How to poet a life away
Toss the trite learned
Skip grammar mostly too
Rhyme or not is all yours
Step to drummer unheard
Believe in life yet untold
Read a thousand times
More than you write
Live, so you will know
What you are talking about
Take wild leaps in mind
Without losing it too far
Write not only about love
Although that’s all there
Really is or really is not
Fall in some love also
More than simply once
With not only your words
But others in thought
Wishing to poet too
© 2017 Jim Davis
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 4:22 AM UTC
Guess you're gone again
Watched you walk away;
You always said breathe out then in;
Know you'll be back someday.
Same seeks same to find its home
Not meant to chase the vogue
Some souls are surely made to roam
Rebel always chooses Rogue.
And rebels need a reason
We can’t abide bad laws; yet
Against the heart there is no treason
When standing for a Cause.
Always loved unspoken things
Like the thrill of open sky
Every bird must find its wings
To let go of fear and finally fly.
Beneath your chest there beats a fire
A powerful creature that needs to be free
Weave these words into the pyre
This is who you’re meant to be.
And I refuse to be your cage,
Won’t bind your feet or blind your soul
Won’t consign you to dance on broken stage, ‘cos
You’re meant for more than that role.
Can’t hide a sky of stars in a box
Can’t bottle a boundless tide,
Can’t block nature behind black locks,
Though I’m ashamed to say I’ve tried.
If you must fade to find your grace
Because you’re made of art,
Just know you always have a place
Wherever waits this heart.
So,
You’re always free to go, and
Seek each untraveled road;
Build your dream abode.
Just please hear this song
That I’ve been singing all along:
I’ll always prove your fears were wrong, for
Some things will not erode.
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 12:02 PM UTC
I could sit and stare,
And bide my time;
Thoughts rip and tear,
And try to rhyme.
Somehow it seems so strange
That though we poets,
Filled with strands of gold or gray,
Can rarely find a way to say
What's truly on our minds;
We're too caught up in the blinds.
Perfection is a savage curse,
But self-rejection's even worse.
Maybe it's okay to be afraid;
You can't pick and choose what to feel;
Know your soul's not being weighed, so
Put pen to page and just be real.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 10:03 AM UTC
Maybe I'm actually a hell of a lot smarter than you accounted for, or
Maybe you thought no one would care when you slammed that door, or
Maybe all whispers fall and all vows die and no one remembers before
or maybe I'm the token ***** of all the humor life could pour into a bashful face
It's funny how things go without a trace
Like you and me and destiny
And trying to have a place
See I thought I'd be a saint
Married love into the taint
But my only Buddha's a midnight toker,
a hedonistic fraud, that laughing joker
Looking for God in a game of poker.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 4:07 PM UTC
Here's a poet's plight:
To force words to come is a fight;
Gorgeous nothings hold no light;
Meaning shall not bow to might.
Thirty thousand words or more –
All just sounds heard before;
But somewhere deeper there's a door,
A certain feeling from some core.
Or, in clearer words:
I have nothing Great to say,
but That shouldn't stop me anyway
From speaking when I feel I must;
No other way to reverse this rust.
Perfection is a savage
Curse to ravage the mind
'Round and round in circles, growing blind.
But of all the stones and stars
Or overpriced, shiny cars
The greatest gift of all you give
Is that you let me gently live.
You accept me as I am,
Tarred and scarred and marred with gray,
There's a thousand whispers, but they're all okay
When they won't be judged anyway.
There's this frustrating little tic
Where no words can quite click
Because no lovely language can compress
or stress enough meaning into a tiny little space
That could give a hint of a trace
Of the meaning that was felt.
Suffice to say it seems somehow insufficient,
Nothing Great, simply true:
You're wonderful as you.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
You're welcome to join,
This ride needs no coin;
If you really want to touch the sky,
If every song in your soul screams to fly,
Leave what you think and know at the door
To go somewhere you've never been before.
I know you're scared to take the chance;
Thus the game sets the stage,
But take the plunge and learn the dance;
You'll finally find that forgotten page.
There's something absent in your days;
And so we struggle through the maze,
Finding other ways to play,
Just to bite back at the gray.
Not *** nor drugs nor wealth
Can ever bring true health;
The only lasting way is to be yourself,
And let your life ring true.
Until you do,
There's something missing, and it's you.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 2:27 PM UTC
i.
I intentionally failed to wish you
a happy birthday this year,
though I know significant dates,
hours, moments, people,
by heart.
I still search for you in boys
I mistake for bandages,
the ones with eyes almost
the same shade of your hazels,
lips resounding your laughter,
resembling a wisp of your smile,
But they aren't you.
ii.
Sometimes I pretend you're dead,
because it's less painful
to stop reaching out into voids.
iii.
My mom still blames you
for everything that preceded that year.
Though you probably had no idea what happened
when we stopped talking altogether.
Can you believe it's almost been three years?
iv.
My dad wonders who was my 'one that got away'
Though, I'm pretty sure he knows
it's you.
v.
Remember how I mentioned Sylvia Plath?
How most everything she wrote
brimmed with melancholy?
How I loved every single word?
Especially that piece
where she talked about expectations
and disappointments.
You'll never know that
up to this day I still think
people are selfish enough to
always, eventually turn into the latter.
Even you.
vi.
It's sad I never got the chance
to tell you about Ted.
How she loved him so much,
she just had to figuratively dive headfirst
into the flames-- burning herself,
what was left of her--
after she found out
he never really loved her
the same way
she loved him
in the first place.
vii.
*truth is,
some of us
never learn to accept
the love we think we deserve.*
viii.
I don't know if you still read my poems
or if you still think about me,
about us, sometimes.
Every time you fall asleep past eleven,
a part of me hopes you do.
because I always remember you--
in birthday candles, red ribbons,
off-tune voice records, golden arches,
concrete sidewalks, pedestrian lanes,
the last flickers of city lights
softly fading out of the blue.
I remember you
in everything, in everywhere,
in everyone.
It's useless, no matter how much I try to forget.
No matter how much I just want to forget.
I want to forget.
But, how could I?
When forgetting means forsaking
the very memory of you.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 3:19 AM UTC