Matins

What thoughts endeavor to pierce the brain

as we keep watch in the darkling night,

the slumbering stillness

of the breath held

until the stars blink and yawn, stretch,

and fade with the lightening sky.

 

While the earth waits and shadows play games,

visions of past wrongs accuse,

demand justice: atonement or forgiveness,

and peace comes on the horizon

by light or by blood.

 

*Had a completely different poem enter my head but I was caught in the middle of something and couldn’t write it down right away. The only line that I kept was “by light or by blood”. I was thinking of a story I heard about the Crusades, how the men would keep watch in the night before battle and other similar stories. I then had a memory of someone telling me long ago that matins was a version of that (to keep evil from coming in the night) and my brain correlated that with depression. Many is the time I have battled my thoughts in the dark and with the dawn sleep came, and a small semblance of peace. But there were times when, in the darkest point of the night, that I thought I wouldn’t make it. By light or by blood; life or death.

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Learning To Dance

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Holding back,

watching them, watching us

fighting to try, to see beyond the pain,

marking the line in between

waiting for the first to make a move

we begin only to stop for the rain.

 

Then they come, demons on the wind,

and we crouch with shields above

as the dead on cold ground are lain.

Thunder roars and we meet them,

blood pounding in our veins,

and so we begin learning how to dance

in the rain.

 

Voices ignored as men drown out,

their Lilliputian minds closed to the sun

we defend them, too,

though cases reversed we’d hang,

but we still have to try to hold back the flood

until our dying breaths say “we’re done”.

 

For freedom means more than miniscule men,

and someday they’ll realize we did this for them,

with nothing more than liberty our gain

we tried to teach them how to dance in the rain.

Freedom from fairytales

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Freedom from fairytales
If all we are is shadows
And stardust waiting to return
We never need fear being
Spellbound
And can revel in the freedom
Of our disenchantment.
No call on us to heed
A single second’s breath
We are alive, we live
So what? Is death
The end of everything
We wished for
Or is it simply
Unbeing? Returning
To the ashes and dirt
We came from
Before we learned
To rub those into our wounds
And make them worse.
Is it release,
When hope and pain are over?
Our breath will cease
To matter to what remains
And those we leave behind
Can take our stories
Find the plot-holes
And leave us in peace.

 

With big thanks to poetry-channel-supreme, Jackie Coiffa, whose poem ‘Shadow People‘ inspired this.

Angry Kettles

 

Angry, blistering, snarling,

My kettle needs attending to,

It is screaming for my attention.

 

Inside it boils skin-burning

Frustrations

“Pour me out!” it cries,

Steam pouring from the only escape route.

 

I hurry to stop its ear-piercing screech,

Unsure of what it says about me…

Am I alleviating its pain?

Or assuaging my own?

 

*No pic today to go with this. Letting it speak for itself.

Tempest

despair

Big grey clouds are covering my skies lately. Every so often there’s a

break where the sun shines through but then,

too quickly,

the clouds eat it up again. I’m flailing here.

I don’t know what to do,

so all I can do is simply sit

and wait until the storm begins and, then,

ride it out.
It’s tiring, this waiting.

I try to build up a sand-bag partition because

I know it will flood

but the bags are so heavy and I tire from the work.

Besides, it’s just sand in the bags. One rip and it all washes away

and the water will still continue to trickle through. Or else,

the sand will absorb only so much of the water and then that’s it.

It can take no more.

Maybe I’m the bag of sand.
Sometimes I’m the water,

threatening to rage across the land,

devour everything in my path. I could, you know; it wouldn’t be hard.

Drown everyone and everything so that nothing’s left

but me and my misery.

Then slowly I’d recede back to the nothing I came from and

we’d begin again.

Start fresh;

let the green things take over.
Maybe I should let the flood overtake me.

Let it fill my lungs and drive the air from my body.

That’s what it wants to do.

Drowning couldn’t hurt more than this

power struggle between us every day.

Blood sacrifices were sacred, once upon a time, and,

God knows,

I’ve bled gallons that dripped into

this salt-water Niagra my tears created.
But I can’t do that.

Instinct forces me up to fight

(I’ve never been much good at flight),

so here I am

building up the wall again

as I wait for the storm to burst.

 

*therapy writing today using poetic medicine. It does your emotional health good.