Hallway to Nowhere

Tag: poetry

  • Sunday Evening

    This is the hard time.

    The time when I think about my friends.

    Some drink, smoke or do other more questionable things.

    I don’t have any such refuge.

    I face this onslaught by holding on as I can

    (By letting go of holding on).

    I pace the floors, consider making a sound but no,

    And breathe into the pain.

    Step; inhale; step; exhale….

    I remind myself when I pause

    The worst that could happen would be the best outcome.

    Eventually, thankfully, this WILL end.

    One way or another. Nothing lasts forever.

    Walk; breathe; walk; breathe.

  • Grief-root

    This grief twists around me,

    A primordial root connected to the fundamental wailing

    Pulled from the the soul of the earth.

    My tears are the salt of the sea and the stream of the rain;

    They are water itself and life-

    Bitter and burning and flow.

    I scream so loud it swallows the universe.

    My laments echo down time’s corridors

    Like fell black-winged horses running a doomed apocalyptic race.

    My words are forever etched on the very pillars of creation itself.

    I am done.

  • End Of The Day (Poem)

    There is no magic here.

    No-one will come to save you

    With a wave of their wand

    Or with fiery breath and beating wings.

    Not in this poem.

    You’ll have to save yourself,

    And however you do that is up to you.

    I write these days of desiccation and dearth,

    With arid phrase and acrid wit.

    Seek no comfort;

    I have none to offer.

    Other than: I am here.

    The road not taken…..

  • Questions (Poem)

    How do I die?

    (How do I live?)

    What do I take?

    (What do I give?)

    Where am I from?

    (Where am I now?)

    How do I BE?

    (HOWWWL?)

    https://youtu.be/fGnfAcLVp90https://youtu.be/fGnfAcLVp90

  • Stay (Poem)

    I think I’ll stay just a little bit longer.

    Life here in the mountains can still surprise me.

    A wood turner who makes steampunk lamps.

    A chef who practices traditional Chinese medicine.

    A professor who tickles trout for photos .

    A dear friend here from far away who is found to be a distant relative.

    (And that latter, I’m convinced, is some sort of Appalachian magic-

    Because in the mountains ALL folks are related!)

    And that’s just to mention people.

    If I were to start talking about these things.

    The way the sky looks when a storm is about to hit.

    The Canadian geese and the train whistle that help rhythm my day.

    The greenery of the town, and my back yard in particular.

    (Ere the six old trees that stand sentinel come down in a bad wind,

    I might not live to write again.)

    And music. Sigh.

    The music strikes a visceral cord in me.

    The same wail that I heard in the old Cajun songs runs through songs.

    So at the end of the day, I feel at home.

    One of my trees.

    And how could I leave a place that produces music like this?

  • Melancholia Blend (Poem)

    I work as an alchemist

    To blend my tea.

    I start with aged shou puerh

    to remind you of the past,

    whether yours, the earth’s, or simply that of tea.

    The specifics are not my concern.

    I add toasted rice-brown and wild-

    to add contemplative notes.

    Think about what you will.

    Then some cacao nibs and bits of candied ginger

    (not too much)

    for a bit of sweetness,

    because life can be harsh.

    But this is a tea true to my life,

    so I also add at the end,

    vetiver oil and aloeswood oil and cayenne pepper flakes.

    Because dry and bitter and heat

    must also play a part in this tea song.

    Listen to Leonard Cohen when you sip it

    and perhaps read Albert Camus.