Globalism

The winter after war was not jubilant
the snow was slushy like the beginning of spring.
A poor street, houses had not been painted
not much food and the ice was reluctant to let
go of its deadly grip.
I saw it along a wall of flaking cement
a small solitary, yellow flower the colour so bright
it blinded me it was like I had a moment of clarity
I understood and saw it all.
In the windows of old houses’ on sills
flower in pots in tins, humanities need for beauty.
I must not forget hasted home find a piece of paper and write it down.
But I didn’t get it down on paper my thoughts that were influenced
by beautiful minds.
So long ago now,
it was 1950 and people were friendly
we had suffered together and survived.
We are not the people of the world we are tribe, however modern,
it is our group's survival that counts.
Tribalism is much stronger than globalism it can never speak our language.

How can you write what you feel,
What you know,
When you don’t?
How can I keep the words from running dry
When I’m wasting time trying to squeeze them
From the inkwell of my mind?

I am not an artist,
I am a student.

And yet everything I’ve learned
Seems to fail me.
Rhymes, meter, imagery:
Why do I know these things
If I can’t use them myself?

I am not an artist,
I am an observer.

This problem is not rare
And yet as I write about not writing
I write.
My lack of a story
Is a story itself.
Thinking is the enemy
And in this head of mine
My foe flies at me relentlessly.
Sometimes a mind overflowing with thoughts
Can hurt more than an imagination run dry.
Yet the pain only fuels me.

I am not an artist,
But I could be.

Chickens live
within a coop
Scratch and peck
in their own ****
Their nests are
low down to the earth
They scream and squack
for all they're worth!
Afraid of storms
they have no dreams
Afraid of everything
it seems!
Their young are squabs
Their eggs are beaten

In the end
they are eaten!

Eagles build their
lofty nests
So their chicks
will withstand tests
They are made with
rugged sticks
So in the end
they pinch and *****
They line their nests
like softest cloud
When baby's grown
they pull it OUT!
The center nest
no longer soft
Babe sits on edge...

AND IS KNOCKED OFF!

Should, in flight,
the fledgling lack
Mom will catch it
on her back!
The little eaglet
has to try
So in the end
they learn to fly!

Eagles dream!
They are reborn!
They will fly into a storm!

Eagles wings
are built to soar!
They will fly

FOREVERMORE!

SøułSurvivør
(C) 5/3/2017

Sometimes, writing poetry feels like...

Playing Charades using metaphors to describe your actions
Solving Jigsaw Puzzles to assemble your current thoughts
Using Ouija boards to converse with your own feelings

Sometimes, reading poetry feels like...

Playing Poker when you study the writer's intentions
Connecting the poet's thoughts as if you were playing Dots
Figuring out the writer's feelings like in Strings

                                                      ­         Anyways, its always *fun!

The other day,
You told me that you think
We'll always be together.
That even in death,
We will be together in spirit.

I smiled in that sad way I have a habit of,
And I tried to remind you
That you don't believe in any of that stuff.

You were quiet for what felt too long.

And then you said,
"I believe in true love."

Today I checked the mail,
And there was an envelope.
It was addressed to us, as a family.

I have never been part of
A genuine family before.
I have never been part of something
That doesn't deteriorate and fall apart.

Before looking at that envelope,
I had never realized how badly
I wanted that.

And while I still don't know how to stay,
And I'm afraid I never will,
And I'm terrified that I can't,

The idea of leaving is becoming
Much less feasible
And much harder to think about.

A Poet loss in their own words
A point of no return
Ideas mounting like flames in an unbreakable urn
Sentences that prepared the words for take off
Journey through the Poet’s inspiration
The speed being acceleration
The Poet establishing a tomorrow
The pinnacle having a morrow
Being the steady pace of arrival today
There are moments when the Poet could go astray
Yet at that point, it is ok
The reason being the thinking in progress
A mind getaway would be considered like recess
A Poet’s thoughts are always on the move
Having everything to prove
A Poet being who the person is
Emotions the Poet wants to express
To the reader, it could be a sign of a confess
But always remember, the Poet holds the everlasting test
The Poet is the only key to their mind
No Pass or Fail
A straight line being direct to the Poet’s trail.