Poetry: To You, My Reader

Only you and I are
Important characters
in what I write.

This is a poem about you
my reader –
I know how many people
read my work –

That makes for a very personal
relationship –
us –
two people, you and me,
and some words –

You gift me the most precious
thing you have – your time –
your time, and sometimes
your thoughts.

This poem is for you.
I was never a closet poet,
I was out from word one!
Late in coming as it was.

Somewhere in me is this thing,
these words, written down
by me, for you –
Thank you, I love you

For completing me as
poet and writer. Without
you I might as well not
write, I’d be in the closet making

Noises no one ever hears.
Think about it.
How important you are
to me! Feel my gaze and let

My eyes show you my gratefulness.
Everything I write is for you,
often inspired by you, always
to you. Thank you.

©Bill Reynolds 3/21/2019

Look both ways; you to me, me to you. May we mindfully fill the gaps.

The Greatest Gift

It cannot speak
cannot see or hear
No feeling or form
It moves through the universe,
But it never leaves my soul

It has no name
but knows me well
it makes no sound,
But explodes in every human heart,
it is the beginning and the end
the lost and the found
the discovery and burn.

It is in every thought of every day,
It crosses and straightens,
It eats nothing but feeds everything
It curses not but many swear upon it
It sticks like glue and slips too easily away
Without cost it is the dearest of all
Giving strength to the weak, it
brings the powerful to their knees.

To give love,
To take love. The love of life,
The sights and the sounds and the smells
the feels and the tastes of love.
The least and the greatest of all gifts

Both taken and given.

© Bill Reynolds

Let your love look both ways, to what is and what might have been.
Fill the gaps with the time we have, as precious as it is.

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.

© Bill Reynolds, 2/11/2019

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

Personal Poetry: Status Report

I wrote more than 31 poems this month – at least one per day. I hope to write one each day for the rest of the year. Some days I must force them out, other days they flow with my emotions; often several. It seems I do my best work when emotionally unstable and I just spew my voice and my words onto the paper. Technically, they are not quite tidy, but the color splashes feel so good.

My January list follows as either titles or topics.

  1. The Dark Random Universe
  2. Scout (my daughter’s dog is named Thor, but I like Scout better)
  3. A poem about a tractor
  4. Brainless True Believers (I was/am pissed)
  5. Old man goes for a swim (not me, but his name is Bill)
  6. The feel of the pool (me in the water)
  7. A poem about writing
  8. Not belonging (how it feels)
  9. The goodness in badness
  10. The F Word (I know some of you love it as much as I do)
  11. A Tough Momma’s Boy
  12. The Greatest Sin (published on blog)
  13. Benched (also published)
  14. Companionship reality
  15. Free People
  16. Turkey and Turks
  17. As it was (published)
  18. Golf Carts (they are everywhere here)
  19. Cats (I like dogs, too. But cats intrigue me.)
  20. Walking (I do it virtually every day)
  21. Undisclosed (political bitching)
  22. Born into a smoking world
  23. Stormy (weather or person?)
  24. Suicide
  25. Meaning in Life
  26. The Contemplative Atheist
  27. No Dog in the Fight
  28. The Cancer Closet
  29. Time and Life
  30. Climate Collapse
  31. Today (in a Carpe Diem sense)

Look both ways, back at January (Winter), forward to March (Spring).
Mind the gaps, and happy Imbolc, St. Brigid’s, or ground hog day.
It’s all February to me.

Poetry: How it was

 

we were wine drunk in a sad state
rain fell softly, our feet bare in tall grass
we discovered and devoured everything
it was a time, I wish we could go back to

a place that no longer exists
nothing is the same
we are not the same
like rain runs off an old tin roof

we did our best
we were all winging it
without a book of instructions
we loved and tried and cried

sickness taught us about mortality
and of time
of right and of wrong
of a balance of life based on mystery

life gave us as much as we took
we were brittle, we were broken
we looked deep to encompass pain
to draw a circle around it and around us

the circle around us, that was grace,
I, just a boy, you, a girl, we
to each other, every boy and girl
we had ever had and lost

we wanted to leave, to not exist,
to go leaving no tracks or marks
to be forgotten and not followed,
we yearned only for us to be

we wondered how to live
for ourselves and for life and
because we believed
in each other as one spirit

we wanted to see the sky,
to go home, but how ?
we did not think past us
over our shipwrecked lives

everything was falling and not falling
the next toehold in life was
sore tired hearts and bodies
of the children we were, we are

we lost, unsure of what was real
we didn’t know what to do or to write
or to say or to ask, to only feel a sad
liberating acceptance of a deeper sadness

we were stripped of a dignity in life
of all things tried and failed
all the love we’re ever given
can be invoked long after it’s gone

I’m here
we are here
in this moment, this place, a time
when once there was this: us.

©Bill Reynolds 1/21/2019

Look both ways, but love the past we’ve lost to the cosmos.
Those gaps are gone, sadly.

Song Lyric Sunday – Sadness

The Song Lyric Sunday theme for today is Sadness/Crying. That sounds like the blues to me. I selected B.B. King playing and singing The Thrill is Gone. It’s sad of course, but with double entendre. The song was written by Rick R. Darnell and Roy Hawkins.

 

The Thrill Is Gone

B.B. King (Manhattan Transfer F/ Ruth Brown, B. B. King)

The thrill is gone
The thrill is gone away
The thrill is gone (baby)
The thrill is gone away
You know you done me wrong baby
And you’ll be sorry some day

The thrill is gone
It’s gone away from me
The thrill is gone baby
The thrill is gone away from me
Although I’ll still live on
But so lonely I’ll be

The thrill is gone
It’s gone away for good
The thrill is gone
It’s gone away for good
Someday I’ll be over it all
Just like a good woman should

Y’know I’m free free now baby
I’m free from your spell
Y’know I’m free free now baby
I’m free from your spell
And now that it’s all over
All I can do is wish you well

Songwriters: Rick R. Darnell / Roy Hawkins
The Thrill Is Gone lyrics © Universal Music – Careers, Universal Music-careers

Look both ways. Mind the gaps.
They can be unbelievably wide.

 

Click graphic for link to SLS page.

 

 

Poetry: Benching

Benching

I’ve been benched
watching
and thinking –
but mostly resting,
feeling sore and angry
because I do know the score.

Sit down and shut up,
sit on your hands
she said.
Be a good little nobody.
When the tyrant teases,
take it like a man.

Fuck that. I am what I am
if that is not pleasing to you,
eat me, ass hole sick breath.
I dunno why I’m here but
not to please you is for sure.
Not one damn bit sorry am I.

I benched myself, to rest,
to think and to talk, to look
and to waive my wave or
give the nod, an atheist’s blessings
be upon you and your dreams.
The pains and gains piss on the bench,
and the next and next after that.

Feel the pain in my body, my mind and my core
I’m benched — out of the game. On my ass.
Sitting here watching dogs and deer,
wondering when this all will pass.
Sympathy and anger, it’s all the same to me.
On the bench is where, I can always
be – or is this all that I now can be?

Now you can tell me, to get off my ass
to make the pain come on back, to stretch,
and move, to walk and run and to see and feel.
Benching is good and it feels so bad.
Move over dip shit, this is my bench,
My time to cry, my time to rest

on the old man’s bench.

© Bill Reynolds 1/14/2019

Look both ways and know where the respites hide.
Mind the gaps. Broken slivers can hurt.