SECRETS BEST KEPT?

No one knows.
And the best kept secret remains as such.
How much is it worth to know things
that your heart can confirm,
but you can not communicate,
this declaration of fact lies hidden.
Distance spanned and water
under the bridge between then and now.
How do you live a life with this burden?
She couldn't know; you gave no indications,
your stagnation and debilitating fear
brought you here with nary a lead.
But indeed, you have known.
You will carry it until you'll have grown
feeble and cold, just an infarction from
the chill's permanence; it hides in residence.
Do you declare to the world and hope the rooftops
can handle your exuberance, your happy dance long buried?
This poetic prompt brings you to wonder
that if under this guise you can reprise
what your heart conceals; the real feel of its mystery,
your history until now untold and you let the story unfold.
The question is posed; "Did you have a high school crush?"
Touching secrets with probing fingers, the memory lingers.
You held the best vantage point in the room to see all before you,
a chance at a glance always revealed her lilting smile
and her warm Serbian eyes; your soul cries
at the top of it's lungs, but your unsung song
has kept her anonymity. Though your proximity was close,
you chose to let fear dictate, sealing your fate.
Never a clue did you expose. You chose to fade,
finding comfort in invisibility. Indignantly you proclaim,
"What purpose would this knowledge serve?"
You have held your nerve and your secret this long.
It can't be wrong to release your burden and breathe again.
She couldn't know.
Unseen for thirty-two years, no one knows.
You wonder if your existence evaded her detection then.
You are certain that it does now.
Unseen for thirty-two years, she couldn't know.
You are prompted to think of her and how you felt.
Your memories melt flowing onto this page as you engage your feelings.
A poem gets written of your smitten past, and at last you come clean.
I mean, really, it's not as if this poem will ever be seen.


POET'S NOTE - A response to a poetic nudge five years ago that I saw as ridiculous and unnecessary. But for some reason I relented and presented what lay hidden, fondly. Time and distance can surprise and sometimes re-introduce warm Serbian eyes and lilting smiles. She didn't know. Those memories stay with you. Writers feed on their marrow. Histories come full circle..

FINNEGAN, BEGIN AGAIN?

There's that song.
All along I've held this animous,
an anonymous dislike for its root
that burrows into every furrow
of gray matter. Mad as a hatter
and twice as worn. I was not born
to listen incessantly to this melody.
And just when it appears to disappear,
I hear it. There's that song.

STEPPING OUT

Out of the darkness

where you’ve hidden your muse

in the shadowy thicket, bringing

it into the bright daylight.

No matter how you fight

to keep your ideas fresh and new,

your view had been used; your vantage point

has been abused. So, you slant

your rant in a slightly twisted way,

bringing forth a new version of the things you say.

Breathing a sigh of relieved contentment,

you discard resentment and go through the paces,

filling the empty spaces with bits of your wit

and finally getting “it”. One foot after the other,

Brother. You’re back in business.

You’re stepping out. Welcome home,

you’ve emerged a better man for it.

APPROACHING WINDS (A Sestinal Cascade)

The winds of change blow; they come and go,
everything in its wake is subject to an upheaval.
The retrieval of all usurped is best left for when the winds die;
unsuccessful tries will be your score until the winds are no more.
Ride out the storm, keep yourself warm, with visions of better times ahead,
there’s nothing with which to concern yourself.

Your one charge is you. Yourself.
From the day you were born, you were always on the go.
Not sure where you were headed, but it was full steam ahead,
causing your ruckus; an unspoken upheaval
that gave you a hunger for even more.
The retrieval of all usurped is best left for when the winds die.

On the day you will have died,
will people speak as highly of you, as you refused to do of yourself?
Or, will they shake their heads and lament your potential to do more?
Take your acclaim as you go,
and continue your poetic pyrotechnics despite the expected upheaval.
Ride out the storm, keep yourself warm, with visions of better times ahead.

Express yourself with more aplomb; show you are more than a heart and a head.
Carry through with worded wisdom, whether you stand and fight, or quietly die.
No one will blame you for the casualties of your upheaval,
for in the end, your passion will make them better poets, in spite of yourself.
Leave them to embrace you, or to scratch their heads as they go.
Unsuccessful tries will be your score until the winds are no more.

And if you just happen to leave them wanting more,
then get out of bed, because once again, it is full steam ahead.
The direction we all choose determines how we will go,
for life is to be savored, despite its labor, until we die.
Don’t live in delusion, you’ll find you need them as much as you deny yourself.
Everything in its wake is subject to an upheaval.

So, take up your armor daily, determined to up heave all
that tries to force your hand. Take a stand. Give them more!
You’ll find the confidence that has eluded. Treat yourself
to the accolades of which you are most deserving, and ahead
of all else, ride out the storm until the day you die.
The winds of change blow; they come and go.

As the prevailing winds go, the only obstacle to their upheaval
dies in the face of a strong will and words of a more direct nature.
Forget the nomenclature. Forge ahead. There’s nothing with which to concern yourself.

LEFT IN SILENCE

I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
But, my mat remains
pristine and untried.
I strain to hear any noise
that I might construe as a voice.
Such familiarity would soothe
a soul time worn and exasperated,
but those I seek have left
only a residue silence that
assures to smother my thoughts.
I ought to shake the cobwebs
from the rafters of this mired mind.
Yet, I find that memory is nothing
but a smoldering ember
languishing to rekindle into a pyre
of poetic preponderance;
a reminiscence that placates
the love that lingers still.
A finger pressed to lips
that long for passion's kiss,
secures the void on which
my thoughts have relied.
The silence inside deafens.

**Without straying anywhere near Middle Earth, “I Sit and Think” by JRR Tolkien, sparks my muse this day.

RESURRECTED

The phoenix rising,
back from the dead.
Lazarus called,
he wants his life back.
Lost in the depths
of a broken spirit,
left in the lurch
with much more to say.
You stand in silence,
wishing for the return
of your sanity, and
your security, and
everything else that
leaves you feeling empty;
dead from the floor up.
The randomness of words
tossed together with ease
and flair, brings your voice
from deep within you and
gives cause to express
every heartfelt pang,
poem and passion,
delivering your work
to an appreciative audience,
offering peace and
confidence to your lifeless
rhyme. Infusing your heart
and soul with the breath
of a million soft sighs,
for the poet has regained
his promise and drive.
Once again alive.
Resurrected.

RETURN TO SENDER

Returned unopened.
The letter,
an explanation,
an apology,
an "it's been so long
and I've been thinking..."
It says address unknown.
Insufficient postage.
No number found.
The reasons become
more wordy than your note.
All you wanted to say
was thank you for
everything, I'm sorry for
everything. You want to do
everything you can to
heal the wounds. But,
even though time can heal,
too much time can render
one obsolete. Unavailable.
Resting in Peace.
Returned unopened.