Of these questions recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless
wondering about existence with persistence
and resolve, trying to solve the mysteries, failing;
mired in thoughts profound, that surround
in a confused fog, a lone dog chewing on life’s flavored bone. Alone;
Of eyes that crave the light
of each new day, of each new idea,
of every struggle, the brilliance of wisdom glowing;
Of every poor result left to fester,
of the sullied crowds plotting
allotting me to surrender without recourse;
Of the empty useless years, no rest
on this life quest when I acquiesce to this folly,
no jolly expression left unpunished, unfinished;
Of the terrible doubt
that lingers with words left to languish in these fingers
poetic verses worsen as time passes, thoughts amassed and sequestered;
Of the uncertainty of what life remains
to offer to fill the coffers of one left bankrupt of ideas,
of ideals, of the feeling of relevance and some semblance of honor;
Of day and night awash in memories lost
of doubtless apparitions holding answers to questions unasked
or pondered, wonders of the world we possess and caress with our words;
Of course, nothing comes from nothing
and should nothing become something, we will dream and fly,
an eye on future tomorrows, of joys and sorrows;
Of the visages of things that bring into focus
what hearts envision; of piercing through every heaven,
every hell and the ability to tell the difference;
Of the ugliness of men to cast aspersions one upon the other,
making sister and brother enemies of that hated state.
Return to the sacred plate of communion, a blessed union of souls;
Of life recurring?
Of Leaves of Grass and such!
© Walter J Wojtanik – 2020
Inspiration drawn from Walt Whitman’s works – Leaves of Grass, O Me! Oh Life!, Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances, Of the Visage of Things
And so I continue!
This is my poem.
These are my words.
This is the time of night
where sleep beckons. I sit
fingers to keyboard on a silent eve.
This is my shirt; it has no sleeves.
It is as black as night,
or a chalkboard if you erase it.
Or blue if it’s really dark;
sometimes black looks like blue
when it’s really dark.
This is me and that is you and together
we are we, but never wee, for hearts in love
are so big as to hold it all.
You are as short as I am tall
and I continue to fall for you every time my rhyme
has you in it. So I begin it,
and then I continue. This is my poem.
These are my words, you are my muse.
I choose you to be, but that’s just me.
It always comes back to that!
(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2019
Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer – Prompt #481 – Pick a writer