounded. By recognizing and appreciating it in my own journey, I plan on capturing it and making it my own, winged bottle of spiritual aspirin. It will be like the point in Jane Eyre, when a ray of hope is found glimmering in the wreck of ash and ruins and Jane says to herself "I breathed again." My life is far from ruins, but not everyone's is. I hope my small words can find a home in someone's heart. I think that mostly I just want to write down everything that makes me happy and see if it spills out anywhere.