Tag Archives: self portrait

Amidst this city’s bustle,
peace, itself, comes in shadowed waves
between the pulse of traffic signals
and above the white noise din it craves.

Yet in the late night hour,
when season’s moon is hushed and full,
summer’s heat brakes the riot
and lays it down in lullaby’s lull.

In these eternal moments,
singular prints of traffic drone
a pinpoint at my ear’s horizon,
gently whir until it’s gone.

The alleyway draws into
the dissonant purr of a window fan,
scuttled only for an instant
by the pattering squeak of the mouse that ran.

The park side pond grows rich in chorus
with bullfrogs’ songs of rich delight,
as quaking moonlit shadowed elms
whisper motion and move the light
of such a season’s moon.

This peace here found is rarely known
beyond the midnight lunch break clan,
but in this hush the city shows
the fabric true beneath its stand.

I’ve come accustomed to this bench
in city park where night-shifts lunch.
Does grant a peace for a weary soul.
Does bless me what I need so much.

There is a ‘coon that visits me
at half past twelve, each night it’s clear.
Begs a nut or M&M
and stands a yard away to hear
me speak of all the daily woes,
of bills and taxes and political rants,
listens to my thoughts of love
and will sometimes watch me dance…

He comes alone as if a pact
we’ve made is to be honored.
He waits in gentle repose, kind,
until our time this peace has garnered
just what our souls so need.

And as my duties call me back,
he too unto his duties heeds.
I close my lunch pail with a smile
and thank the night for this peace indeed.

The moonlight melds to sodium light
as through the alley I return
to task and job and this city’s beat
with a kinder frame of mind so earned.

Upon the waves of city’s hustle
there comes a giving peace,
that if you look between the hours
you’ll find a bit of sweet release…

Subtle waves of rapture roll o’er my earthly crown, granting peace as moments strained resolve into the sound of sighs caught at the work day’s end, as tired defeat stirs sweet relief, so whispers to my driven heart, “it’s more that I bequeath”…

Reflection on the long day done sees little to behold, just more of what was faced this morn’, tomorrow still, one more day old, and sold to what the pressures force, built amongst the plies, yet glue’s what I commence to bring to weld the mis-laid “whys”…

So herein my experience brings journey to the flailing, returns them home with guidance born upon their moves so failing.  But I, alas, renounced to push, defined to lead the stray across their inexperience in hopes that they might stay one ounce of tacking knowledge acquired to their line, yet grateful in contention stand within the hope of being kind.

Frustration burdens hard the yoke experience grants to tow, yet won in victories triumph, holds the strength of what I know.  “It’s more that I bequeath”…  yet failing chords of unheard words, point to greater self-relief, lost in phrases wayward herds.  I pray my past finds refuge in the hands and minds of some who care, that they may know the secret and my burden with me share.

I rise form lengthened moments’ bindings
where duty’s penance scolds me.
I rise to grapple pleasure’s windings
and pay with peace of mind for thee…
for thee, my pen, who counts as friend
my blotter’s adept taming,
who from your harshest scrawling rends
the truth without a shaming
pool of India’s shade.

Our subtle struggle finds it mark
between the rush of blood and haste,
that bends the quill to matters dark
imbibing in the frozen taste
that surety tinged with pallor,
that turned the wine from blood,
that wrote to claim heroic valor
of the throngs of dead left in the flood,
and there we acquiesce in trade.

O! Angels come to save this heart!
O! Come to turn this page!
Kindly cast a blessing’s start
that steals the sweetness from the rage
that slaves between the pen and pulp
suspended twixt my mind and hand!
O! Push the pride of pen to gulp
the essence of this dream so grand!
Please guide the wounded hidden proof!

At last the peace resounds in song.
At last the echo finds its mates.
Cut across the injured page
in long and sweetest strokes it states,
“Herein my soul in truth belongs
to what a moment’s freedom gains,
that passion for the perfect song
is sealed in treaty’s loving stains
and partnership of truth,
that from the wetted pen stems youth
and from the blotter age!”

A note beyond the alto’s range,
a secret passed but not the same
as what was so intended.
A thermal carrying eagles high
but falters short to bring them nigh
of what their souls expected.

A river flowing though the thaw
beneath the ice that holds its call
from ever being heard.
A sparrow dreaming of the flight
that brings his spirit to such heights,
yet such denied the bird.

These are the dreams I dream within
my captive spot and holding den,
and in such tease me more –
And so I watch from eyes that plead
to go beyond just what I need
before I reach that fateful shore –

A daisy on a mountain grown
amidst the granite so in sewn
and denied the earth to flourish there.
A salmon on her way to home
upon a rock by fate so strewn
and so denied her purposed care.

A full moon glimpsed behind the cloud,
so to the night is left in shroud,
so fails a night of love.
A heavy cloud without the rain
denies the summer’s parched hot plain
so presses heavy from above.

A hope, a glimpse beyond the now
that shines a light upon the “how”
a life anew might rise again.
A truth, that when it’s laid to rest
releases what is second best,
yet denies the strength to win.

It is these things I see in life
that paint the hope within the strife,
that hold the hands just out of reach,
that paint the colours through a bleach
of what is wanted most.

A hope, a dream, maybe a ghost –
or just what’s meant to be –
I pray to live enough to see…