The heart goes on. Long after
thoughts of her fade. It is said
that ’tis better to have lost at love
than to have never ventured.
The heartache is the same.
I can not blame her
for wanting more, but when one
is unsure, one teeters on the brink.
So, learn to swim or sink,
but in the end the tally is the same.
Life is the no win game. But play
as if your life depended upon it.
Believe in the heart; it goes on.
And you will be fine until you flatline!
You worry about my comings and goings,
as if I am tied to someone else’s life.
But life is rife with opportunities
and the unities we have established
do not serve to anchor a heart when
feet continue to seek new ground.
My acquaintances know my nomadic ways,
and I spend days and weeks at a time
enjoying what’s mine when I find it!
(Mine AND the time!) So let me be,
and I’ll be. Just leave your message
at the beep. I’ll get back when I am!
Treading to keep your head above water,
catching a lungful from time to time.
Going down too many times to count,
but you struggle to survive. You remain
alive with the words that drip with the emotion
that has always been your forte. Drowning in a sea
of night sweats and blankets tangled, and things
that go bump have you stumped as your sleeplessness
offers only anxiety and paranoia. Hold your breath
and allow rest to resuscitate your muse.
You’ve abused yourself far too long. Be strong
and let nature heal what it has destroyed.
The king is not dead, he merely sleeps.
We think it is about time.
You can’t keep a good poet down. Best wishes and thoughtful prayers for Walt Wojtanik an extraordinary poet who has fallen prey to his demon. He will surely bounce back.
Bound to the life we’ve created
and not necessarily the one planned,
each woman and man has a choice.
We can use our voices to call out the
unfairness that abounds, or remain
the prisoners we have prescribed to be.
Our enslavement can be nothing
from which good can be extricated.
Chained to these walls of self-doubt
and indecision, our mission is clear.
Shout out for all to hear and cheer
for the hero who escapes from the
tretchery of the villianous and destructive.
The only way to be productive
is to set yourself free and flee.
Grief, she’s a loyal mistress
to a fault, but not hers.
Colm MacNish has been
both suitor and antagonist,
an anarchist in the ways
of a fond and common heart.
A quiet alcove, a point where
rendezvous met passion,
fashioned from a molted overhang.
But interludes of his romantic
crassness, served no purpose
of self or otherwise. Her eyes
Haunt him: pleading, beckoning,
luring him to despair’s crumbled edge.
Her melody plays within him,
a din whose volume rises
with each sordid thought of her.
Her hands, no longer caressing,
lay resting acrost her still chest.
Gentility abandoned in stark reality.
And grief has replaced her.
Colm longs for her countenance,
a remembrance most sad,
had he paid heed to her supplicant
cries, she may have averted
deaths forceful grasp. But alas,
gone she was. Colm MacNish
had an eternal wish. A projectile
befitting a man of his caliber
burst from its chambered rest.
Their bench sits now, vacant and decrepit,
worm meal in their absence.
My nomadic existence takes me,
it literally makes me pick up
and move from time to time.
A well-worn traveler, an unraveller
of the fabric of my making.
An undertaking that take me
down under, a wonder in its own right.
A forth night from Melbourne,
an unborn yearning to make
my presence known.
North to south, hemispheres
exchanged and it is a strange feeling.
Stealing moments to enjoy this escape
until my longing heart starts
to pack and leaves for home.
We carried a vision jointly.
We wanted a cottage in the countryside.
We wanted children and a dog.
We wanted to travel to far off places,
we wanted our faces to meet with every fleeting moment.
We wanted to grow old together and
we wanted our matching rocking chairs side by side.
But inside, a different story emerged.
I wanted the freedom to write my weary heart.
She wanted independence to placate hers.
I wanted to purchase more of a footprint on this old sod.
She wanted to wait and see how we worked out.
I wanted her to be happy,
she wanted that too.
She wanted the cottage in the countryside.
She wanted the children and the dog.
She wanted to travel far away from our union,
She wanted my face to meet her barrister.
We wanted to grow old together but
she wanted to keep her youthful arse far from that rocking chair.
I wanted to work things out.
She wanted to divorce.
She received the cottage in the countryside.
She took custody of the children and the dog.
She bannished me to a place far from her,
she wanted my face to suffer in pain.
She got everything she wanted.
Anyone wishing to purchase twin rocking chairs?
Away from the grind,
a mind at rest and loving
It is rejuvenation I am after,
and so walking off in the pursuit
of mystic pipes and a search
to debunk the dreaded
Lough McIllwain Monster
seems to be my solitary quest.
A journey unplanned
but well taken, forsaking
and social kinship
for a sip of whiskey and
nothing else over which
to concern myself.
Holidays always end.
How unfortunate this is so.