When One Option Remains

So many times, instances

the words seemed right

for the moment,

the listener

a hurting heart would

suddenly find a smile

again, there would be that smile,

that’s what we would hang onto

for inside the memory

of a hurtful mind

is still a nostalgic recall

of one time,

one beautiful glorious sunshine driven morning,

when eyes did light up

without effort,

they were just there waiting

for mine to open,

and you were always there,

waiting,

I could count on closing mine,

testing you,

and yes,

your eyes were there waiting

always for me to find some soft shelter

in your love

 

But then the stars,

the metaphor for your eyes,

faded inside the clouds

and the moon we both could see

could no longer

hold resonate

its purpose

for guiding our soul,

the only option remained

to let memory

stand in vigil with

candles of love.

A Soul Searcher’s Gaze

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I wrote this piece today as part of a network of poets that I am delighted to write with. I know I said I’m going to limit my poetry here, but it is still going to show up. Quite honestly I’m having a hard time leaving this page behind, because so often my writing would be a true appraisal of my feelings – whether directed to anyone or simple thoughts in my head.

So today, I have been thinking about my soul, and everyone’s soul I suppose. I know mine aches with a passion that cannot be fulfilled, and yet, we were told when we were children raised in a Catholic enclave that the soul is not something tangible. We can feel our heart, we know when it aches, it being a combination of the brain not fathoming pain, and the heart being such an organic reactionary to our personal struggle.

I cried in my quiet time today – this has been rather frequent. I don’t write these words looking for sympathy, more so I suppose I am asking for empathy that I hope people might relate and have some takeaway from my current state of mind. It is funny because I’m in tears a lot and it has me wondering about the condition of my soul. I was raised to believe the soul is a huge component of our spiritual morality, and so on occasion throughout my life I have sometimes feared the damage already done. I guess I am sort of in that place again. I’ve done a lot of damage both to myself and those close to me, and I am unable to find peace in my world at present. I also don’t have a solution beyond just being able to express my journey to whomever chooses to read these words.

This is a far different image than the sensual poet I have created in this site for the last few years. This is the real me, there are some that know the real me, but for the sake of my own need to express myself, I appreciate the anonymous nature of this site. It is not hard for anyone to read between the lines and perceive the constant confusion I do feel.

So back to the notion of the soul. Mine hurts, and there is a constant search happening, and I don’t know how long or where this journey will take me. I do know it is not nearly the dark chasm I was miring in weeks ago, but there are days. Routines are difficult and finding purpose is a struggle. I just appreciate I suppose a venue to express myself because I do respect that there are listeners and I guess I just appreciate your eyes.

Have a wonderful night and stay warm. Be back soon, I guess.

On the Burden of Mental Health

I’ve written poetry on this site for years, along with several other venues. I’ve traveled many circles in words, encountered countless writers of all gender, all with the same passions, same desires, same hurts and wants and understandings. I’ve met some that so spoke to my own inner self that I wondered if our lives had passed by one another. Ironically, I have often thought of former lovers, years ago, who might come across my words, and without really knowing, wonder if, just if.

I’ve written about the mystique of woman in so many different ways I’ve lost count of my reason why. Or perhaps I no longer want to think about why. I do know what love is, and at the same time, I recognize pain, and I struggle to allow the beauty of love to become a tragic malady in the lives of human beings who feel. I wonder about the actual moment when what a person feels suddenly turns dangerous, and their bodies both mentally and physically choose to retreat, because humanity is taught to shelter ourselves rather than take risks. I don’t fault a person for wanting shelter, for choosing what is safe in their lives. I just sometimes envy those that learn how to navigate the edge.

There is someone out there for all of us. I know this to be true, because even so, we cannot always have what it is we believe we should have. Sometimes the choice is not ours and no matter how hard we try, we cannot change the mind of a lover scorned. Once described as an unmet expectation, the unraveling of what once was a certainty no longer holds the fabric of our quiet passion. We find ourselves scrambling to justify, to describe a rationale that will keep everyone happy, and then one day, it is a silent day, a meditative reflection, we come to terms with the form of alone that allows us to make a decision, to create another chapter, or in the crudest manner, gloss over the beauty of what once was a magic, a wonder, a reality.

In recent months, my mental health has been tested more than I would like to imagine. I’ve made choices based upon my desires, leaving me with an outcome that has revealed a certain void in my life that has me on my knees more often than I would like. The beauty of woman is what first motivated me to write here, the words the readers, the venue allowed me to explore a fascination that has been closed, locked away, denied for many years. I wrote words that I wanted both men and women to shudder upon, to realize just how marvelous is the sensual nature of the human condition. I had a wonderful time doing so, and have met many lovely and real and genuine people along the way. Yet love is a surreal reality in the mind of a philosophical romantic.

I came to realize I was writing for one person, and it wasn’t me. Now, all the research I do on writing seems to suggest I must write for myself. I find that to be a very lonely place, one that only allows me to struggle. I listen to music as a background to my writing. There are times when a certain song or melody takes me places that I want to go and it inspires my world on paper. Then there are times when I cannot find the right song, composition, driving force of nature to give my writing a boost.

So tonight I sat in my – local – cafe, close to my home, and I wondered how to address this question in my mind. I still haven’t found an answer beyond knowing I have known love and I am grateful. I wish it could just be that without all of the societal constraints that determine just how much we can be who we are in a managed and planned experiment. I wonder sometimes who it was that determined the rules for this experiment. I believe in God, or some entity of spiritual determination, but as I write these last words I am convinced we have, or maybe it is just me, moved a bar beyond the original concept of what He means in our lives, in my life.

I wonder about the beauty of two people in love, I wish breaking rules meant a greater understanding without the fear of discretion. I appreciate the loneliness of having to choose a place to land. My feet are still not firmly planted on the ground, so I’m still at risk for knowing what is true, what is fantasy, what is my own personal breaking point.

I wonder always about the beauty of woman and the inspiration you do bring to my life.

Trying To Find Her

Oh the effort is clear

for someone so dear

one might wander all

the reason of love we call

 

our own heart has an ache

we feel it with ever stake

of scrutiny our mind compels

when wonder silent tells

 

I walked outside in arctic

waves, freezing is so cryptic

to know our lives in balance

hang before our only chance

 

I’m lounging in the sea you see

wanting only my mind to be free

This Wise Man When

once said

now believed

then

happens the quiet

adjustment

what is real

toward how can we become

someone new.

 

I stood on a bridge

wondering

ice caps and open water …

 

later on

the frozen ground crackled

with my every step

not knowing why

yet still reminding

a lost soul

such a walk

will

move me forward.

 

there are tears

we all seem to share

just the timing of when

why yours now

her later response

his acceptance

a recall

a song

a familiar morning air

and the rains do slowly

Turn to ice.

The Trivia of Suicidality

He looked her in the eye,

while she showered his ego,

his mind might wish to cry

he couldn’t reveal he might go.

 

Talk to me about life today,

how fortunate we are to live

how easy it is to simply step away

even just after looking so alive.

 

See that’s the beauty of conversation

knowing someone is listening,

the laughter, the genuine ideation

of this is our reality, keep it happening.

 

I drove home today imagining only

oncoming traffic coming my way,

I’m thankful I cannot get past the beauty

of letting each driver live lives without delay.

 

Imagine if one sudden move were to suggest

these really are the fears I cannot digest.

 


~ finding my way, a personal journey ~

Wondering The Hemingway

The first time I read he died,

I thought it a plot line.

I wondered how could a prolific artist

make such a morbid decision.

I thought, characters, roles

in the book please

-real life, fantasy-

 

the strain of alcoholism is real,

as is,

the dangerous notion of

escape,

I am living proof.

He reached a level of proof he close to not deny.

I have walked through life with suicidal notions

the majority

of my life.

 

Most often the reasons are very real

mistakes I have made

a reputation of not meeting a standard

the simple notion of

exhaustion.

 

we all have a job to do

we all have a job to do

 

yet today I am worthless,

barely able to complete a sentence

and yet here I am

speaking to this society

– we are all warriors –

some lost in our own fear,

others drawn upon the beauty

inspiration provides a healthy life.

 

I don’t feel healthy today.

Someone told me recently I have

touched so many lives.

What happens that day they wake and reslize

I was trying to convince myself

more attempting to guide them,

and I realized, I lost.

 

what happens then!

Sylvia Plath

I wrote this because I struggle with my own depression, and I know that Sylvia is and was revered. What i don’t know is why or how our society has come centuries without understanding what depression is and what mental health and what matters to the sanctity of our lives. What i don’t know is why tragedy is the only way people can seemingly come to understand the identity of another.

What determines legacy – exhaustion or raw talent and how do we find a balance between the two?

This is for Sylvia, because I picture you in your state of mind in this what probably was your back yard one beautiful afternoon – a portrait in a series that contains smiles as well as sadness …

sylvia

How Many Poets Have Died?

Have you ever wondered,

was it really a …

did the traffic suddenly change

was the fall

timed in such a way

that every factor

mattered,

that all the t’s were crossed.

 

Because isn’t that what we’re left with …

figuring out why

understanding there is  a reason

and this was meant to

help to

clarify.

 

Or is just jealousy,

she figured it out first.

I think her name was

Laura Aschenbrenner,

somehow it stays with me,

the clothing line in her back yard,

with he lifeless body hanging,

waiting,

wanting nothing more,

having decided this would be the answer

to everything she could possibly

ever wish for in the

rest of her life,

the last ten minutes before

she could breathe no more.

 

I’m sitting here writing about

killing myself,

I’m already the hero,

the delusional martyr,

the one that calls himself

morose,

but without the attraction

of the gorgeous girl down the street

who seemed to be the only one whom understood,

the only one who cared,

the only remaining factor

keeping this writer alive.

 

But who really gives a shit,

the gravedigger,

thankful for the job,

the composer who wrote their music

years ago with a completely different

outcome in mind.

Who is the winner, when there will be so much lost.

 

On who?