(Read, to be read aloud like a Poet Laureate with a beatnik heart, spoken aloud with a cadence set forth, The Spoken Word Poetry on Stage performances)
Here I sit,
for too many things, for you, for others, for answers, for reasons, for hope.
Where are the poets and philosophers of yesteryear?
Are they now dead, gone consumed by the fires and ravages of time?
Perhaps they are reincarnated in the vestiges of self, shadows or former glory.
Perhaps they are fully reincarnated as Filmmakers, Song Writers, Playwrights of the day.
Here sit I,
wishing for a modicum of their talent, a modicum of talent that I believe I possess, evidenced thought former photos and images created, words that flowered and blossomed on the blank white page into a river of thoughts, emotions and expressions given forth from some old and newly tapped well of inspiration.
Sitting here, attempting to dispel the dullness, the cold inside, desperately attempting to open the shutters to allow the Sun’s warmth and rays to shine on this cold heart, cold spirit, dulled and tarnished like a doorknob to the dungeon entrance.
This self made dungeon for sure, made bitter and cold through and through by the hatred of self talk, echos of words remembered, words shot and flung out into time and space by people in moments of nastiness spitefulness with mean spirited verbal attacks.
Opened up doors, opened up wells of feeling during moments of hope brought on by memories from out of the past.
Doors that should have remained closed and closeted perhaps, the eternal optimist, the eternal dreamer, the eternal believer in shared feelings that may have not existed, though may be welled behind other doors themselves. Convoluted emotions, twisted feelings around shriveled up hearts, minds that are shattered in their present altered state of closed off corridors and rooms hidden from view.
Here I sit, me yet not me, what was is perhaps no more, what was meant to be may have no future. The future that should have and would have existed given choices made in opposite directions the path left empty and untrod upon.
Sit I here, in the warmth of the air, cold inside, broken and shattered like the reflection in the pond after the hand has scooped out the water of life, but ripples radiating outwards.
I try to call forth the muse of creativity while steadfastly avoiding the void. For to gaze too long into the void is to fall, to lose oneself forever.
Longing for the fingers to convey the allowed words, to create the flow of thoughts that will set me free, I await the rush.
Tenderly now I probe seeking searching, sharing thoughts, fingers conveying hidden and thus far unshared words, emotions, thoughts and hopes. Remembrances of fingers brushing the skin on the cheek, brushing the stray hair away and up, finger tips warmed by the internal heat of another. The heat also of creativity, longing for either, afraid of one or both, afraid of opened doors soon to be slammed shut again, splintered and shattered on the broken hinge.
Here I sit,
for too many things, for you, for others, for answers, for reasons, for clarity of purpose, for clarity of mind.
The Blankness and Desolation of Blank Pages reflect the shattered and poor words I write, calling for the Muse to arise once again.
The Desolation of lost and useless hope, I sit, I ponder in darkness within and without, alone this night, alone this life, alone this soul.
Here sit I
Here sit we, the culmination of lost, of hurt of hatred of abused of bruised, of tendernesses, of shared love even if so brief, of shared memories, of shared dreams, wants and desires and hopes for the future, now all clouded up with the past, shadows and shadowed skittering and chittering like some small animals seeking hidden passageways while predators circle and peer. Looking to pounce, talons ripping, beaks and fangs gnashing endless death of body, spirit, soul, creativity and passions, die broken in the fading light of day.
share, feel, comfort, hold, caress, kiss and blossom like emotions set free. No, again why, why not, allow, do not attempt, hear and hearken to pain and suffering of opened doors to inside feelings and hopes. Again hopes die or fade in the waning sunshine of yesteryear or is that the present or perhaps time yet to come. Crushed on the ebb and flows of Time.
Hope springs eternal, hope the saviour, hope the destroyer, hope the desolation of ONE. Hope while visions and memories are made, were made, will be made again, gone like the sunshine replaced by the darkness, the night settles.
Sit, here I vanquishing the beast inside again, the page fills, struggling for hope of creativity, though allowing these words to take shape, form to struggle free, to keep pace with the mind already chapters ahead. Is there hope?
Here I sit,
for too many things, for you, for others, for answers, for reasons, for the end, for the beginning. I wonder as I sit, here.
.. a song from days ago, played on the radio, reverberates endlessly in the thick skull of the eternal being of hope; “What a Fool Believes” and “The Rose” songs flow together, around behind and in front of each other, endlessly like dueling radios at a beach, the peace of nature, shattering the voices of the night with the tones of Poetry Sung in this present, defined present by the past, the future, the now.