The Cheerless Road of Winter

The saddest day I’ve ever had
Lies shrouded there, in time;
The nights I spent among the mad,
These are not yet in rhyme

The cheerless road of winter, where
Despair was born of doubt –
Just like the greatest loss I’ve known
That I don’t write about

Yet, I hope what I do not say’s
Relatable, somehow –
There’s madness in the very air,
It’s all around us now

Still there, within the frozen past,
The branches bare I see;
A lonely road in winter, where
I lost the best
Of me

Now every pathway seems the same…

Now every pathway seems the same,
And choices vary not at all;
The way of hope, the way of blame,
The spring, the summer, winter, fall –

They’re all one road. It’s all one thing.
The path of tentative mistrust
That each new footstep seems to bring
Her in this world
Of lies
And dust

The Ugliness of Life

The ugliness of life, it waits
Around the corner, in the dark;
For all we might procrastinate,
The ugliness of life will leave it’s mark.

For long with patience will it seek
The moments we are down, or weak,
And scour down the shores and docks,
The country roads, or city blocks,
Or happy pathways in the mist
That we might hap to walk upon.
The ugliness of life, it sits
And from its hiding place, it won’t be drawn.

Until the moment it might choose
To show itself, to our regret:
When all we seem to have, we lose,
And our few certainties, upset.
Yet still we travel, as we must,
Our meagre stock of hope and pride,
With ugliness around, we trust
It’s sister, loveliness, is just outside…

The ugliness of life is there,
Around the corner, every day;
In all we seek, for all we dare,
The ugliness of life won’t
Go away

a hundred-weight of dreams

a hundred-weight of dreams inside
a thousand-weight of fears;
some scattered days of hope within
and dozen months of tears —

a dread that’s born of emptiness,
a questioning of worth:
a plague of such anxiety
as rends the very earth.

the colors of accomplishment,
ineptitude, or both;
the tearing sound that signifies
both injury and growth —

the hotel with its silence, or
the spotlight with its cheers —
a hundred-weight of dreams inside
a thousand-weight
of fears


© Andriy Bezuglov | Dreamstime.com – Redhead girl with wet hair sits in the bath full of water with m

Token

what is your truth? what have you seen
when no one else was there to see?
is there a lonely spot of road
that's made from you or maybe me?

you knew one in the wintertime
when walls were painted with despair
and no place that you went preferred
to anywhere
or everywhere

what is your plot? your character? 
  your theme?
why do you linger over post, 
  or meme,
or stare at empty screens and wait 
  for words?
or dream of flight, while sealing out 
  the birds?

the lonesome road of wintertime
the isolated way;
the habits that are character,
the token we must pay
to see while we have eyes to see,
and not to look away:
for humankind is horrible
past what mere words can say.

our eyes look down,
the raptors coil above:
it's only love that is our hope,
and all our hope must be
in only
love

Interlace 1

I would defend your honor, if I could:

There’s now a pressure on my eyes,
That makes my vision blurry;

And send benighted temper, with its hood,

As lately, I would realize,
It’s dangerous to scurry –

To where it never bothers you again –

As constantly, mortality
Surrounds, and I’m aware:

And be a guard for you among all men

The unimpaired finality
That’s always looming there

a dancer by the sea

he walked a lonely concrete stair
surrounded by barbed wire;
the things he thought he knew were gone,
and joy had gotten shyer

he felt despair, and anger, and
a soreness in one knee,
when, breathless, at the top, he found
a dancer by the sea

the music, and her moves, bespoke
the truth behind the veil,
of joy and sadness, love and hope,
that beauty can avail —

her movements were the ocean, in
totality – and parts –
salvation there in abstract form,
a rescue by the arts —

and when at last he did descend,
a new life had found birth:
and consolation’s many forms
had given his life worth

for there is ugliness, it’s true,
but reasons, yet, to be:
in music, and in stories, and
in dancers by
the sea