in a winter market (2)

On 2022100220221002 By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment

The conversation turned to 
Each, our latest breakup; 
The guy she thought she loved, 
And then, the gal I thought loved me -- 
And how she wanted, now, no more 
Than good coffee and freedom, 
While I was seeking inspiration, 
Music, and some peace. 

It was important right just then 
To be the unexpected, 
For something told me, everything 
Could fast go off the rails. 
It's strange how often I have been 
The guy that women trusted, 
And how I've tried to view that as 
A kind of sacred thing, 

Relationships come in all kinds, 
Varieties, and flavors; 
And sometimes being less 
Is something more.

in a winter market (1)

On 2022100220221002 By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment

I wasn't supposed to be there; 
But then, I never am. 
We walked along within the lights, 
The pageantry, the crowd -- 
And she was warm and beautiful. 
I didn't understand: 
But I was just pretending then, 
Holding my breath -- 

We talked awhile of music, 
The instruments we played; 
She said she had three sisters, 
All of whom were taller. 
I could not fathom, though I tried, 
Just what it was that made her burn -- 
A winter market, Christmas lights, 
And every sort of wonder.

Comics Collecting

On 2022100120221001 By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment

When you are young, 
And you take on a hobby 
That you know is made fun of, 
You are acknowledging that 
Being accepted and approved of by all 
Is not a primary goal for you, 
Or, perhaps, that it was never 
Really even possible 
On other grounds. 

When you understand how intense 
The desire to fit in somewhere is, 
Much of what you see in the world 
That would otherwise be unexplainable 
Makes sense. 

A community of outcasts is 
Still a community; 
And they can be joyous ones, 
Or crimped, restrictive ones, 
Depending on the players. 

Sometimes, we outcasts 
Welcome others, as our fellow 
Brothers and sisters, 
And sometimes, 
It's the suffering we felt 
At being outcasts 
That we want to perpetuate. 
I have been 
Both of these people. 

It is easier, with age, 
To forget why we became who we are; 
To forget what loneliness was, and 
To focus only on what disappointment is. 
Yet, we've all known joy in sharing, 
And when we can follow, share, and enjoy 
Things we truly love 
With others who truly love them 
It is a reality that is better 
Than most fantasy.

The Last

On 2022092920220929 By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment

A fall day like the others, 
With summer lately past; 
Two voices on the lake again, 
As fishing lines were cast. 

Then we recalled the first time. 
When I was only five, 
The air full of excitement, 
Just to be, to be alive —- 

That was awhile ago, now. 
Some twenty years have passed: 
Then we recalled the first time, 
Now I recall the last. 

For all we love and what we love 
Comes one day to an end, 
And it’s on us to know it 
As we choose the way we’ll spend 

The time we have, and lines we’ll cast, 
And who we’ll cast them with: 
To take the time for living 
While there’s still life 

To live

my father’s sketchbook

On 2022090220220828 By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment

there within my father's sketchbook 
lays a heart a life and eye  
that i never quite could follow 
though the Lord knows how i tried  

to become him, and to gather 
what he meant, only to see 
there within those inks and colors 
something indefinable 

and free

Actual drawing credit : File ID 64608886 | © Krimzoya | Dreamstime.com

Waiting Room

On 2022050820220507 By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems12 Comments

I’m sitting in a waiting room
And choose to write this verse;
The snow is blowing hard outside
The wind keeps getting worse —

Winter once was magical
With castles made of snow;
But now the world is blank, and I
Can’t see which way to go —

The wait is over, and my child
Is here, so we depart;
We speak of senseless nothings as
We head into the heart

Of this relentless blizzard
Where we’re greeted by a blast:
Just two more people cold and lost
In problems
Way too
Vast

(“Waiting Room” – 1-26-2015)

Falling, In Love

On 2022050720220507 By Beleaguered ServantIn Personal Essays, Poetic Essays14 Comments

[Originally posted May, 2018. 30 days of prose, day 10. – Owen]

Falling in love is like stepping off of a flying airplane; them loving you back would be the parachute. But that parachute doesn’t always open.

Splat.

Love in relationships always comes with risk. We can’t know what others are really thinking, and we can’t know how years or circumstances might change them. But we step out anyway.

And sometimes, we crash.

Hearts, however, are usually stronger than bodies, kind of like the flight recorder on a airplane.* They are usually ready shortly for service on another flight. The decision to step off a plane again, though, gets much harder.

Before I met my wife, I had lots and lots of practice at falling in love. Many of these were more like falling of a curb than an airplane: short fall, easy landing, right back up, no problem. But others were harder: awkward falls off of bicycles, and diving boards, and even a roof or two.

Finally, I stepped off a plane for real, and man did it feel good. Scenery rushing by, blue skies, green pastures, and another person there with me. It was such a rush.

Then I hit ground, hard, in a fenced off area called “divorce”. As I lay there, wounded, I saw her (my ex) bounce immediately up and get on another plane.

One person’s crash is another person’s escape, I guess.

So why do we do it? Why do we try again?

I can’t answer for you, but I can answer for myself. I loved the feeling that came with stepping off of that airplane, and I wanted to feel it again. In addition, I wasn’t going to let one person stand in for any other person I might love for the rest of my life. For that next person might be my parachute, and I might be hers.

The other reason I had for trying again came from an observation I’d made, which was: planes can crash whether we ever get off them or not. Isolating myself hadn’t prevented crashes in the past, but it had prevented joy.

In the end, we love because we’re made to love, and because the choices of others do not determine who we are.

But it sure feels like they do those times we hit ground.

* I innocently asked my dad when I was a kid why they didn’t make planes out of the same material as flight recorders so that people would survive the crash. I got a long explanation on the aerodynamics of heavier metals.

Love Spasm The Third

On 2022050720220507 By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems24 Comments

When my ex left, our youngest was
But three years old – alas –
So I would take him daily to
A little pre-k class

The girl who worked there was so young
But seemed to like the way
I’d sit with him – and other kids –
Beginning every day

So, finally, I asked her out
And she said that she would
So I drove out to get her
When she said it would be good

And she came out to meet me
Well before I’d left my car;
And it struck me, so I asked her
Before I had gone too far

Exactly just how old she was
“Um, twenty” – her head hung —
She looked up, her eyes pleading
Asking if that was too young

“Oh, no, no – you’re age suits you”
That was all I thought to say
But I knew I wouldn’t go on
Any further in this way

So post-dinner, I told her
Gently, how much fun I had
And then I took her back home
To her mother and her dad

And said, “I will not lie to you:
I will not call again,
But if I may, I’d like to say
To you now, as a friend:

You’re beautiful and charming,
And if ages weren’t in play,
I’d probably want to call you
From the end of the driveway.”

But she was not placated
As we both felt something strike:
The pain of liking someone
Who it is
Just wrong

To like

Farm Visit Morning, Age 10

On 2022042620220423 By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment

The morning was heavy with mist and dew
But the sun was hot and the light burned through
And I was just ten, with little to do
But explore the surrounding farmland.

By brother and I at long last stood
By a single tree near a teeming wood
Where the sounds were full and the message good
For those who would understand

That the mist and the sun and the trees and the grass
Are there to remind of us that what doesn't last
Just comes back different, once time has past,
And we still take in the unplanned

No Talent for Certainty

Tag: Autobiography

in a winter market (2)

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in a winter market (1)

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Comics Collecting

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The Last

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my father’s sketchbook

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Waiting Room

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Falling, In Love

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Love Spasm The Third

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Farm Visit Morning, Age 10

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To share is human:

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