Musings and Reflections

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Poetry is Simple

Poetry is simple Emotions in words Buried within the heart It doesn’t need to be difficult Or immersed in flowery words Just speak your truth Those emotions of love You know, That love that cracks the heart Not breaks Just cracks Enough to let the tears flow Into the depths of the soul

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Jacobs Ladder

Loneliness within the crowds Jacob in the wilderness, stone for his head, God in his dreams, A ladder leading into the void The pulpit seems empty, Dreaming of God, As morning slowly brightens The yearning for truth beckons, He carries that stone Up that long ladder.

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Tired

The first line of Langston Hughes’ poem Tired; “I’m so tired,” aptly describes how I’ve been feeling lately. This past week has been especially difficult, watching as ICE shoots another innocent. In an almost comical Star Wars moment, ICE declares he wasn’t the illegal they were looking for, sort of like Obi-Wan: these are not the droids you’re looking for. Unfortunately, these agents don’t go…

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Free Range Writer

The sower sows his fields; he scatters seeds with abandon, not caring where they fall. I sit here awash in a sea of words, each one pressing in upon me as I write. A poem, an essay, a piece of personal prose- these are words that drift between the lines. There, within a simple sentence, a life begins like a prenatal being, not quite grown, still needing the freshness of imagination. Feeding on…

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When did I become a Traitor

When did I become the enemy? When did my thoughts become treason? He speaks in front of granite faces, On sacred lands of ancient peoples His words speak of my treason, That of not loving him more than freedom Not loving him above all others, A speech as venomous as the serpent Whose slick tongue convinced the other That they would not die eating that fruit, But die they did; the great…

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My Country Tis of Thee

My Country tis of thee Sweet land of liberty A class filled with us, Children of that Greatest Generation. Standing before the Stars and Stripes Reciting the national creed While fearing the scourge Of the red tide just outside, Duck under your desk, Count your blessings, But fear the other. This sweet land was made for us As we watched a man in a coonskin hat Beat down his enemies…

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An Ancient Glory

While browsing a bookstore in Galway, I came across the poetry section and could not help but pick up a couple of books. I just opened A Terrible Beauty: Poetry of 1916 and read one by Patrick Pearse, a leader of the Easter Rising. The first line of his poem, The Rebel, especially caught my eye; “I come to the seed of the people, the people that sorrow,That have no treasure but hope,No riches…

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Walking Among Us

Our last full day in Ireland, the last day to take in the sights and sounds, to be immersed in the life of this city. On the corners of the streets, the buskers sing, their music echoing off ancient stones. All along the strand, a diversity of humanity walks together, living together. Not all is harmonious; in a darkened stairwell lies the homeless person living rough, living in isolation, living…

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Letters

A boy, called a man In a hut, called a home Wrote a letter, to a girl Living far away, on a farm Honest letters Of hopes and dreams With truth in the words Planted within their souls That blossomed into love with roots running deep Into the soil they tended To drink from that well Of shared tears, In a world filled with fear, that love continues to grow In the new roots below.

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Jesus of the Disorganized

“As I have read the Gospels over the years, the belief has grown in me that Christ did not come to found an organized religion but came instead to found an unorganized one. He seems to have come to carry religion out of the temples into the fields and sheep pastures, onto the roadsides and the banks of the rivers, into the houses of sinners and publicans, into the town and the wilderness, toward…

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Black and White

I was thinking of my great-grandmother, whom I never knew, only through the stories my mother told me, whose three sons all fought in WWI. One of them, her eldest, was killed during the Somme offensive in 1915, and his body was never found. His name appears on two War Memorials: one in Theipval, France, and one in his hometown of Dukenfield, England. Black and white Is all she sees In the dark…

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A Poet Wrestles

I should write a poem But words won’t cooperate They fail to stay on the page they go and slip off Where to, they never say So here I sit Trying to wrestle a few of those words Saying, “if I can only pin them down” But I only hear them giggle Like kindergarteners at recess Or worse, like greased pigs Slipping and sliding Through the alleyways of my mind

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Good Enough

For so long, I’ve lived beneath the shadow of your not good enough. It’s a shadow that hangs heavy in the air, a place where breathing is hard and laborious. So I hid my writing, my poetry, my deepest, most intimate thoughts. I kept them locked away, only occasionally taking a peek at them when I’m alone. These are my thoughts, my words, and I can no longer hide beneath this shadow of “you’re not…

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Retirement Blues

Retirement, ahh, the word conjures up so many fantasies—long Mediterranean cruises or starting a winery, or something like that. The dreams are endless, finally the time to do what you’ve always wanted to do. Yes, retirement, don’t complain, at least you don’t have to work, you can do what you want, right? Retirement is standing in a queue, waiting and wondering, where did all these old people…

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Rivals

We’ve been watching the TV show, Rivals. Basically, it’s about two competing groups seeking to control what viewers watch on television, and the machinations behind the scenes. This show is not for the morally upright; there are plenty of sexual liaisons complete with nudity, but the underlying premise is about control. People, especially women, are not there to be loved; they are a means to an…

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Writing My Story

you can tell your story, you have the ability to write it, as long as your writing conveys emotional feelings—those deeply human and visceral elements—beyond just the sexual. It should express the raw emotions that drive our lives as we strive to understand the world around us. Music, poetry, or stories can resonate with something profound within me, sometimes bringing tears to my eyes or a…

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Summer

Running through fresh cut lawns, Feet baptized with morning dew, Free now to roam with green clippings clinging to our feet. No more clocks to watch, No more bound to desks. Freed from shackles of leather and cloth we head to the lake, Washing away the night’s debris, Holding hands as we dive headfirst Into the cool depths, Racing out to our special place Where magic happens with a…