Child Poets Amongst Us

Child poets amongst us
A flash of brilliance
Too bright to behold
Brief and profound
Sometimes too sad
Sometimes too much

In childhood Jim
Tortured by souls
Dead Indians on the road
A delusion and inspiration
Madness descending
Lizard king disappears

Jeff following footsteps
But his own light
A hello turns upside
A goodbye unintended
A rush of water
Pain that endures

I ache for Michael
Lost love unfulfilled
His fault perhaps
Too much too fast
Who hasn’t been there
A boy to hold

Madness and brilliance
Hand in hand
Syd struggled
Promise unfulfilled
Your name to borrow
Nothing else

Love castigated
The hubris required
Ian lost the grip
Joy never known
Sought at all turns
But the end was near

The deep ache
Soul never ending
Too much for one
Our pearl Janice
Never ours truly
Laughter still rings

Demons at all turns
Amy swallowed whole
Wanton abandoned
Excess and hurt
To hold her tightly
Assure her good exists

I cry for each
Figuratively sometimes
Others tears do come
Can’t protect the world
The poets and warriors
All the same at the end

On Contentment

In our culture, the respected artist is most often the conflicted artist, those that struggle with their message, their emotions, or the demons.  John Lennon was the brilliant artistic force behind The Beatles.  He was the poet, the artist, the one that fought for a new vision of what pop music was.  At least, that is what we think.  Paul McCartney on the other hand is the one that kept The Beatles commercial with his great ear for melody and his sappy lyrics.  So what is wrong with art celebrating happiness, love and positive emotions?  Or like Paul said “Some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs.  And what’s wrong with that?”

A few years ago I had a period of absolute emotional breakdown, the proverbial middle-age crisis.  During that crisis, I found the voice that I had forgotten about.  I wrote a novel and a half, hundreds of poems, many short-stories, all in a frenzy to just get everything out of my head.  Often what I wrote was absolute trash, melodramatic, senseless dribble that found it’s way to the trash almost as soon as it hit the page.  Writing was neither cathartic nor senseless.

A few years later I find myself in a different and much better place.  I sit with my laptop ready to write and I only want to write about good things.  I delete them because there is no edge to them.  Who wants to hear about love?  Who wants me to fill a page with silly love poems?