Home Is Happiness

Category: Poetry

Lame attempts at poetry, generally written to please myself or as a form of self-prescribed therapy.

  • Quicksand

    It looked firm as I stepped forward
Believing then in solid ground
It gave away and pulled me in
Yielding with a sucking sound

Struggle only pulls me deeper
Suffocation in the wings
Standing frozen cannot save me
Without aid from other things

No one seems to see or hear me
As I draw closer to death
Sinking slowly ever deeper
Anticipating my last breath.

  • Blank

    I sat to write from deep inside
To plumb the depths down in my mind
To analyze what festers there
Then sort it out and solace find

But looking in and peering 'round
Find jumbled masses in a rage
Each voice insisting it's the one
Demanding freedom from this cage

Retreat with haste and turn the key
No wiser than I was before
Close me up with bolt and lock
Scared to e're reopen that door

  • Cyclical

    Drive to be productive,
Time to be creative,
Focus to be innovative.

Success that pushes forward,
Progressing toward complete,
Till the vision is realized.

And now it stands finished,
But no one but me cares to see -
My voice doesn't matter here.

Creation stalls out cold,
Wasted work mocks new hope,
And shouts it's nothing new.

  • The view

    I have been to the mountain
And seen through the crystalline air
The valley below shrouded in fog
And the goal that lies just beyond
 
I have wandered the paths of the valley 
Groping through gray of the mists
Feeling for wayposts and markers
Hoping to progess without knowing how
 
I can stand above and know the way
Or go below and press the path
But never both.

  • Anxiety

    I can't give reason
It doesn't matter though
Jittery hands and pounding heart
I'm tight from head to toe

  • Plans

    Purposeless motion is chaos
That ends right where it began
Wasting both time and effort
When expended without any plan

Planning gives sense of direction
Providing a goal to achieve
Setting a clear objective
And something in which to believe

But plans have a transient nature
That shift with the altering tides
Changing the traveled direction
Till my plans and future collide

And the end point I had longed for
Falls victim to what must be
So sadly I concede defeat
And forcefully subjugate me

  • Regression

    I knew it all when I was eighteen
At thirty I had some doubts
Now middle-aged with teenage kids
The doubts are all that remain

  • Meditation

    Clear and open my mind I'm told
    But nature abhors a vacuum
    It refills faster than I can empty
    Flitting from thought to thought
    As I banish them one by one

    Grab a meditative thought
    A gurgling stream to fill the void
    But it won't remain without effort
    So I fill in the cracks and crevices
    With thoughts that defeat the purpose

    Meditation is deliberate boredom
    I don't know how to do that...
    I seemingly never really can
    Shut my mind to constant work
    Without falling asleep

  • What Remains

    At twenty-one my limber legs
    Could run without complaint,
    My creaking back was years away
    I was never tired or faint.

    But years of active vibrant use
    Have slowly robbed me blind,
    Of these mortal strengths and gifts
    Leaving memories behind.

  • Tapestry

    Single threads placed one at a time
    Contrasting in color and tone
    When viewed from the weavers stance
    Seem random and jumbled - meaningless
    Laid in over time and with great effort
    It asks us to wait, then step away
    To discover the grander design