Hidden in the darkest reaches
of a mind bursting with plans
and schemes; dreams that you never had the heart
to start expressing, lest you show your hand
and your soul. Lest you loose control.
In the end you stayed within.
Over the years, it was a sin
to really deny your true vision, wishing you could reach
the masses without being an ass or classless dolt out of control
of emotions you never felt comfortable showing. Your plan
to stay silent failed miserably when your hand
took pen to page, opening a vein directly to your heart.
You had the words and the heart
but weren’t sure where to start; where to begin.
Your decision to ply your hand
with the brand of poetics that would pull you out of the breech
sounded like an outrageous plan.
But it was a salve to soothe an aching soul.
So you were given control
to dispatch your words as sparks of the heart,
an inferno brewing, stewing within this man
and releasing the man within.
No star too far, no meteoric rise out of reach,
no thought held too long within hands
longing to be free of the burden. A poet’s hands
holding the power to move and cajole,
to elicit a smile or groan, any guttural moan, to reach
someone else’s senses. To touch their hearts.
And so it starts. Words are merely words when sequestered within.
They become the guiding light when allowed to shine. Any man
or woman seeking to be free must first release these fears as this man
has. Take your words and destiny into your hands
and disperse every wild notion of thought, the din within
your own expressive mind. Find your voice and take control.
Rip open your soul and rend your heart.
Shout “Free at last, free at last…” to all within reach.
The plan has always been to reach
every heart with a tender hand
by wresting control of the poet within.
(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2015
***POETIC ASIDES WITH ROBERT LEE BREWER – PROMPT 295: “FREE”
A print of Rockwell’s work tattered and grease stained
and drained of all color; faded and showing years of use.
Not from abuse, but from a homage to a bygone age.
When all the rage is Christmas in October, you open
the hearth of home one last time, a reminder that
everything your parents ever worked for was instilled
in your own best efforts. To provide a roof, and warmth;
food and clothing and beholding to no one but your own
dignity and fortitude. It would be rude to take a hand
from one more deserving. Grandmother, with her better
half by her side sliding the golden brown bird before
and adoring family. “Freedom From Want” it declares,
and there’s the rub.. Everyone wants to their own degree.
But I see what home used to be and this need to be free lingers.
Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 26 – Free____/____ Free