The Hopeful Poet

Stress rubbing against the grain of my stubble as I stare out at all this human rubble, and all this inhumanity makes me miss the innocence of ignorance and the arrogance of my adolescences.

Living in a drought I continue to draw from the well of emptiness in you, sup up a dry pit that makes us all sick as I attempt to turn the poisonous darkness of our dark abyss into a truth that sparks empathy in humans.

Gazing into the depths of each iris, seeing eyes with oceans of emotions swirling behind them, stress and anxiety driving, but not directing their journey, the loss of energy turning vibrant beings different shades of exhausted, while love intermingles with the silver blade of grief that is gleaming slick with our heart's blood after losing so much,

I see how we keep getting up, despite the rage, and pain,

how in hours of anguish we still manage to be kind,

how amidst all that anger sometimes we find the right path to fight back and make sure this night doesn’t last forever, even though we know we may never get to see the sunrise on that better life,

how sometimes we only survive by surveying the night sky and all of its coldness, knowing it holds its potential of a spectacular star sparkling fire turning in eternity, and burning in Infinity, living for a moment in a singular entity that sees its beauty and paints deep wells of pain in a Starry Starry Night.

It probably has taken a few years but they’ll be the rough ones waiting on the otherside of sixty to eighty, the shitting my pants daily and wearing depends, hardly moving, and in pain waiting for the end.

Now, I bring a snack of words to work with and devour them like the snake that eats itself, cause I am empowered to shit a mess made of me then mix it in with undigested phlegm, swirl each new world I discover in a stew, and create a new universe for all of you to view anew with a taste of salvation to enchant those among you who would chance to dance with me in a sea of sweet syllable mysteries.

Till in the end I become Romeo romancing the stone alone at home writing poems to no one except for my once and future reader. I become the philosopher and soothsayer, the seer and speaker of thoughts I hear along with the worms in my ear that play the same melancholy melody repeatedly.

My mortality is a book and written in it is the painful fact that my death may leave a sad impact but after that life goes on.

My hope is that when I am gone my brother and his family will survive that tragedy.

I live with the knowledge that I will most likely not get to live to see my nephews grow their own family, and as time rolls on they will lose me. Bits of my identity, and our fun times playing will fade like sunburnt jeans.

They may still speak of me but it will be in tiny fragments of vagaries. Shifting shades will see me become someone I never was for those I love, as they forget the tickles, and chases, the half a block then back again foot races, the story book time, the wrestling and telling me about their loose teeth, the going out to eat, the telephone calls randomly or for specific things.

So, I guess I will keep making notes in poetry hoping that one day down the line they will read, see, and believe how much I loved them.

I don’t need to chase paradise because right now is all right.

So, don’t worry if you see me stop and stare at the sky in the evening cause it is just the kid in me enjoying the cosmic glory of my limited time only once in a life spin in and around our galaxy.

You are as fierce as an archangel with the spirit of a guardian, activated activist singing with a voice that rings with empathy, and moving with the energy of a compassionate human being.

Artist extraordinaire. If I was a man of faith I’d ask God to replace Metatron with you, because that whole heavenly hierarchy God created patriarchy could use someone as divine as you.

My friend when you are not there at poetry events there’s a Sydney sized hole, an emptiness that fits but cannot contain your powerful presence, because there is no cage strong enough to hold your essence, and no poem perfect enough to express my admiration.