Tag: Poetry

it wasn’t supposed to be like this…

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment 
young and desiring, dreaming, drifting 
real and complacent, endlessly sifting, 
to see and feel and hear and be 
someplace besides where one ought to be -- 

to find in the stories told, and implied, 
that though much truth was said, almost everyone lied 
in saying one finds oneself one day, for good, 
and what once was gray will be clear understood -- 

for now years close in like a blanket, or noose, 
identity tied up in just how much use 
one can be to those who, while good to their core, 
cannot see you, just your age

anymore

Off The Ledge

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment 
He tried to talk her off the ledge 
He loved her best as he knew how 
But she was bent and turned within 
And made of grief and shattered glass 

That scraped and cut what had been hope 
And bled her slowly out and down 
The same cursed path that he’d been on 
As agents lacking pride or place 

The stories we in time concoct 
To make believe that all’s not real 
When every dream becomes a blur
And numb’s the sharpest thing 

We feel

empty asymmetries

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment 
the empty asymmetries of ugliness: 
a we, a them, an in between -- 
wisdom, carried only in whispers; 
folly, borne everywhere as a disease 

those who believe their judgments never wrong 
cannot even judge what they are seeing
On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment 
there was a union (once) of self 
a smattering of all involved 
in pleasure mild, proffered help 
and daily problems (sort of) solved

but then we came to see ourselves 
a ever-constant halloween 
the mask (this time) beneath face 
but such as cannot be unseen

and every better turned to worse 
and every crack a soon divide: 
the kings and queens we were now gone 
from truth’s unyielding 

regicide

the way the years go

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment 
turn inside out and find yourself? 
it doesn't work it never has -- 
the thread that makes each you a you 
connects what was and isn't yet -- 

but i think we can't clearly see 
the future anymore the past; 
because the present doesn't yield 
the light within, but more the shadow 
cast by hope and expectation: 
we build the world we know as much 
as it happens to us 

memories like buildings become abandoned 
not from lack of strength but 
lack of visitors

The Lost Art of Losing

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems4 Comments 
I once knew how to lose myself: 
 Inside a book, a song, the trees,  
 An autumn day, a summer breeze, 
 A carnival, two deep brown eyes, 
 The restless friends with whom time flies -- 
  My heart lived on a wider shelf 
  When I knew how to lose myself.

I once did not the whole world feel, 
 Just each thing that I saw, or heard: 
 A distant train, a mourning bird, 
 My mother humming in the yard, 
 The shuffling of each last card -- 
  The day seemed so much less unreal 
  When all I felt was what I feel.