It’s a cloudy evening here, and I’m sitting at my dining room table trying to decide what to send you. I’ve been working on the draft of my novel and researching the best microphones for podcasts and videos all day, which has honestly left me tired and dry.
So tonight, I’m sending you a few of the poems I’ve written in the past few weeks (or minutes). They’re raw. But poetry offers a way of processing things in ways normal sentences don’t really allow.
Enjoy. And thanks, as always, for reading.
Continuing The Streak
I don't know if it’s right
To let something go
When you doubt if
It’s any good at all.
Do I continue
The streak
Or do I wait
For something better to come to me?
Is it okay to breathe
At an overlook
When I have been running along
The trail for so long without
End?
Kept
I sometimes get lost
In the mystery of other—
Other people, other lives, other places to go.
I sometimes wonder
If it would be better not to be myself—
Have my weaknesses, my despairs, my grievances, my faults.
Often, I wander
Away, away.
I peer in at museums
Where lives are displayed
But never touched.
Often, I wonder
Why, how?
I sometimes wish
I could hold my heart in my hands—
Maybe it would keep, maybe it would stay, maybe then I’d be able to rule it.
I sometimes feel
Everything I have done is never enough—
Weakening, grieving, separating, divisive.
Often, I’m reminded
Of truth, of reality.
I peer at the pages
Where this is displayed
And within reach.
And there I know
Why, how.
shaking home
the rain approached,
a slow, gray curtain
against a slow, slate sky.
the lightning was horizontal:
a jagged finger accusing
the stark firs
of being still.
the timberline now dark,
the wafting leaves
rustled under the weight
of new pressure—and lo,
the bowler struck again.
slapped against the window,
the rain cried.
you are shaken
by the eaves, my dear little house.
but you have no need to be afraid.
though i see your bony structure
bow under the new pressure, lo!
the weight is not too heavy for you yet.
I seriously never thought poetry would be something I would actually enjoy. But hey, I also never thought I would be a writer. Or that I would enjoy writing at the dining room table. So. Take that as you will.
Seems like I’m seeing more of you through your poems. Thank you Morgan. Write away. Or is it “poem” away....