Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Bay Morning in Stereo

to my left
the sound
of birdsong
to my right
the voice
of a child

i open my eyes
to the warm breath
of the rising sun

in the distance
a dark speck
upon the water
becomes a
creature
seeking
sustenance
in the depths
captured
by starfire
upon the
waves

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

the shadow knows

sometimes i feel like
i am a shadow of
who i once was
captured by memories
of the lives i have lived
remnants of songs sung
play on in my head
and i want to push them
out again into the
light of day

it is difficult
to remain in the shadows
to wrestle with what
is ego and what is call
what to dream of
what to let go
to wait for the summons
and still stay awake
and open to the voice
that speaks in
bright riddles
of silence

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

I have come to the conclusion that there isn’t one.

I have come to the conclusion that there isn’t one.

My wanderings,
whether night dreams
of familiar faces
or morning walks
in a new neighborhood,
always seem to lead
me in a circle.

I enter
the cul-de-sac
and return the
way I have come,
still talking to the sky,
whispering the same prayers
past the aspen groves,
my longings like the
silver leaves
glistening in the wind.

Yet somehow
on the journey,
a small something
has been made
complete
in me.

July 8, 2019

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Exocoetidea

Lately,
I have felt
so much like
a fish out of water,
awkward in situations,
lost from who I am,
flopping on a strange
spit of sand,
struggling
to breathe.

This morning
it came to me like
the ruby-throated
hummingbird suddenly
appearing before me
on the wind
that perhaps
I have been cast
from my familiar seas
to grow wings
and become
a fish that
flies.

July 19, 2019

Posted in Musings

Depression 1.13 – The 8 Slash 6 Cylinder Man

I have come to the conclusion that I fire on six cylinders.

The issue is that I am an eight cylinder man.

I can’t remember the last time I was firing on all of them.

They aren’t knocking yet, but it’s just a matter of time. There’s a lot of miles, hard ones, on the odometer.

It’s a wonder six are still firing. It makes it rather miraculous that I can make it through the day, let alone accomplish anything.

It seems I am pulling off on the side of the road to doze more often now. My mind knows where to go. I am just so tired and it takes so much fuel to figure out how to get there.

Others race by. Their exhaust exhausts me. Death is the end to this race. Why try to get there quicker?

Elegiac grips me until my mind spins.

Lethargy holds me down.

I am captured between the two, racing, yet going nowhere.

I am a six cylinder body with an eight cylinder mind.

Come close and you will catch the faint scent of burnt oil.

Posted in Musings

Depression 1.8 – The Lie of Being Alone

Elegiac is a liar.

It tells me that it should be my only companion.

That I am alone.

Even in the midst of friends or in the arms of my lover, I am the hollow man. There is no warm heart beating inside my bone chested cage.

I exist in the land of numb.

How quickly the lie of being alone is compounded by other untruths until I am spinning, sliding down the slippery slope, in tune to the grinding chuckling of this wraith at my ear.

It whispers that I am the only one who is broken.

That there are no other hands to hold me or feet to walk with me.

That God does not know me.

That I am not fearfully and wonderfully made.

Until I shut my ears to the mocking beak, look up from myself, and find that I am surrounded by love.

Posted in Musings

Depression 1.2 – The Loudspeaker in my Head

I misspoke.

Elegiac is not always silent. Often I find that I have begun again to pay attention to its whisperings in my inner ear.

They are so subtle.

Yet the words resound loudly within, reverberating against Id’s fragility. They feed the loudspeaker of negativity in my head.

I am pretty hard on myself. I set impossibly high expectations and tumble to the inevitable crash when they are not reached. My mind cycles through the litany of what ifs.

I stand outside myself and critique my latest interaction. Did I mispeak? Why did I act like that? Why I am not where I think I should be?

I was not good enough.

I am never good enough.

I cannot let what happened simply be.

I have confused discontent with stagnancy.

I am not gentle with myself.

My dreams have become a weight upon my soul.

I am, as Langston described, a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.

Posted in Musings

Depression 1.1: The Creature on my Shoulder

I have always liked ravens.
Not because of a certain Poe-m or its iconic phrase.
It is not that.
I have admired their black bodies’ flashing hues, sparkling eyes, cackling conversations in the spinning trees above me as I step out into the clinging fabric of another day.

The one that sits on my shoulder is silent.
Even on good days, it is there, a shadow just on the edge of my vision.
I sense its weight, shifting ever so slightly when I move my heavy arms to the task at hand.

We are reluctant companions at best.
It could fly away I think, remove its talons from my clavicle and seek after some shiny thing.
What I mean is that it is not hindered by broken wings.
Somehow it has chosen me.

When you see me, you would not know.
I am generally social, of good humor, articulate.
This creature sitting next to my molasses head is not visible to you.
But if you come closer, perhaps you will catch just a glimpse out of the corner of your eye.
And in the days ahead, I will try to introduce you to my familiar.

Its name is Elegiac.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Forecast

it is not that i have nothing to write
it is that i have too much

i have not known where to begin

the words have appeared within like leaves in a sudden spring
the trees are full

thunder breaks the silence
the sky fills with pregnant clouds

i await the wind