The Mountain Doesn’t Sing

On faith and failing

The mountain doesn’t sing
Of what tomorrow brings.
It only ever whispers in the wind.

So why should I put trust
In fate and pixie dust
When everything is fleeting in the end?


Image by Klaus Dieter vom Wangenheim from Pixabay

Citrus

on growth and beauty

A tree starts young as just a seed

to grows its roots and trunk, it needs

water, air, and light from Sol,

so with a wish, I dig a hole,

and place the seed down deep inside,

cover with dirt and hopes, then I

walk away. The seed stays in the ground.

In days or weeks, it is bound

to poke its green head from the earth

soon to fill mankind with mirth

for all who gather surely know

the tree will grow and grow and grow

and one day offer fruit to eat.

They’ll taste the citrus, tart and sweet.

But interest lost–it takes too long

to germinate, grow big and strong

enough for branches to hold the fruit

the impatient one had once pursued.

Still slowly, carefully, it grows tall.

It’s remembered to have started small,

but now I barely can believe

the growth it made since I did leave

it all alone there in the soil.

The tree itself did yearn and toil

knowing that one day it could be

a beautiful flowering, fruiting tree.

So there it stands when I come back

with growing branches, hues brown and black

when it is darkened by the rain,

the wet that helped it to remain

Strong and healthy while I was gone

through all those dusks and all those dawns.

It’s not quite ready to flower yet,

But one day soon, I can bet

’cause the world has thus far taken care

of the seed I’d planted there.

So I’ll trust nature to run its course–

that beautiful self-sufficient force.

This tree right here to me has shown

that noticed or not we all have grown

and more than that, we’ll one day see

ourselves with branches flowering.

Though trees and man will surely die,

the citrus will bloom, and (maybe, just maybe) so will I.


Photo by Kindel Media from Pexels

The Shoe Stealer

Who loses a single shoe, and where?

A shoe is gone, one of a pair

that once both belonged to me.

Who loses a single shoe, and where?

I look and look, but do not see.

It’s missing maybe for forever;

must have walked off by itself.

See, shoes these days are very clever,

won’t stay in place upon a shelf.

Oh never mind, I just found it,

it’s been here underneath this chair.

Ignore the part the dog clearly bit.

I wonder who could have put it there.


Photo by Skylar Kang from Pexels

I Think I Might Want More

Way back then, I asked you to stay.

Just know that I am sorry, okay.
I think that perhaps I want more.
It was just days ago I asked you to stay.
Way back then, I desired that most.

The rain didn’t lightly sprinkle; it poured.
And I realized umbrellas just aren’t enough
as the winds all around me snarled and roared.
I wanted a shelter, I wanted a host.

Continue reading “I Think I Might Want More”

And If The World Held Still

And if the world went silent

And if the world held still,
would I hold still, too,
or keep on searching to find
something out there left to do?

And if the world went silent,
would I be quiet as well,
or would I make cacophonous music
with a piano to forte swell?

And if the world was all over,
would I at last find some peace
or would I worry about forever
even after my release?

Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay

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Every Poet Writes About Skies of Marmalade

On beauty and banality

Every poet seems to write on skies of marmalade,
about waters of azure and the texture of suede,
but I so rarely see these things in my day-to-day.



My life consists of grit and grime
of cheap laminate floors and of vinyl countertops.


Of cracked laptop screens
And weather-worn shoes


An aesthetic with lightbulbs burnt out
and muddy puddles and unfolded laundry,
pots of dirt that once held plants,
cacti that just refuse to die,
windowless rooms,
bruises on skin that has not been licked by the sun in far too long.

There’s paint stains on the dining room table.

There’s patina on the silverware.

There’s faulty memories and mismatched meter and tongues that confuse themselves
and meanings that should never be spoken aloud.

Wounded egos.

Filth.

Muck.

Phlegm.

Imperfect families.

Half smiles.

Accidental laughter at problematic jokes.

Heads brimming full
of ideas that will never come to fruition,
poetic lines completely unnecessary to the meaning,
and chipped teeth repaired temporarily decades ago.




But there’s a beauty in banality, a hope in the mundane,
an elegance in all the things that we hold in disdain,
so excuse me if I speak of the ugly in a gilded frame.

Photo by Abdullah Ghatasheh from Pexels

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ghost

A wispy, ghoulish, haunting thing

I’ll reemerge in fits and starts,
convey the message of my heart,
and disappear again just like a ghost.

A wispy, ghoulish, haunting thing
that even now just deigns to bring
a short, sarcastic, base, belated post.


Photo by Marcelo Jaboo from Pexels


Long time, no poem. Sorry.

I have been writing little bits here and there, but I simply have not had the energy to sit down and edit or complete them. Even worse, I have been struggling to find the energy to read other people’s work or reply to messages.

I can’t guarantee that I’m back to reading and writing consistently, but I can guarantee that I’m slowly working through reading various blogs and that I am trying to get back into the groove of creation.

Thank you to everyone who is bearing with me. I have missed you all.

Peace out,
Joy

Fake Tomorrows

This cycle is too persuasive
and this cycle calls my name.

I long for words I’ve never written
and for songs I’ve never sung.
I long for feelings I’ve never felt
and for bells I’ve never rung.

I’ve imagined these possibilities–
my mind does this when I’m down–
It makes problems out of naught
just like a dust mote on a crown.

Though reminiscing about nothing
and self-berating causes shame,
this cycle is too persuasive
and this cycle calls my name.

Now, my blue skies all have faded
to shades both gray and dark
with no more hope of sunshine
to light the outlines oh, so stark.

I cannot fight or face it–
I’ve already gone too deep
I can’t climb from this chasm
Nor call for help nor leap.

So, please come Serotonin,
please come Dopamine,
please come Vigor for Life,
please come Fresh, and please come Green.

Take me back to my home–
I have somehow lost my way.
I became trapped by fake tomorrows
and by pretend yesterdays.

I’ve tried to end this poem
on a nice, uplifting note,
but today, I just can’t make it happen.


Photo by Aakash Sethi from Pexels

Today’s resource for knowledge and compassion is the International Association for Suicide Prevention (IASP), which lists suicide prevention helplines throughout the world and in various languages. Just use the helpful map on their homepage to select your continent, and you’ll be redirected to a list of hotlines and websites that might be pertinent to you.

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