I have never tried to write a poem, at least it rarely happens. My process is just being open and ready and the poem just appears. Usually, they take no more than 20 minutes, including editing. Having written more than 4,100 pages of poetry in the last four years, if I read back it is evident that my expression is a record of my then thinking. Subjects come and go but the emotions and feelings that come with them are like an affirmation of how I’m feeling at the time. Hope you enjoyed these renderings….
Our Human Sight
Suspended in a cosmic void,
a sentient mind employed to rationalise
can but project like a windblown tree
before the breeze,
and no manner of surmise
can attribute truth with time,
beginnings and ends to satisfy.
I feel those eternal rays of radiation,
as I watch gaseous clouds and dying suns
accost my machinations,
but still, no answers come
amid this glittering starry compromise
as passing meteors and spinning planets arise
over desolate horizons.
The sky so clustered with life beckons,
and whispers in soft and seductive tones
the secrets held, the plethora of stories to tell
yet far from reach,
as I, a point of query and nothing more,
explore a haze of possibilities
that so confound my mind.
I love the vast eternal night,
filled with visions of ethereal light and form,
in purple gradients so subtle,
gems of light within the night’s revelry
pervade my dreams
and deliver me to futures brighter,
with beauty’s heart within our human sight.
A Perilous Shore
The rise of thought like a sky-bound mist
assails consciousness to envision,
and only a few are chosen,
as like endless waves lap our shores
to meld back into a sea of possibility.
Some like storms are grasped
with anticipation, others simply let go,
and as time guides us to omission
truth and even epiphany slips through
our slender fingers.
Clear skies and vast blue hues
glimmer in sunny day qualms,
yet darkness is accepted
even chosen with some regret,
when thoughts arise no compromise is given.
As we are the masters of destiny,
those thoughts the hands that mould
the clay of circumstance, each motion
forms and gives meaning to the process,
as we forge paths in calm and stress.
The weather we contain is ours to administer,
the storms and calm of thought and life,
the chaos and contention of strife
and a heart that in the end, strives for better
as we walk that perilous shore.
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