eeejay Poetry (38)

focus
I don't like that word
it doesn't even sound pretty
it's hard to make anything out of it
it sounds like what a cat does
when it's trying to take a shit
contorts faces
and induces
feelings of importance
leads down tunnels
leading to imagined fates
unfocused surrounding
are more conducive to
reflection
and not seeing what is hoped or wanted
unimaginable fates
for all its contradictions and lies
it is still what is there
indescribable
to demand logic
cause and effect
and truth
sense and meaning
and think that what you find
is yourself
is to focus
and all you do
is heal

the lying began in fear
taught to do what
all living things do
survive
it could be said that
each lie was a step toward
the end but
so is just living

to those of sad selfishness
the great tragedy may be
your fear of exposure
of wounds that never heal
allowing no possibility
for another beating
so long have you worn masks
so long have you etched them falsely
on your own heart
would you confide to
the bird who sings of joy in life
in hushed and broken tones
having forgotten words
and memories
and miss that in each note
is the whole dance
an image in the lake
is a tragic friend
for the wounded

given to me by elders
who feel they must leave something
just a little different
to have lived for something
a fragment of a leaf
on which is written my name
sold by those who felt the same
who knew not how to ask
where sorrow comes from
why you can't speak of it
and therefore live it
true the form taken
of a dozen few ones
worn by variations
of the same lung and shape
I saw a hundred mice in a lake
terrified of stomping feet
that made leaves fall
to fall was their fate
not one of them great

two snakes wound together
thought they were the
sunlight falling on their cracked warm road
laughing at unlit depths
we advise to burn
your name and not trust wind
our hopeless believer
did you see how they
wrote, hoped, dreamed
and didn't leave one thing
to remember
bought one word
a name
and now it's all they know

there must be a lesson here
so they all think

creeping headache
her cigarette
her virtue
blaze in
your direction and
further
an eyebrow states
it's much too late
to reconcile hopes and habits
gone like the smiling one
went out to dream in a field
but was lost among gravestones
given to know you
are just what you seem
she sighs at your plea
to drop her ash
lower her brow
and look closer

brothers
though I have few of you
I will tell you something
if you are young
you may be drawn
unable and unwilling
to her but
you can live without
ever having known her but
once you find one that
shows you her heart you can
no longer be what you
once were and
it is futile to try
and anyway
you won't want to
and it makes no difference
to her to leave you
altered

is this a place
for romance
or a place to talk
a place to heal
a place to complain

oh, I'm tired of writing poems today
just wondering how many are looking
or if they have someone
or don't want anyone

just curious
trying to get a feel for the place

I remember you
I think from somewhere
where beach and wood meet
it rained and rushed our day
it was one of the only times
you ever laughed
carelessness before it was externalized
you showed me a jar
its glass shone on your only peace
that night and forever on
I remember you
I think I always knew you
or was it
I remembered me
from your form
now only pictures
of things no longer real

I wonder if she feels a twinge of pain
when I think of her
sometimes she is a heartless thief
though somehow a soul
in all its beauty
for she only robbed what she gave
knowing that her eyes
will never have that same look for me
her heart's vulnerability
turned to stone
can that statue crumble in time
will the light of the long night wane
can we ever be
free again
once having known nothing but
each other's confines

before times changed
each gift was given
by those who thought possible
such things as now
fly away to be shunned

placed beyond reach
delicate gloved hands
parry the cold
out from the waves
on past blowing winds
people that once were saved
sell their outer shells

clouds go by the eyes
that used to stare restlessly
as their sun comes
so goes their rain
jaded memories like rainbows
once again
the thing thought unreal
lies wasted as false
prophetic words
maybe passive aimless wandering
through life's empty fields
will ply small treasures from the ground
will this one be seen or tripped on?
or thrown in the face
of the other eyes
that once found peace in clouds
all the same
their gray came from the soul behind them
and no sun can hide
their weariness
their resignation

There was once a blogger whose blogs were rich
In their potential for opinion generation
they were ahead of their time
and the blogging itself was of unparalleled artistry
Such discussion flowed from each and every observation
made by this master of the study of human nature
Though never formally trained
the blogger's insights were both new and bore a clarity
that was nothing short of stunning
However, one day he was in a horrible
motorcycle crash
and still to the present day
he is disabled
Through years of meditation
he gained the remarkable ability
to resume his ponderings
but the effort leaves him
emotionally and physically exhausted
in need of bed
and Alka-Seltzer
and unable to engage in the banter
that was so customary to follow
In short, his disability,
his commentlessness
leaves us all a bit
disabled in our own commenting
Remember him