Write Your Own Poem

Another rainy morning
on another summer day
I’m tempted to write a poem,
but by now it’d be a cliche

Thinking is a wall of noise
that blinds us to the moment
So I say go stand in the rain –
go live your own rainy summer day.


Floating in a Vacuum

Floating in a vacuum
of anachronistic indifference
Fatally infected
with metastasistic cynicism

Blood coursing though my veins
is a disinterested shade of gray
Merely killing time
day by meaningless day

What future still remains
for a creation of the past,
swept asunder by history
and tides of relentless change?

State of disconnection,
absence of direction
Eyes can see, mind perceives
The heart is cold and still

What does it mean to want,
what does it mean to dream,
what does it mean to feel?
Where did life go?

Night Falls in Manchester

I kissed you goodbye,
watched you walk out the door
How was I to know
I wouldn’t kiss you anymore?

When we woke on that morning,
it was just another day
Never could I have dreamed
that you’d be stolen away

How is it the world doesn’t stop
when so many shattered hearts break?
Where are heaven’s angels
when the sky’s on fire with rage?

Darkness falls on Manchester
while the minions of Satan laugh
Does love still exist inside of man
or am I a fool to even ask?

Surely terror is the refuge of cowards
But to commit such a murderous act!
Where is heaven’s justice
to drive the demons back?

A city mourns in silence
Even the birds forget to sing
It seems there are no limits to evil
and the sadness it can bring

A river of tears is powerless
to wash away the pain
I’d give all my days but one
just to see you smile again.

So It Goes

Your vision haunts my tortured mind,
a dizzying hall of mirrors inside
I close my eyes and turn away
As I glance back, you fade to gray

Your mocking voice echoes in the dark,
searing words that wound and scar
I close my eyes and drift away
My dream of love was all in vain

So it goes when illusion reigns
Chasing ghosts and stranger things
Time reveals the web of lies,
shattered hearts and lovers’ sighs

What profits a man to lose his soul
on wasted nights and fire grown cold?
Rather walk alone thru pouring rain
with virgin heart that’s known no pain.

On Happiness & Desire

Lately, I’ve been asking myself if I’m happy, and if not, why? What does that even mean? There is no simple answer.

And it’s a convoluted minefield. Because once I’ve “decided” that I’m unhappy or depressed (by sticking that label on myself), I further think & act along those lines and it’s mostly a constant downward spiral from there – unless I realize what’s going on & try to stop it.

It seems like the general definition of happiness consists in being satisfied with (or at least accepting of..) the state of the 4 areas of life:

1. Mental – knowledge, intellectual stimulation

2. Physical – health & fitness, living situation, possessions (clothes, transportation, miscellaneous)

3. Spiritual – existential perspective/meaning

4. Social – family, significant other (if desired), friends, other relationships

(5*) Occupational – job, skills, income

(#5 is more a combination of the others than its own category, but has such a strong impact on our lives that I decided to separate it out.)

Whenever I decide that I’m not happy, it’s usually because I’m not satisfied with where I am in one or more of these ares. But who sets the ‘boundaries’, outside of which I’m dissatisfied? Who writes the rules on happiness?

I’ve decided that the first question that needs to be asked when I notice ANY desire or discontent or ‘want’ is: Who’s writing the definition? In today’s culture, that often turns out to be one of two groups of people – advertisers or so-called experts.

The first are mostly just trying to sell you something and get your money, so they make up things to stimulate desire. One book has termed them “desire merchants”. Magazines & televisions have to constantly come up with ways to entice you to consume their products, so they get advertising dollars. To suck you in, they exploit ‘beautiful’ people with ‘beautiful’ possessions doing ‘exciting’ things. It’s close to the same with movies, with the exception that they just want your money directly, instead of getting it from advertisers. With books, the situation is a little more murky. The authors may believe they have something useful to say (at least in the beginning). But if they’ve devoted themselves to writing, then they too need you to buy their product to support themselves.

The second group, “the experts”, often turn out to just be telling us what studies have found to be the cultural norm. It doesn’t mean what exists is RIGHT, merely that it’s what most people are doing.

So it seems that most of what I may think I want/need/should have/be comes from people who are:
1. trying to sell me something or …
2. trying to make me believe that because it’s how the majority is living their lives, I should be emulating the majority. (…like if they all jump off a cliff…..)

They’re all telling me I SHOULD be unhappy with who/what/where I am, constantly striving for something better – and of course, who is writing the definition of “better”? (Round and round we go, where it stops we already know. Six feet under – walls of dirt and a bed of clay ; once we dreamed we were kings, but it was only for a day…)

More and more, I’m thinking we need to hop off this merry-go-round. We ARE what/where/who we are, we’re the sum total of what has happened to us before this moment. Except to the “desire merchants”, it’s not good or bad, it just is.

Perhaps the two most pernicious words in the English (or any) language are “I want”. If we could only stop *wanting* to be other than what/who/where we are and be content just BEING – well, maybe it wouldn’t solve all our problems, but I bet it would help a hell of a lot.

Don’t Ask

Don’t ask me how I’m doing
Don’t ask about my day
Life’s for living, not thinking
In the end I’ll be okay

Don’t ask about tomorrow
The future doesn’t exist
It’s a creation of poets and fools
Right now is all there is

Don’t ask about the past
I’ll say just look at us here
We’re the sum of all that’s been
Masterpieces under construction

Reflected back in the mirror.

Spring Rains 2

Rain taps on the window
of another chilly evening
But it cannot wash away the internal demons
that threaten to consume me

Loneliness, depression, futility
vie for my attention
Like impetuous children
who refuse to slumber

Oh, that these “children” would
leave home and forget their place of birth!
They are bastards who curse
the very thought of their ancestors

Alcohol numbs festering wounds,
but it’s a band-aid on cancer
Even death holds no promise of respite,
being merely a door into eternity.