PHYSICIAN HEAL THYSELF

I’ve been given a wonderful gift,
I have been presented with an extraordinary
opportunity. And in the unity of a writing
community, I am bolstered to holster
all fears and trepidation and feed on the
elation of this moment. I am a poet.
A writer who’s gift had been left in it’s
plasticine covering for fear it gets ruined
like grandma’s divan in the room
only used for important company.
Or wakes. It takes the support of like
cohorts and believers to stave off deceivers,
purveyors of doubt and negativity of sort
as you cavort through blank pages to pen
that which, again and again haunts you.
Now the chance to flaunt your talent
and you word skills that will make or break you.
It’s taken you forty years to become
the overnight success you’ve dreamed of being
and now you’re seeing the forest AND the trees.
But she’s determined to break you, to take you
from what you love and shove it up your ass.
Her style and class were checked at the threshold.
She’s sold you on the idea that your worth
is worthless in your pursuit. But you refute it.
You know one fact to be true. A writer writes.
All the battles and fights waylaid and splayed
in spatters across your life has prepared you
for nothing but this: The only way to fix it, is fix it.
There are people who believe in you and won’t
leave you hanging to gain nothing. Friends love
your work and you. You’re through with
being kept down. That perpetual frown needs
an upturn; you live and learn. No more left
on dusty shelves. Writer, Heal Thyself!

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge – Day 13 – Self-Help

DEEP REST

Sadness, like a great weight
draws downward and your fate, although
not sealed, feels so.
And when you fall so low, nothing
can make your sad heart sing;
there’s no gladness to bring you hope,
only that downward slope.
No ambition; you mope around
clutching to this profound
sensation which confounds your mind
and it is then you find
just one way to unwind. You sleep.
The only way to keep
from going off the deep end, friend.
It’s in the very end
Your brain chooses to send a test.
Accept and do your best,
Or resign to deep rest, depressed.

SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

It seems that sleep is elusive,
a sometimes thing that fights my will.
It’s disruptive and effusive;
but wide awake, the room is still.

I listen to the lack of sound,
a gentle respite all around.
The silence of the night soothes deep,
I do not hear it when I sleep.

WALK LIKE A MAN (Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons)

Striding, head held high,
a strong classic chin leading,
your breeding shows, and she knows it.
You smile, pearly whites, bright they are,
each a shining star in your oral galaxy.
Broad shoulders and a chiseled boulder
for a chest. You’re doing your best
to display the package; a knack you’ve had.
It doesn’t make you bad as you nod,
an acknowledgment to her passing.
A beauty in her own right, you fight
the urge to speak; a mysterious smile
guides your wile. You look back
and as she strolls away without fail,
you exhale. Your chest drops
as does your belly, lapping your belt
like a bowl full of jelly. Short and labored
is your breath as you struggle to retrieve it.
Who’d have believed it…that you still
thought that act would get you noticed.
You trudge away, another day in anonymity.

BEFORE THE STORM

How strangely still
the water is today.
Calm and tranquil, strangely still.

Clouds upon the horizon,
harbingers of things to come;
clouds obliterate the sun.

The air is cold; it chills,
winds stirring through the clearing.
Winds of change do not thrill.

How strangely still
the water is today.
Peaceful thoughts; I get my fill.

And then the clouds converge,
driven by gusts of icy breath;
a nasty dose of a late season surge.

Before the storm, it seemed quite warm.
How strangely still
the water was today. Such a rapid decay!

** Inspired by “Sea Calm”, by Langston Hughes

MEAN MR. MUSTARD

I ruled the world, you see,
and then the world ruled me,

a singing jester, a bloody fool,
one of those lads from Liverpool.

We came to America, land of the free,
but as our music grew, it stifled me.

My choice of partners made a stir,
and the world had come to ravage her.

But we made a home and found our place,
without all that screaming in our face,

to settle into a life of seclusion,
and perpetrated this fantastic illusion.

So a glad house husband I became
while Yoko worked to make her name,

and I, a Beatle, husband, dad,
was happy in the life I had.

But music, still my love and passion,
had lured me in a rhythmic fashion,

to feed this “Double Fantasy”
and brought the world right back to me.

But, a yellow-bellied bastard made his name
by stealing someone else’s fame.

Mark my words David, he was a mean Chap, man,
couching there with a steady hand,

I sang that, “Happiness Is a Warm Gun”
“Mr. Lennon?” bang-bang, shoot, shoot. I was bloody done.