For my friend

Some stuff just needs sayin’ but….

Sometimes, you see someone struggling with life, and you desperately want to do something to help. Only, you don’t quite know where to begin the dialogue. So this is just something I need to say, and if it fits you, know that I care and I’m here.

I don’t know if my help is wanted, and I really don’t want to get all up in anyone’s business uninvited. So I watch you wading through chest deep water, against the current, carrying a bundle of worries and problems. I know you hafta be exhausted, or pretty damn close to it. But sometimes, you hafta wade a while, and struggle a while to understand the true nature of the bundle, and what is at the heart of it. I get that. Eventually, you gotta get out of that water or you might drown, though. So, when and if you need a boat, I have one, and there’s room in it for you, friend. You’ve helped me out more than once, and more than you can really know. I owe you. I would consider it a privilege to share my boat with you.

getting stung

Anger buzzes in my head and belly

like a hive of disturbed bees.

I see the disparity of effort

and you getting more out of this than me.

For now, I still care enough to meddle

and stir up those bees 

by pointing out the inequity.

You don't have to worry yet that I will leave.

I'm still invested, still connected, 

still trying to prove that I matter.

I'm still protecting comb and honey and Queen,

with this anger buzzing inside of me.

Angry bees swarming to make a stand, here I am.

Buzzing and diving in my zig zag flight

to get your attention, make you hear me

Flying and buzzing until I tire.

My protest continues, attempts to protect,

attempts just to be heard and seen.

Exhausted, I can no longer fly, only buzz my wings.

My last stand, my final warning.

I want so much to continue,

I struggle against the futility

Too weary, my wings grow still and silent.

And yet, I know you fail to see.

The danger is not in the buzzing,

the anger is a sign of life.

The buzzing is only your warning.

Occurring only when the anger starts.

Fear that moment of silence.

The silence portends decision.

Dread the moment when the air goes flat.

What follows is resignation.

While I still care enough to buzz

to protect my hive and home

there is time to avoid the silence.

Damage can be undone.

But that silence of decision,

it's the harbinger of finality.

Because it means I don't care anymore.

Pushed past anger to apathy.

Then the hive is silent and empty.

No sweetness left in its chambers.

The swarm has taken the Queen and gone.

Leaving only the shell of the comb.

Yelling into an Empty Canyon

This one kinda just stumbled into being after a short gchat with Alise.  The gist of the chat and the poem to follow is that except for my young friend, Susanne, I don't have a lot of contact IRL with other poets.  I put my work on this blog, and occasionally share on Alise's blog, but sometimes, it just feels like I'm yelling into an empty canyon...

I stand here looking at a vast horizon,
flat plains of nothing behind me,
the view uninterrupted and vague.
I turn to greet the vista before me,
green and gold and brown,
blue streams and skies, inviting me.
I want to be there.
Where lyrics ride warm breezes.
Where imagery hangs around me,
like Spanish moss on old trees.
I want to share the phrases that
tumble and flow in those streams.
I look into the valley of this canyon,
and for all that I see,
there is no one around.
I look back on the plains,
and see no one,
not one kindred soul,
who speaks the language of poetry.
I call into the canyon,
Can anybody hear me?
Is there anybody there?
I think I see figures moving
far on the other side,
but they don't hear me.
They don't know I long to share,
the melody of horizons
the harmony of crystal skies,
the phrases and words
that sing pictures of what I see.
They don't know I'm here.
So faintly, I hear them,
singing their own prose,
chanting their poetry,
creating their pictures with words.
Or do I just think I hear,
because I want it to be true?
And so I stand alone,
on the edge of this empty canyon
making worlds out of words,
longing for companions in a poem.
I won't give up the pilgrimage.
I will continue to cry out.
I'll keep yelling into that empty canyon,
until the day dawns,
when a kindred soul yells back.