One of these days, when the sun
comes down as the children
play, I will have nothing to say.
I will just sit there and smile
knowing that life was worth while.
One of these days, life will have
showed me all that I needed to
see. I will have learned lessons
that are taught by time. Experiences
of mine will seem divine. Old
thoughts and feelings become
less appealing. One of these days,
I will love to the point of happiness.
I will give gratitude and hate less.
One of these days, I will feel alive
before I look death in the eyes.
One of these days, my dreams will
come true before my nightmares do.
As I sit on this bench, I can’t
help to notice my hotdog is
getting wet. Rain falls relentlessly
from the sky. Each drop dances
in solitude, enduring a new
opportunity to spread faith
and love in new life. Dark clouds
loom from above. I can’t help
to do nothing but sacrifice
the inner voice that destroys
all grace. At peace, I look up
and I don’t see catastrophe.
I see a forgiving sky wanting
to be remembered, crying to be
cherished. As I continue to sit,
I don’t stress a bit. Wet hotdog
and all, my worries remain small.
Lightning strikes the trashcan
next to me. Flabbergasted, diverse
feelings course through my body,
reaching my soul: my fulcrum.
I sit on this bench; I remain calm
Trust me, that’s no taradiddle.
I may be stuck in the middle,
but this poignant pain helps
me see rain as draining pain.
The dark skies help me realize
that life will shine its bright light
during the darkest of nights.
I don’t forget that my dog is wet.
It could be worse; I could be dead.
A Poet’s dream is to be heard
and not seen. A Poet’s dream
is to create, to wait, and to
discover one’s own fate.
A Poet’s dream manifests itself
in words, sounds, and mounds
of half-written ideas found
under the surface: underground.
A Poet dreams a dream brighter
than the sunlight and better than
a good night under the stars’
inviting sight. A Poet’s dream
is to change the world –
to rearrange things to release
one’s hidden pain. Just like
ghosts, Poets do not show them-
selves, but they do know them-
selves. A Poet’s dream
is to live a life that can manifest
itself before and during the night.
Broken, worn-down, damaged:
We’re damaged goods. We became
good after we were damaged.
It’s tragic – fantastic. All the same.
We had to fight to become good.
We created light the best we could.
The damage was bad. Fires spread
and burned our spirits and homes.
Flames engulfed all life in sight.
Fires spread and we fled. Damage
was done. It wasn’t good. We ran
to a new place to call home base.
We rebuilt our home in the woods
and became some damaged goods.