New poem: "The Seeker's Plight"

  

 

The Seeker’s Plight

 

It’s commendable to be a seeker;

in fact, one cannot give enough praise

for the courage it takes to look for

answers to life’s big questions— who

am I, and why? And does God exist?

And what about the self, is it real or an

ephemera? And life itself, is it meaningful

or absurd? Who can tell us but the seeker?

Life’s too complicated and demanding

for most people, and it takes all we have

just to make a decent living and raise

a proper family; but all the same, we all

wonder what this life is all about, and we

look to the seeker for answers. But who

are these seekers, these brave souls who

traverse the worlds of the mind in search

of the master key to the mystery? Who

are these intrepid seekers, if not the writers,

poets, and artists who dare to explore beyond

the ken of human thought for answers that

nourish our hungry soul. And when they

do share what they find, how discreet they

have to be with the bounty of their quest,

telling their truth slant for fear of upsetting

the proverbial cart. It really is commendable

to be a seeker, but when they do find what

they’re looking for, how valiant they have

to be to share it with the world

New poem: "A Sacred Place of Resolution"

 A Sacred Place of Resolution

 

So quiet, after so many years—nay,

lifetimes of questing for the answer

to why and who am I? No more anxiety,

no more fear of never knowing, the

answer came when I became the person

that I was born to be; but not without

all the pain and suffering resolving the

enantiodromiac dynamic of my own

becoming. “There is nothing but the self

and God,” said the mystic savior, shower

of the way of what is to come, master

storyteller of the sacred word, dying

daily to be born again—oh how blessed

it is to be where I am today, a sacred

place of resolution.

New poem: "Waiting for the Snow to Fly"

 

Waiting for the Snow to Fly

 

All the leaves have fallen,

and the trees are bare, another

season’s gone and soon it will

be winter again. The wood is cut

and neatly piled, ready to burn

in the cozy fire, with many new

books to read and another book

to write. I long for the first snow

fall to herald my season to create,

but I wonder which book is calling

to me: a new memoir to advance

the tale of the hero’s quest, more

stories to tell the tale, or new poems

to soothe the aching soul? It doesn’t

matter what my muse decides, the

winter is mine to enjoy, and I long

to see the first snow fly from a room

of my own in our lovely home

in beautiful Georgian Bay.

New poem: "The Poet's Puzzling Vision"

 

The Poet’s Puzzling Vision

 

The poet applied polysporin on the crusty scab

on his right hand to help the new skin grow,

and in one day, the dead scabby skin began to fall

away. The poet fell off his trail bike rushing

to answer the mobile phone on the coffee end table

on his front deck, which rested on top of his Saturday

Star and National Post newspapers and the book

he had written on his mentor Gurdjieff, and he scraped

the back of his writing hand on the asphalt driveway;

and as the poet waited for his morning coffee to brew

the day after he applied the polysporin on his hand,

he had a vision of being so distant from the world

that no one could approach him. The black scab

fell off his bruised hand and the new skin was shiny

and clean, and the poet’s puzzling vision revealed

itself to him: he saw himself in the world but no longer

of this world, which was the very heart and soul

of his puzzling poetry, and he felt strangely good

for not being understood, because he knew that when

the world was ready for what his poems said,

he most certainly would be read.