Your style —
Demeaning others and their ways,
intermixed with doubts
and insecurities about your day:
what a balance that must be,
to see and focus upon misery.
Try to love for 2015 —
Not the bratty kind of condescension,
no: love first your aging body,
steadily losing worth
as far as ogling eyes can see
but toughened with victorious scars
that discerning minds will read.
Discerning minds will love you more,
I guarantee, than ogling eyes ever could.
I admit to a weakness I am currently working on: cultivating compassion instead of disdain for others’ self-loathing or need for attention/compliments. A common weakness (who likes insecure people?), but that’s beside the point. Kindness is a good gift to cultivate. We must abandon excuses that enable us to be lesser versions of ourselves in order to make progress. If others are unwilling, that’s got nothing to do with your own progress. Never forget that.
So much of fate awaits,
possibilities — of fear
or thrilling stories told
in our character’s destiny.
So turn the page then,
or else close the book,
and shelf away the fantasy;
but if an ending either way,
why not pen audaciously?
2015 can be a big year. One can focus on the opportunities, or on the fear of losses. It’s hard to be the best at anything when fearing losses.
A newer world was always there
from just beyond your vision,
that closing eyes, attending ears
can capture in precision —
A world of colors just as bright
as daylight break upon the window,
and somber as a rain-filled night,
or ecstatic in crescendos.
And fast it flows like passing years
between a first love’s memory,
or tempered and in grace precise
a playful wandering-mind melody.
This newer world was always there
in nature, or in us, to hear.
The best part about being home is friends and family. The worst is having so little productive work done…
Foolish — All it ever was,
a forward-reaching hand
unseized, as yours to her
was not the hand in need,
however right or wrong.
Foolish then, be strong,
leave the palm presented:
your warmth and actions,
not her choices, cultivate
your heart’s compassion.
Some day, all I can do is write some cheese. But it’s a good self-reminder: we should do good because we want to, even if it’s not appreciated. Foolish always, but even fools have admirable and redeeming qualities.
As over as can be,
the final wisp of smoke,
a candle light no more,
a forgetfulness endorsed.
A love it never was,
but affections linger on,
a loneliness in wanting,
when conversation’s gone.
My birthday and a new year approaches. Newness is great – I do miss our conversations though.
That voice spoke to you once,
reverberating off those hallowed walls
as clasping hands and pulpit knees
sought the wisdom in those hymns.
And just like that, as if a whim,
that voice has ceased to be — slowly,
those beautiful melodies you adore
faded from importance, until
reverberating off those hallowed walls
are members shuffling ’round, kindred
of this all too human place.
I suppose it’s all too fitting to reflect on one of the more momentous changes of a life on a night that used to hold such importance. What more to say, and more importantly, to whom?
Just any minute now,
and the year that began ends —
goals and promises half-done
sat piling in your closet,
where good intentions
wait so patiently. Next year —
next year you tell yourself,
knowing just as well
the only difference then
from now is renewed hope.
But if hope meets opportunity, a little effort can make for a large outcome.
The quiet home was not the same,
an older man now making visits,
and sensing work still to be done,
must quickly pack and exit.
It was there his soul once played,
puzzled by the drained adults,
until one day, he joined ranks,
and understood it all.
For they would fall and stumble,
yes, even they the strongest,
and given all their extra years
still retain much ignorance.
Yet they smile all the same
to make a childhood delightful,
though exhausting it may be
and the future sometimes frightful.
The quiet home has always been,
as the older guards had kept it,
and knowing work still to be done,
must carry on before their exit.
Life doesn’t get easier, but it can always get more meaningful. Perhaps that is enough.
Oh her different shades of hair,
the cloaks of soul’s nobility,
each silken strand enhanced
by the autumn qualities —
Of golden rays to brighten sky
and call to dreamers of the young,
to humble earthy browns with curls
ushering this lowly poet on —
With dabbles at the tip faint reds,
the sign of skilled enchanting,
the highlights for a hint implied
between the slyest bantering.
Oh how her different shades of hair
invoke the summer’s breath,
that deep in lifeless, winter white,
can provide a warm glow yet.
Inspired by the most serendipitous bantering.
The last sip finished far too quick
for a conversation still too young,
and the hours drift too fast
when bantering in youthful fun.
Another round of lattes then?
I asked if you’ve known love —
Here’s to our sleepless night
and confessions of two hearts.
2014 is almost over. I guess it’s time to start thinking about next year’s theme for my life. Love isn’t a bad choice for being 26.