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The Rarest Gem

There is a women’s Christian group that meets at 7pm on Tuesdays at one of the coffeehouses I hang out at. They usually gather round a large meeting table near the table I tend to favor, so I’ll often find myself listening in on their discussions—Not because I’m interested or nosy so much as because I possess the unfortunate inability to tune anything out.

Six to ten women attend this meeting, bringing a thin blue book with a title something to do with living a wholesome life as a Christian woman. Each week they discuss what they’ve read and share stories about what’s going on in their lives, often giving one another advice on how to deal with this difficulty or that personal trauma. Considering all the personality types involved, it seems like they form a great emotional support group for one another.

About two weeks ago one of the women was visibly despondent throughout the discussion, so toward the end, after each of them had shared and discussed something from her week, they gently ganged up on her and got her to open up. She broke down into shuddering sobs as she attempted to explain what was going on with her. Turns out she was feeling overwhelmed and depressed by drama and chaos created by some of her close friends. Stuff that perhaps fewer men than women would understand or relate to.

This poem builds on some thoughts that formed in my head as they urged her to draw a line and demand that her friends respect certain boundaries.

The Rarest Gem

Peace of mind is a rare and precious gem,
  shot through with deep unblemished shades
   of autumn skies that never fade,
each facet polished to a cool aplomb.
It waits within the deepest, darkest clime
  to be unearthed from rock and clay
   and crafted in the light of day
by empathy and wisdom till it gleams.

   So we must choose our friends with utmost care,
for there are those with whom it can’t be trusted,
  who treat this jewel with disdain,
   who scuff it up with gall and shame
until it’s rendered void of all its luster
  and every thought is muddied with despair.

This is my 9th Petrarchan sonnet.

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Of Promise

This one is for a kid who is remarkably lazy and unmotivated. Some people seem to believe that “promise” means “promised”. This is of course not the case. Nothing is promised, even where there exists great promise. One way or the other, an effort is involved in realizing the potential of ones promise. This particular breed of potential manifests when one applies oneself to the task of of its development and refinement over an extended period of time.

Of Promise

Promise waits for no-one
   and refuses to be known
by those who sleep in ruin,
   who refuse to learn and grow.

Promise is the angel
   who will never hear the pleas
of one who hides behind the
   skirts of mere velleity.

Promise stops, however,
   to listen to the soul
that struggles ever forward,
   ever focused on the goal.

Promise sings in shadow
   and will only come to light
for those who work to find her
   where she plays just out of sight.

Promise gives no refuge
   to the one who has no care,
who floats through life dependent,
   weak of will and unaware.

Promise stoops to succor
   him who stands and bears the weight
of tragedy and sorrow,
   striving hard to change his fate.

Promise is potential
   that will only sprout and grow
when fertilized with effort
   and well watered with regard.

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The Bridge

My favorite metaphors are the ones that don’t tell you what they are. I know what this metaphor is, but would it really help you to appreciate the poem to know it before hand? Not sure, so I’ll wait until after. If you want to know, you can continue reading after the poem. If you don’t, then don’t read beyond the poem.

The Bridge

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

The bridge is the function of memory, the far shore and the city thereon is the past, the sea is the gap between then and now, and the fog is the effect of time and age on the process of memory. The lanes being closed have to do with the age of the bridge and the fact that traffic from the city travels only in one direction, toward the observer of the past. In my case the past—my childhood in particular—is a dark and dismal place full of anger, confusion, and thinking errors.

This is my 8th Petrarchan sonnet.

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Maybe this

I am realizing that writing free verse is an integral part of my writing structured verse. In fact, I’m noticing that when I fail to spend some time exploring free verse, my structured verse suffers miserably and my overall creative flow backs up like a plugged toilet. Not a pleasant sensation.

I stumbled across some notes in an old composition book tonight and decided to flush them out a bit.

Maybe this

Maybe this is what I must do
  read tangible silence
    let my mind work over
      stories fables histories
        discoveries metered lore

                     climb
                  down
               ladders of
            thought
         line by
      line

until at last she stands on

         something
            soft
               forgiving
                  easy

      and is lulled to rest
   in the roaring quiet of

                           contemplation

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The Manuscript

I once came across a poem by Robert Service titled “A Hero” that really struck me. While in that poem the subject resolves to kill himself before succumbing to the urge to act out, I thought I’d try putting a poem together that looked back over having prevailed over such a demon. And I know such people are out there.

The Manuscript

His story lies completed on the desk,
  printed up in Times New Roman font,
  stuffed within the gape of small black jaws
opened up so wide it seems they’ll break.
A ream of cover letters, neatly stacked,
  all set to be dispersed in search of alms,
  awaits the manuscripts as they are drawn
from off the output tray to be critiqued.

He knows beyond all doubt it will be published,
  that it will be awarded highest praise,
    for it reveals his journey through a darkness
that nearly swept omnivorous destruction
  through countless lives across his span of days—
    and how he slowly learned to curb his demons.

This is my 7th Petrarchan sonnet.

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it’s up to you

They won’t always inspire confidence when it comes time to send them out into the community, but you have to hope for the best and wish them well in any case. At the very least, they deserve a chance. And who knows? Sometimes they’ll even surprise you in the best possible way.

it’s up to you

we came together to guide your way,
to point you toward a better path,
to pull you back from where you strayed
in darkness toward the aftermath
of choices only made to fuel a fire
that raged within your soul a deadly pyre.

we shared the wisdom of our years
and tried to help you see that life
extends beyond the nearest curve
that looms before your mental eye,
and that real gains are much more far away
than what amusements rule your thoughts today.

we tried to fill you with a sense
of motivation to transcend
the tragedy of circumstance
that spawned your urgings to offend,
to grow beyond the sum of all you’ve known
and seize a brighter future as your own.

we tried to teach you self control,
to think of more than just yourself,
to contemplate how others feel,
to cultivate a growing wealth
of tools to ply against uncertainty
and into shaping opportunities.

but after everything we’ve done
to elevate the way you think,
it seems that you must be the one
to make the choice to swim or sink;
either way, we’ll wish the best for you
and hope you’ll choose what’s right in all you do.

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Wordplay

I would say that my serious interest in poetry as a writer began in July of 2001. For this is when I embarked upon putting together a seven part poem consisting of terzanelles, which I titled “Fragments”. After this, I decided that I would dedicate the rest of my life to poetry, and after some casting about for ideas on how to get going, I decided I would begin by studying the ghazal for at least two years. This was just shy of twelve years ago now.

And what have I learned about poetry since then, in all this time? Well, for one thing I’ve learned that it is hard—very hard—to write what could objectively be considered “good” poetry. In fact, the more I learned about this art, the higher I raised my own standards, and the harder it got. Once in awhile I find myself reflecting on where I was 12 years ago and where I am today. I find myself wondering just what poetry is and how it could be defined, and what it is to me specifically. The specifics change on this regard, hopefully evolving, but there is a sort of vague and abstract definition of poetry that floats through my mind like an ever shifting cloud. One that dissipates into nothing whenever I try to use words to express it. That’s alright; this unsettled definition is for my own uses anyway.

But, I have at least developed a sense of what a poem is not, and for the first time in a while I found myself revisiting this notion.

Wordplay

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This is my 6th Petrarchan sonnet.

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Stumble

This is written for someone who stumbled some years ago. The fall was severe enough that there was the very real possibility of never being able to recover and live a normal life. This is not the sort of fall that involves scraped hands and knees, but the kind that involves a severe lapse in judgment—A psycho-spiritual fall. But, over time, this person has shown everyone a willingness to grow that is beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. A new chapter now begins for this being, and we are all filled with hope and wish the absolute best.

Stumble

For someone with potential

A shadow stirred within the hollows of your heart
  and writhed amid the shallows of your mind;
  it fell across your visage—left you blind
to choices that would raise you up from out the dark
and set you on a course to apprehend rewards
  reserved for those whose spirits are aligned
  with empathy and wisdom intertwined—
And blinded thus you faltered, fell, and landed hard.

    But it takes light to cast the blackest shadow,
  and this is light that you have learned to see.
You’ve gotten up again despite the grief and shame
    and found you have a bright new path to follow.
  You’re wiser now and touched with empathy,
so you should never fail and fall so hard again.

This is my 5th Petrarchan sonnet.

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Falter

When I play with a poetic form that I want get to know for its own sake and hopefully gain some insights from, I’ll often first explore the form in its strictest expression, following its “rules” exactly. Then after I’ve done this a few times, I’ll begin to deviate and explore variations on its structural theme. The ten Shakespearean, or English, sonnets I’ve written are all in strict iambic pentameters, but now that I’m moving through the ten Petrarchan, or Italian, sonnets that I want to write, I’m experimenting much more broadly. I have for a long time not considered rhyme essential to a form’s success, often opting instead to explore various alternatives. Instead of rhyme, this poem uses partial reverse rhyme, assonance, and alliteration in place of the end-line rhyme pattern used by the Petrarchan sonnet.

Falter

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This is my 4th Petrarchan sonnet.

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Refraction

Hermenegilda Cabrera, lovingly called Tiya Emmy by nearly everyone who knew her, passed away during the first week of March this year. She is my wife’s aunt, her mother’s sister. As she fell ill, I would find my wife crying uncontrollably as she read updates on her condition. And after she got the news that her suffering was over, she cried on and off for weeks. Even now I’ll sometimes find her crying.

Refraction

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

I know that Tiya Emmy’s passing has affected my wife at the deepest levels. But I also know there is more to it than this. Her mother and father are around the same age, and she feels that growing sense of dread all children must endure as their parents age. They are in good health, however, and we are thankful for this.

This is my 3rd Petrarchan sonnet. Still a bit challenging for me.

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The Chant

Last year during Advent I joined my wife at mass several mornings in a row at Saint Thomas Aquinas Cathedral—downtown Reno—before taking her to work. She is a deeply spiritual and faith-driven person, and Catholicism is one of the main ways her faith and spirituality find expression. As a non-religious person, I enjoy listening to and analyzing the homilies from a cultural standpoint. Then begins the long and often beautiful ritual of communion, at this location usually cantillated.

The Chant

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.