I want to be the one that buys your art
So I can hear how happy it made you
How you struggled that week between jobs and chores
Or why a trauma gave you inspiration instead of just a scar
But I can’t always be that one.
Someone else will buy it instead,
and I’ll never hear that story.
And there isn’t a word I know
for that kind of happy sadness.
When I dip my head into the pools
To see what’s growing
What’s different from their neighbours
I see a cosmos that rivals the stars
So I dive deep
And when I finally pull myself up
I realize I forgot to breathe and
I wonder where the day has gone.Internet
Busy months. Expect more stories and poetry soon!
Aye, the feelings still reside
Within the battered hide of the heart
But what use are they now,
Fruitless trees kept and tended
Only for history and memory
Their branches lie fallow in warmth
And cold alike.
“Could they burst forth with life again,” some ask, hopeful;
Others ask why I keep such empty vessels at all.
In truth, I cannot feed myself on hope
Nor wither myself to dust waiting
For a harvest surely imaginary.
The things are kept as a sign of progress
Of learning from one’s past, good and bad
A reminder and a marker.
New trees may take up their role
In the orchard of my soul,
And tended there in new light
They might produce unknown delight
If only the old do not poison them.
Heavy leaves of the most barren tree
Will still choke the life from those beneath
That ask for only moments of that blazing star
That the old memory drinks deep of.
Its time has passed, and should it come again,
It will come in the rebirth after the blaze,
The sun made manifest on the soil.
I haven’t written poetry for over a decade, and this poem is particularly somber, but it came to me and asked to be written. Just an appetizer while I work on something larger.