Doubt

Words. Words.
What is the point of words, when they can mean so much or just as little?

You. Yes you.
You are the one, who has me doubting.
Doubting your meaning.

And how?
How can I know right from wrong,
when I can hardly tell right from left?

Why?
Why do you talk so?
Why do I think so?
Say so. Do so. Please me so.

Poem: Time

At times, I think I see the minute hand a’ticking.
At others, it seems one hundred seconds sticking.

Some days, the second hand beats more rapidly than my heart.
The two begin to race,
until one tears them apart.

Many days I’ve wished I could turn time backward.
Others, to simply hold it still.

But try as I might, such is my plight,
time does not bend to my will.

Dedicated to Sue J.

Poem: Rot

I once was a good man,
and twice was bad.

It eats away.
So I fight the good fight,
but guilt is an enzyme
and try as I might;

I rot.

I once was a good man,
though now I am not.

It eats me up.
I strive to ascend.
But if I must try,
it will be to no end;

I am rotten.

I once was a good man,
but that man is twice forgotten.

I was never a bad man,
only was bad.

Bad could not feed me
fruits of our labour.
I died without sustenance,
only to rise like a Saviour;

still showing signs of rot.

I once was a whole man,
though now I am not.

An Ugly, Simple Man

With looks like yours, you could have
anything you want retrieved, if not achieved,
on your behalf.

And with looks like yours, you’d be told
what you wanted to hear, however insincere,
and promises made bold.

I’d rather be ugly, like I am.
I’d rather be an ugly, simply man.

And don’t argue with me,
I don’t want to hear it.
Don’t tell me I’m anything but ugly,
I just couldn’t bear it.

Don’t even tell me I’m average,
you don’t know the damage
that it would cause.
You couldn’t know the loss,
not as well as I.

See, I’d rather be ugly, like I am.
I’d rather be an ugly, simple man.

Poem: Make Someone Feel Good

Oh to feel that curve again,
to navigate that smoothest of terrain.

To touch the things I see behind my eyes,
To make someone feel good.

To drive and see that arch,
to savour every part.
To feel again and feel real again.
To make someone feel good.

To breathe that deep and primal breath,
to hold cold bones and warm flesh,
to make myself at home.
To feel that weight, moving to reciprocate.

To see real skin, stretched over shoulders and things.
To feel that breath before they die the little death.
To hear my heart beating
but know my brain is sleeping.

Oh to make someone feel good again.

Poem: Sweet Dreams

I have a friend,
who wishes me goodnight in these soft and simple terms,
Sweet dreams.

And every time she does,
my heart skips a beat
and grasps at that expression of kindness,
just to have something to cling to.

Sweet dreams, she says.
And for just one second, my reality is sweetened.

Poem: Flown

From the earliest age she had been taught to achieve, to be good at things.

Things like ballet, music, drama, art appreciation and above all, to be good at being a lady.

It was as thought all the literature in the world had passed before her parent’s eyes and yet something of its worth had been filtered out.

She loved them of course, she was proud of them.  An artist and an artist’s wife.  Yes that was the unavoidable issue, a woman defined by her husband’s worth, defined by her husband.  A woman’s worth denied by her husband’s worth, a woman’s worth denied by her husband.

And there she was, raised to accept, to embrace that way of life.  Yet she was about about to embark on something, an adventure.  One that might just break a lifetime’s learning. She smiled.

She frowned then, imagining what others would say to such a claim.

She cast her mind through various friends and family members,  there were those who would scorn the idea, those who would laugh and even some that would scold her for thinking at all.

But now she banished these thoughts, for such thoughts of others and thoughts of doubt were exiled from her new self.  She was new, after all she had flown.