Poetry

 

paint my picture


Walking a city street one early Sunday morning,
I noticed a weathered man sitting on a stool.
He worked quietly as he painted a nearby woman watering flowers

I stood watching him meticulously do his craft.
He soon glanced my way, his dull grey eyes mapping my surface.
Then came a crooked smile on his face as he asked,
Can I paint your portrait sir, your seasoned look summons my brush?

Mister can you paint my picture the way I use to appear?
For the years have eroded my view, inside and out.
The harsh patina that you see, runs all the way through.
And now, I cannot remember the way I was.

I am told by those who are supposed to know,
My head was held high and full of possibility,
My eyes beamed with sparkle and passion,
And my confidence cast the widest glow.

But this was long ago and may not be true,
For the years have eroded my view, inside and out.
The harsh patina that you see runs all the way through.
And now, I cannot remember the way I was.

So, I ask, mister can you paint my picture the way I use to look?

The old painter starred my way, locked in a thinking state.
After some time, he finally replied,
My stroke can no longer seize the young and bold,
For the years have eroded my view, inside and out.
The harsh patina that you see, is now all my brush can render.


three seasons

We are all born with three seasons to live
Some will survive two and few but one
But those that are lucky, will occupy all three

The first is grand
Filled with discovery and lust
For answers, for experiences, for excitement, for love
Our superhuman bodies weather the fight
Our misdeeds are quickly forgiven
Our future is still a distant picture
We manage to live large, with little in our pockets
Finding our way, birthing our path

Season two comes upon us suddenly
By force or self-inflicted, regardless
The weight of responsibility and sensibility
Burdens our body, checks our freedom
Our routine begins, our lust dulls
Needs and wants and happiness mutate
Living with little in our pockets, now robs our comfort
Our future must be planned and primed
Hard work becomes our daily grind
For without this, season two will be an eternity
The years will pass, our bodies become breakable
And we will never see season three

Though if done fittingly, our reward is the third
Filled with discovery and lust
For answers, for experiences, for excitement, for love
Our pockets are bountiful, and we live large
Our youth is long gone, but the wine has aged well

the world needs another poet

Some say,
All the good poets have come and gone.
Say this isn’t so,

For our world needs another poet

One who will see those who cannot be seen
One who will listen to those who cannot be heard
One who will speak for those who cannot speak

One who’s imagery will be grasped by the naive
One who’s wisdom will be fathomed by the oblivious
One who’s brilliance will move the steadfast

One who’s pen will conquer injustice, oppression, bigotry
One who’s pen will purge hate, greed, fear
One who’s pen will fuse the disparate

For our world needs “this” poet.

Some say,
There is a poet yet to be discovered, one who will change the world
Say this is so.




lines

Blood lines, family lines, no lines

Blood lines define our pedigree.
Perhaps important for dogs, horses, bluebloods, and their wannabes. 
But do blood lines make us who we are?

Family lines define our connections.
Those we love, cherish, trust, and lend our time.
But do family lines make us who we are?

No lines make us who we are. 
We are what we make of ourselves.
Shaped by experiences, tugged at by our thoughts, revealed by our actions

Erasing the who am I?
Stating the who I am.
Only then, will we be.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *