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Anchor

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What weighs me down weighs naught at all.
Instead, it pulls me from my feet.
The ways I’m down aren’t ways at all
But an urge to admit defeat.
I wallow not in some dark pit
But in an endless sea replete
With crushing waves that don’t remit
And don’t allow me to retreat.

I tread and float upon the sea
With nothing but my strength and will.
There is nothing to tether me
Or that will make my floating still.
I am not content to survive
Waves larger than the tallest hill.
I will fight while I’m still alive
To buck this watery treadmill.

I will forge myself an anchor
Made of my wit and will and word.
I will twist a rope of my rancor
And all of the pain I’ve incurred.
My anchor will lodge in the deeps,
Stuck fast no matter how I’m stirred
By the wind, waves, and rain that sweeps
Away the rafts I once preferred.

 

Poison Drops

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These little drops of poison dew
Collect upon my heart.
These little drops are not from you
Nor did you make them start.

No, my dear, they have always been,
So do not shed a tear.
These poison drops feel lesser when
I can hold you near.

These drips have taken no small toll
But they are not a threat.
You need not worry for my soul,
Its strength is greater yet.

I will not lie or hide the pain
Poison drips can cause me
But worry not, they leave no stain
And are temporary.

They’re little remnants of my past
That will not go away.
They do not fall upon me fast
Nor do they overstay.

I’ve lived with them all of my life
And doubt they’ll ever cease
But they are to my wit a knife,
It’s sharpness to increase.

I’ve made my peace with poison drops,
Painful that they may be,
For I have pulled out all the stops
So they may work for me.

Tending a Garden

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I have planted countless thoughts in my garden.
Though many took root on their own,
Unminded and without attention,
More still are those I set in place
With all the tenderness of a mother
Caring for her first-born child.

I have tread the paths of my garden without end,
Watching the ideas shoot through the ground
Even as I continue to sow more.
Some shoots are plucked quickly,
“For the sake of the others” I explain,
And the remainder now flourish

Mighty now are the results of my labor,
Dappled shadow and bursts of color
Leave me in awe even as I know
That they will become greater still.
My life and path lie in their shadow
As I wait to see what they will become.

Moments of Quiet

Chris 2 Comments

It is these moments of quiet,
As my brain creeps toward sleep,
That keep me up at night.

The time before is calm and soft:
Full of lingering traces of all
I have accomplished that day
And everything I desire to do
When I wake on a brand new day.

The time after is strange and quick:
Full of half dreams lost to me
As soon as their story has ended
And small movements that feel fast
As my body begins to slumber.

During, though, there is only silence.
I am left with the darkness of my room
Mirroring a darkness inside of me
I can only manage to drive away
With things that would keep me from sleeping.

During these moments of quiet,
I am the captive audience of my fears
And every single thing that went wrong
During any day I can remember
Plus a few more I had once forgotten.

It is no wonder I do not sleep well
When I cannot bypass these moments
Without crashing from awake to asleep.

Lost Connection

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Dancing dots spin and whirl
As I fret and watch the screen.
Seconds tick and minutes pass
As I mourn what might have been.
Passcodes take too long to type
As I start to make a scene.
Why’d my phone have to shut off
As you started to come clean?

I swear I want to hear you out
As I quickly make my case,
But anger soon fills up your voice
Knocking patience out of place.
My words become lost in yours
And then vanish without a trace
Because your pain and questioning
Have left my answers with no space.

I sit and listen for a while,
Until I can take it no more,
Then I gently set my phone down
And think back to moments before.
That sudden sound of silence
As my stomach dropped through the floor:
I felt relieved that I’d not need
To put up with you anymore.

Fire and Peace

Chris 3 Comments

Here sit I, wrapped and stoic
In somber silence insoluble,
Painting prosaic pictures
On a dirty page so voluble
That it has become volatile.

My keyboard cries “calamity!”
Rocketing its reedy racket
Through thin and thankless seconds
Captured in a minute packet
And covered in an hour jacket.

Such soothing salacious sounds
Bring back bitter unbegotten barbs
That jibber, jabber, and jibe
uselessly against my wards
and all my other mental guards.

Plentiful and powerful peace
Is found and ferociously fenced
In the nearest nebulous neighborhood
To be kept as protection against
The encroaching ruin that is sensed.

Words fly like fast-falling fire
On volatile pages that, exploding, shatter
Rancorous raucous reality
And I leave in glorious clatter
Everything that’s supposed to matter.

Here sit I, wrapped and stoic
In fire and peace together,
The nascent nagging of necessity
Is felt like the prick of a feather
As I finally release my tether
And float in fictional felicity
Where I will not care whether
This makes me idiotic or heroic.

I’ll Never Forget

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Writing serial fiction is much harder than I anticipated and this particular story is giving me trouble. Since I don’t have that to post yet, have a bright poem about smiles to counteract the miserable winter weather I’m experiencing.

A brief little flash, a proudly-worn curve,
A tentative quirk, a break of reserve:
A twist of the skin caused by a nerve
Is all that I need to blithely observe
The mark of spirit that’s always in style,
That which we so simply call a smile.

I remember much, at least as of yet.
Though places and names, reasons I’m upset,
My first loves, injuries, and childhood regret,
Are all things that I will likely forget;
I will never lose, no matter the while,
The sight of a face creased in a smile.

My Words

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My words are precious to me:
Little puffs of warm air
That I constantly heat
By clutching them tight
To my chest and heart
Even when they grow too hot
And burn my hands
As they attempt to flee.

My words are few and quiet
When they are voiced at all:
Hoarded and groomed until
I am certain they are ready
For whatever task is at hand,
Yet they remain fragile things
That cannot be used again
Once I have let them go.

Many words are worth little
While few words are worth much:
Communication is expensive
But can be bought with either,
While understanding is expensive
And drives a hard bargain–
Often requiring many words
That had once been counted few.

My words are worth more to me
Than any amount of money:
People say that words are cheap
And some, in fact, may be,
But I think words are the currency
People use to buy and sell
Ideas, emotions, and knowledge
In the market of civilization.

Most of the time, when I talk,
I use words that are not mine:
I wrangle words from the air
And let them pass through me
So that they sound like mine
But only on the surface
As my own words are too few
For mass communication.

My words are precious to me:
Little slivers of my soul
All bound up in breath
Like wisps of vapor in winter,
Puffing from my open mouth
As I move through the world
And do the very best I can
To share some of my warmth.

Two Lines on a Plane

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Today I met my soul mate.

There was no blinding light,
No deafening sound,
Just the washed out pale shine
Of sun through moody clouds
With the soft shuffle of shoes
And the susurrus of amiable voices
As we made our way to and from lunch

A quiet talk of no import
Stole my focus for long enough
To nearly miss what I found:
A pair of eyes aimed at me
In which I saw myself reflected.

Never before have I seen eyes
That look out at the world
The same way that I so often feel:
A passenger along for the ride
Whose interest lies in seeing all
And feels no shame in just looking;
Confined to an inadequate room
With only two windows to serve
As portals to the rest of existence;
Curiosity unhindered by practicality
And hungry to learn everything
That the world has to offer.

Eyes that looked out at the world
And all of the people who passed by
The same way I often stare
As I walk through my days,
Eyes that saw me the same way
That I have seen so many others,
Eyes that looked at me and wondered
What story there was to tell beyond
The space I occupied along their path.

Seconds passed as I took them in,
Step followed step as I saw
Eyes I never dreamt I’d see
In a face so different from my own
And I wasted my voice on idle chatter
While hoping my eyes would meet these.

Eyes that moved passed me.

Eyes that I’ll never see again.

 

Twenty-Six Lines

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Dearest friend and oft-times mentor,

I apologize for the lateness of the hour,
But I’m writing this note from my lover’s bower
(Which should explain the particular artistry
I’m using to write this bit of poetry)
And could not help my mind but turn toward you
As I consider the New Year and what I’ll do
With my regained health
And stronger sense of self.

Though my attention has been scarce of late,
It has not escaped my notice that still you wait
On my promises of impending time
Which all wound up going toward my climb
Out of those depths all dark and heavy and blue
Instead of all the things I promised we would do
When I would tell you how
I did not have time right now.

Thank you for your patience touring my tribulations,
Your kindness has helped keep whole my foundations
While I work on the process of rebuilding
And now I am eager to do your bidding.
So let us make up for all the time that was lost
And you need no longer worry about the cost.
Now I’ve strengthened my will
I can cover the bill.

With ceaseless thanks and gratitude, your friend.
P.S.
All that I have to add
As I read this in review
Is that if you had the thought
That this poem was about you
Then you, friend, should be proud
Because that thought is likely true