dark poetry

Poetry: March

Since March was the first month of the new year in ancient Rome, some historians believe the Romans named March after Mars, their god of war.

Time for a poem – warning ADULT LANGUAGE. If you’re easily offended, don’t read it. (Now you’re really curious, right?)

Man of March

Kiss me goodbye said Winter,
his eyes a-twinkle and a
guilty smirk, we find the
month of a Roman god, of
the lion and lamb, the
time of dancing transition
from the hard cock of cold
mister Winter to a soft sweet-
smelling moist pussy of
Spring, when even the
fucking pear look lovely
dressed with flowers and
the promise of new life
born of Spring, before
the Dragon swoops down
with heat and fire after
April, the last of the Kind
before October’s dance
(at 73) of fest and feast.
Hello, March, Man of
Venus and Lover
of Spring’s Pleasures!

©Bill Reynolds 3/4/2019

The best time to look both ways is when we are between the times. Mind the gap.

Poetry: Peace Be With You

 

Dark Night Warrior

I love the common, the warm blanket of peace,
the soft whispers of a perfect and quiet day,
the calm of nature, birds, and other people
smiling and loving and happy.

But the Dark Night of thunder and storm,
of lightning and wind and rain excites me.
I feel more alive in a storm than safe
in the banal aspects of a sheltered existence.

My every dream is a warlike challenge
of attacks and kills and fights to a death.
Even mine.
What warrior is content to watch the battle?
Half of me belongs to the night, the dark.

I believe in war, combat, risk, and battle.
Bore me not with stories of contentment.
Challenge me with fear and excitement
before I die from fucking fattened monotony.

Look both ways and ask what kind of existence you want.
The gaps?
Oh yes, there are always the gaps to mind.

Poetry: Unbelief

The greatest sin of unbelief

They tried my soul –
and found it guilty
of the greatest sin,
its unbelief.

There it is
for all to see, the bad is there
all about me, can’t you see?
not rape nor torture or the harm
of murder
none of that is my sin.

I killed no gods or goats
all souls still running free
to come and go,
but my only sin – no god
shall I ever know.

How do I dare
to declare
my mind be free,
and so bare. is it not right there?
show me any god,
then might shall I to care.

Condemn my soul,
if you must. but look at me
and you will I trust
see all I can be,
is humanly free.

The day I die and somewhere lie,
you’ll accuse me as others cry,
not of being bad nor good,
but unlike you,
I just did not believe to be true,
my unbelief in god now flows
through as all my being goes.

©Bill Reynolds   1/28/2019

Look both ways. Mind the gaps.

Poetry with a pledge

Happy day three of 2019, y’all.

I gave up making New Year resolutions years ago — never kept them. But, I hope (pledge) to write one poem each day this year. I write 30 poems during April for National Poetry Writing Month, so only 333 more to deal with (two done).

It may not be 365 good enough poems in one year, or ever. But, I’ll try. It’s my challenge.

I’ll share a few and deal with ideas or prompts where I discover them. I plan to keep writing essays and stories, and there is that A to Z blog thingy in April.

Remember, other than exercise and normal functions of life, I write stuff.

I’ve neglected reading and writing poetry most of my life. I want to catch up.

If I fail, I’ll own it and keep you advised.

You have a great year.

(The following poem is from my 2018 unpublished corpus.)

***

The Most Perfect Day

as I stepped onto the trail
I heard the noisy silence of the wild
rustling trees with brushing leaves and needles,
the grasses were dancing with the air
of a breathing Zepher-set movement,
spreading pollen and peace to all.
My footsteps, almost an invasion of the natural
calm.
of life and life and life.
soon, We were blessed by the flowing gift
of a quiet soft rain kissing Us,
My lips, My nose, face, and licking My shoulders.
trees began a dance joyfully in thanksgiving
for the sweet life-giving beverage of the gods.
I became dumbly transfixed
to My internal awareness
of My place
in the plan of the universe
and the circle of life and life and life.

me.

I am alive,
here,
now,
today,
with You
and the trees and the rain.
all are pleased to see Me,
to touch Us,
to be as much a part of Me as
I have become a part
of them,
of You,
of Us,
right here,
right now,

an almost most-perfect day – never alone
fully alive with life. and life
and,
I’m Alive!

©Bill Reynolds 12/30/2018

2019 has more future than past, not so I.
Life is lived forward, but look both ways to be safe.
Mind the gaps — accidents are the third leading cause of death.

Semi-Po’ Poetry – Weltschmerz

I have my regrets

I regret the last kiss, never the first
I regret more of the past than what’s in my future,
I regret imperfections in me and
I regret any less thans others might see,
I regret not going when I could have gone
I regret leaving, when I should have stayed

I regret every time I felt envy, all desire to possess
I regret wanting to be something I’m not
I regret being one of the great pretenders,
I regret sitting, when I should have stood,
I regret my silence when I should have spoken,
I regret thinking too much, and writing too little

I regret what I did late, that I could have done early
I regret too few helloes and too many goodbyes
I regret all my losses that were not good lessons
I regret any pain that I have ever given others
I regret what I knew, when I didn’t know at all
And I regret all my ignorance, when I should’ve known better

I regret my hate, instead of love’s compassion,
I regret when I failed, because I didn’t try harder,
I regret knowing now, what I didn’t know then
I regret learning later, what I should’ve known sooner,
I regret ever killing anything for sport or for pleasure

I don’t regret being human,

But it is so very human to say, “I regret…”

***

©Bill Reynolds 12/31/2018

***

“For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.

We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.”

***

Look both ways, to last year and to next.
May fewer gaps in your future bless your past in every way.
Happy New Year, Y’All

Note: For the definition of Weltschmerz, please click HERE.

Mo’ Po’ Poetry – Quit whining! Write.

This is the second poem like this. To see the first, ‘Blatant Babble,’ click here.

Am I dead when I cannot write? Did I stroke out? Are my feelings hurt? I can write. Shit! I can write drunk. I can always write! The haunting of the living, the thoughts, opinions, and feelings of others who may read my screed; so they bar me from my work, my art, my love. My inner say of séance. The ghosts of failure, the confusion of thought, the confessor imposter! The loss of muse; the stark naked strawness of boned-out creative nothingness. But, to fear bland boring blight? I can write. I’m physically mentally capable of stringing words with a good or bad mix into a pot or onto a page. I can write! I can always write; always, always, but not always write a win: my first Pulitzer. Needs work. Write words. I can write. Write?

 ©Bill Reynolds 12/20/2018

I agree. Do you?

Look both ways, but life can only be written backwards.
Mind the gaps, they are spaces on your resume.
Is this all write right?

Po’ Poetry – Blatant Babble

This is the first of two unpolished, stream of consciousness poems without form or structure. It’s a mental rant I experienced. I can’t explain it, other than to say I was in the kitchen when the thoughts hit me like three pissed off Muses. I went to my computer and wrote them. I think it is a poor man’s poem, thus the Po’.

***

Good enough is not more shit of a leader’s pass, or the lesser of a prompt leading to a dump. Enough. Is it done? Submittable? Ready to rock primetime or roll in a sty? A thought, a dot, to words and to arms, concludes with brains on pages to be sniffed up into minds with more thoughts and dots. Or, not to be. More snot than thought. Did sniff think shit don’t stink? Good enough is a lie that will have to do because this the tragic end-point that leads to death by less than. What then? Bless the sweet little pickled brain of poisonous brine leaking worthy words of wisdom. Applause. I came, I saw, I failed; I came again, I dumped, they cried. It stinks. It’s good enough. Let it go. Unforgiven consciousness of the unconscionable!

 ©Bill Reynolds 12/13/2018

***

Look both ways with random thoughts.
Be mindful of blatant babbling gaps.
Good enough?

Paradoxical Love Poem

Disclosure: all is well with me. My life is fine. This is not about me, at least not now. I did not write the poem. Its attraction for me is that it abuts the paradoxical nature of love, as I see it. This post is not about anyone I know but relates to the yin and yang of human romance. I don’t know if the poem is intended to be about anyone. Although, it’s inevitable that some of us will see our own shadow somewhere in the poem. And this: I have experienced shingles even after having been inoculated against the infection, and I plan to take the new shots soon. A poem that compares love to that has my attention.

I’ve been working on two other somewhat unrelated essays on the paradox of love for a long time. For months, it has been slow going for several reasons. It’s not the writing. Getting a handle on some aspects of human nature has been a high bar for me. I may be a little reluctant to publish — not totally sure why. Furthermore, I am multi-interested, but when I try to multi-task, as we call it, I FUBAR, as we also call it.

Romance novels are big sellers, and maybe I’ll write one some day. For now, I want to write about the reality of why we are as we seem to be. Romance novels are works of fiction, but there is some reality-based reason we read them.

Why do we love when we know we shouldn’t? How can we love people who do not love back? Why does our greatest pleasure, love, hurt? Why continue loving when it hurts?

And what does sex have to do with it? Obviously, with some love it’s ruled out. In other cases, it is expected.

Then I saw this poem in The Sun magazine. Part of the paradox of love for me is the pain. The pleasure of romantic love defies description (doesn’t keep me from trying). But is it enough to endure the “love hurts” painful kind of situation? Do we love people and wish we didn’t? Conversely, are there people we don’t love, but wish we did?

I would say no, but I would be wrong. Love overpowers all forms of wisdom, logic, caution, safety, and potential for pain. We’d lie for love, we’d die for love. So many of us go into relationships having experienced the pain and suffering, and knowing what another relationship might bring. Some of us are in those painful relationships. That is what is so great about it.

When I read this poem, I thought she had nailed it. That poem reflects exactly what I am talking about when I try to put the paradox of love into an understandable and logical framework of words.

Due to copyright law, I cannot publish the poem here, but the magazine allows me to post a link to their web page.

Please click this link to the poem Loving You Burns Like the Shingles by Terri Kirby Erickson and read it for yourself at The Sun’s magazine website.

Note: The Sun allows you to view two articles per month without subscription. So, if you have already viewed two on their site, you may not be able to read the poem.

I’ve added a little youtube of the song, Love Hurts, by Nazareth. Sorry for the downer. We love to love, and love is not a downer.

 

Look both ways, to the past and toward the future.
But focus on the here and now. Mind gaps in everything.

Poetry: The Whole(y) Trinity (Earth+Rain+Sun) +Air

Our Earth is breathtaking, awe-inspiring, magnificent, wonderful, amazing, stunning, staggering, imposing, stirring, and impressive. It’s also formidable, fearsome, mind-blowing, jaw-dropping, marvelous, and wondrous.

I

It is pure coincidence when the sun and I rise together.
Some mornings, I get to see him peeking through smoky cloud,
other times he is in full blast before I notice the lightness
of another day, I might say, he’s looking kind of gray.
We need the sun. Without sun, we are none, no life begun.
But too much sun is less than fun for those of us
who’d a fair-skin mum, with sun’s-red or blonde hair.
Here come the sun, with promises of things not done.

II

‘tis all the same with the rain, hello, this is nature’s sweetest gift.
The water of life, with two hydros and one oh, of it we drink
vapes up to the sky, but not to the sun, to meet
with clouds of wonder before coming to cleanse
and to make things grow, sometimes as ice, or maybe as snow.
To make us a soup the plants may drink and we of the flesh,
must readily use to be mostly moving bags of water —
no rain, no water; no water – no life, but we have for us
the rain and rain and water and life that needs rain.

III

The earth, the dirt and the dullest dust of all things come and gone —
the coat of soil, six inches deep, worn by the planet is key to it all.
Type of soil names go with what it does and may sound human,
like Clay, Loam, Sandy, Peat, Rocky, and Chalky all improved
with organic things of life gone past, soil is often used for art,
but add the seed then wait to see the growth of life and us to be
mixed and matched and combined with time, then add and mix
the sun and rain and plant life comes, and air is there, and life
of animals and we are they. Care for it all if you plan to stay.

IV

Deep sigh for air and sky. Ya know, lads and lasses, it seems
brother air was not always there, but he’s a changeling contrivance
subject to manipulation with a chemical touch and that is, you see,
what all the fuss truly is and what it’s all about. The magic of
the other three working together (with the sea) brought to be
what we now suck into our lungs and over our tongues the air
the plants brought forth by a wonderful trinity of symbiotic
relationships giving life (recently to us) — for a time. How long?

©Bill Reynolds 11/19/2018

Look both ways in matters of life and nature. They’ve been here longer than us.
Mind the gaps with open-minded caution, discovery may one day fill them with knowledge.
All life, all earth is one. Let’s not fuck this up.

Will I Care? Don’t Talk Like That!

The past happened without me, as will the future.
Beginning on what day will I no longer get out of bed?
Unable to remove the mask and walk away,
to pee or whatever. Will I know anything?
On what day will I no longer want coffee?
I can handle not to have. But not to want?
Does nirvana or moksha reflect happiness or denial?
On what morn I’ll no longer begin a day’s reading?
Is not my quest for knowledge stewed in desire?
To have and to hold, to want and to need. To care?
There’s more I want to know. Will I care? Do I?
Must I stop loving her on that day? As the Jones song goes.
Will my dignity be intact, or will it be the first to go?
Will I die in a puddle of shit? As many would see that as fit.
Will I remember my name, yours, where I am? Will I care?
Is there such a thing as death with dignity? Or do we
just pass on to return life for life? Don’t talk like that?
Away and towards. Turn, turn, turn. Say I love you.

I care.

I do.

Love you.

 

© Bill Reynolds 10/15/2018

Look both ways; to the beginning and toward the end, when gaps no longer matter.