Tag Archives: Poetry

Some Realizations

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Here is the visible misfortune of a friend
and the degree of my own indifference
surprises me.

It isn’t the same when,
far removed from my presence,
fanatics kill and burn strangers.

This elicits an immediate reaction
….but not for the stranger,
so perhaps it is the same.

Do I hate bad ideas more
than I love good people?
Is that a natural product of our times?

Or perhaps this is a grotesque evasion
of a problem that may not be singular to me
but is more intrinsic than I’d like to admit.

Tolerance

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And now I find myself
filled with derision
for every strand of thought
not in harmony with mine

While consciously aware
that with each passing moment,
albeit with diminishing vitriol,
I am derisive of my own past

But wouldn’t concessions,
no matter how intuitive,
be akin to succumbing to
the mediocrity that comes naturally?

And perhaps a war over axioms
is doomed until we realize
there is no all-knowing, all-powerful, all-present
but only us and our conversations

Echoes

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….then there are times, perhaps more
frequent now that I have been here a while,
when the hesitance to repeat is so consuming
that I forget about the wondrous sleight of language,
which is the tool and a reason;

and that the right things must be said endlessly,
there always being the need to say them
with no dearth of mouths espousing all
that’s wrong, evil and unnecessary.

Remembering and accepting this,
it all suddenly falls open and multitudes emerge,
the voices of yore, itching to be heard once again
in a different but befitting manner

Distractions

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I force myself to begin
and not consider the arduous path
that must be traversed before attaining
any semblance of joy

While constantly aware
that an easy fix lies a tab away
measured against which this effort
becomes vulnerable to feelings of disinclination

I fall prey easily and with increasing regularity
until the arduous path,
once a sufficient source of joy by itself,
is marked by so many instances of desertion

that its length and complexity increases
and turns it into something
unrecognizable of the form it belongs to
but well in sync with the world that affects it

Living in Wait

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…and now as all noise abates
and the sunlight through the closed window
falls well on the white pages

and the warmth is not more than required
and the time of day incongruent
to food and sleep and friends

and now as each surrounding atom
aligns the way stars do
to signal the opportune moment to sail

I let the urge fill me completely and at its leisure
while thoughts of imminent productivity
beguile and deceive