National Poetry Month: A Poem for Old Lovers

My last two posts for National Poetry Month were on the heavy side so today I'm going light and will share
a song written from the perspective of a woman who's been married for some time and is remembering young love in order to appreciate old love...

TAKE MY HAND

Do you miss too much Youth’s first touch?

The wildness of new fire,

Being left on a hot wire?

Is there a stain beneath your gold?

Our kisses are still sweet,

Are warm and still give heat.

Is that enough to sate your lust

When there’re children running around your feet?

Take my hand Man,

And fly with me to before.

Let’s remember why we promised forever

Take my hand,

And together we’ll fly to the end.

Do you often recall when the world was small?

When no road was too long?

When everyone but us was wrong?

Then we were trained by our gold.

Your eyes reflect my soul and it feels right.

You are my best friend,

Secrets only to you I lend,

With you I’ll never grow old.

National Poetry Month: Inside the mind of an Alcoholic

National Poetry Month pushes forward and I continue to celebrate in my own custom; through music and lyrics.  This one comes from an old, broken alcoholic's perspective. This man spent his life fighting, though now he has forgotten why.  He looks back with regret, wanting only release...

THE CALLUSES I BEAR

What do I have to show for these calluses I bear?

The scars in my mind,

The ceaseless wear and tear?

Merely the years I fought to be wanted, and those I fought to be alone.

These knobs about my palms warn others, of how old and hard I’ve grown.

Thick and ugly my extra skin reminds me of who I’ve been,

Of all the wrongs I’ve gone and done, and all the shit that I’ve seen,

Like a nameless collar around my neck, it marks me as a stray,

But without its familiar cinch,

I don’t know what it is I’d be.

I hide within this map which reveals the time I’ve gone and wasted,

And look ahead in a clouded daze,

Fueled by protective hatred.

I’ll be alone when that last hour comes to crack the shell and release me,

It’s my last chance to forget this skin, and why it was it encased me.

What do I have to show, for these calluses I bear?

Feelings numbed, time lost,

God, get me out of here!

What do I have to show, for these calluses I bear?

Wasted years, useless tears, and damn no good despair.

Will ivory hands rest upon my head and lift the weight that anchors?

Will darkness be my eternal sight with a cold black hand that clenches?

I’m damn tired of fighting against, and for, blind of understanding.

Be it black or white wont someone please, snatch me from this hiding.

What do I have to show for these calluses I bear?

The scars in my mind,

The ceaseless wear and tear?

Merely the years I fought to be wanted, and those I fought to be alone.

These knobs about my palms warn others, of how old and hard I’ve grown.

Defining Poetry

This morning I felt an urge to muse the definition of poetry.  What is poetry?  Is it one specific thing, confined to rules and organization?  Or is it a garden of beauties meant to influence from within and without?  A rose bush can be regarded and can effect in many different ways.  It might represent life or personify love.  It's thorns may depict strength as well as pain.  In it's presence some may see color or folds of fragility, while others will be moved only by the sweet aroma it spills into the air.  Yet it is life and sustains life.  It has roots which twine into the earth that both feed and nurture.  There is more then what the senses allow.

That to me, defines poetry.

The moment art, beauty, nature, captures you, pulls you, pushes you, the instant you change for something around you, or because of it, you experience poetry.

I have been stirred by sweeps of color on canvas, by literature that rolls like thunder or a tugging tide.  Music will lift or move me to tears, and the glint of an eye or the tilt of a smile can harm or heal me.

This is poetry.  And those who inspire it, those who have the power to hold it and bring it, make it new again and again, these are the poets.

Whether it be by rhyme, word, or reason, the Masters need not follow a rule to create poetry.  They simply follow their hearts.

A Poem for Multiple Sclerosis Awareness

To continue our celebration this National Month of Poetry, I'm posting another song I've written.  This one is
told through the voice of a young musician who is forced to put his passion aside due to the tragic disease Multiple Sclerosis.  This disease is heart breaking, and continues to baffle scientists and doctors. If this poem inspires you in any way, please consider learning more on how you can help by contacting the MS Society at mssociety.ca.  There are annual fundraising events you might enjoy participating in or volunteering for, or perhaps you'd rather donate funds.  Either way, lets do what we can to help those touched by Multiple Sclerosis.

I WANT REMISSION

I rest my palm against this silent guitar,

And remember when her music rang for the stars.

The only time she was quiet was when I slept upon my back,

Or words sped through my head on a one-way track.

My back is not bent and my joints are not worn,

It’s merely my pride that has been mangled and torn.

This cloud in my mind holds me needing and weak,

And hoping each day for a positive leap,

Toward a spell of remission,

So I forget my condition,

I’d make my own decisions,

And once again strum my love… and make her sing.

Now her strings are tuneless, her body’s covered with dust,

And though sitting she haunts my musician’s lust.

The words come ever freely though now I’m forced to dictate,

And stare at my heart as they say I must wait.

My lyrics are flat when merely ink upon paper,

I want to feel them move, to drift and caper.

But when sung by another they don’t feel the same,

And unable to bring them life I battle with my rage.

I often scream cause not even God knows,

What it is my future holds,

I’m afraid my body will forever be a cage,

That shouldn't have barred me until I aged.

My back is not bent and my joints are not worn,

It’s merely my pride that has been mangled and torn.

This cloud in my mind holds me needing and weak,

And hoping each day for a positive leap,

Toward a spell of remission,

So I forget my condition,

I’d make my own decisions,

And once again strum my love… and make her sing.

A Poem for National Poetry Month

It's National Poetry Month, so I'm posting the only kind of poetry I can muster, another song I've written.  This one is about being a mother, starting in pregnancy and ending where a mother must let go...

WHAT COULD I DO BUT LOVE YOU?

Sitting on star

Dreaming of your face

And your heart

I'm waiting on a star

And I'm smiling, because you are the wish

That came true, you’re my wish upon a star

The world caved in, My feet could not feel the floor

So brand new, how could there be this much more?

When I met you, what could I do but love you?

Your hands they change

They're no longer tiny in mine

I want to hold fast, but I have to let you grow

How much fear do I own, how much love

how much pride? When it comes to you

The world caved in, My feet could not feel the floor

So brand new, how could there be this much more?

When I met you, what could I do but love you?

World Poetry Day

Oops, I missed World Poetry Day...  In that case, happy belated World Poetry Day!

I've never been much good at following the rules of poetry, which is perhaps why I enjoy writing songs instead.  That way I can be my own master!  In celebration of the great art, here's a little something I wrote after my husband and I visited with one of his old friends.  Hearing their memories eventually resulted in this...

THE GAME OF LIFE

I wonder what it is my shadows see,

When they’re looking up to and making mountains of me?

Lines and shelter, authority,

They don’t see the man I used to be.

Wild and remiss, and free to roam,

Always with a crowd yet forever alone,

Many strange faces, including my own,

My reflection and I sat upon a throne.

Looking back, there is some shame,

If I could turn around would I do the same?

You choose your own cards when you deal in the game...

When you chance to be risky and feed the flame,

When you carry the courage to not be the same,

That’s living the game of life.

I raced with fast women.  I raced with fast toys.

Wherever I went I made lots of noise.

I lived half dead to lead the pace of the boys,

Even good girls gave into my ploys.

Many times now I turn my head to forget,

How far away I was from knowing what’s best,

My head was a brick and fate was for the rest,

All I thought real was a misguided mess.

I carry a novel upon my face,

Whose lines tell of times my memory erased,

Light from my shadows assure it wasn’t a waste,

Gone if I hadn’t taken the time to taste?

I’m no longer alone when I play King of the night,

And despite my skin’s poetry I’m still able to fight,

With a wiser head for knowing what’s right,

I realize now my hand, in the game of life.