Best Crux Poems
Life is based on just one crux.
It is trust, trust and just trust.
So easy to defile.
For it is most fragile.
Trust gives me passion to strive.
The power that will make me thrive.
For those, who don’t understand.
There’s no second chance, they are completely banned.
Yeah! To get it straight.
If the trust ablates.
For sure, rest is in dire straits.
YES! I'm not that fussed!
Why do you have to be so cussed?
Appearance far down the road…
Voices singing by my ear…
The world passing by my eyes…
Nature sings at the sentiment…
Frozen tears withhold implicit words…
The four walls a witness of melancholy…
Deep within the crux an angel dwells…
Causing much pain internally…
Deep within the green colors…
I see passion bleeding with joy…
Fear of falling rain…
Standing by in the darkest weather…
Speeding cars zooming past…
Every second brings it closer…
Obsession with her presence…
The mirror appears reflection less…
…With coldness filling in…
Reaching out for the appearing hand…
And before I reach your warmth…
Frozen, my hearts ceases to beat…
The poet in me takes for a ride, through
eccentric magnetic moods of magic
No matter, whatever phase his life threw;
he gives his reasoning or his logic
I'm sure he wants to explore much of me
capture every emotion I carry
all along the transition & that's the key
That forms the crux of the art: poetry.
I want the person yield to the moment
give himself to the thought submissively
sans secrecy, self hood any movement
Diverting the poet from the person'lly'.
The mirage of the mind should re-reflect
It self, rather thoughts having any effect
There was no knowing
the truth of the matter,
what was, what would be,
and there is no knowing now.
The small town lights
shone in the cold, dry night,
some may have illuminated
lonely strangers and rats
or quiet lovers parting,
or strangeness in the night,
and we’d never know,
but somehow I hoped I might.
I’d never been asked
so plainly what mattered most,
and in a peculiar moment
I couldn’t say either way.
I had comfortably tethered
for fear of being untethered,
but she may have tethered first,
it was her greatest need.
The small town windows
and suburban windows beyond
glowed, each in its place,
around a person or a thing,
or people and things,
that we did not know
and surely never would,
I hoped I never would.
There remains no knowing,
what was oddly was,
I’d say I don’t and didn’t care,
but I stand alone with it now.
10th December 2018
Tear
into me,
mold with your scratches;
Carve away all the excess;
Sculpt,
reshape the left over bits;
Take heed with matches;
My crux chokes
air.
The ankh is more than a symbol or cross
It’s a sign of both physical and eternal life
Relocated from the land and death and dross
Men are believed to be living an afterlife
The hieroglyph stands for zeal and strength
To those swimming in sorrow and distress
It could be a source of succor and health
For those sinking in the Nile of sickness
To hold the ankh is to have key to immortality
It breaks open the door of the home below
And give access to the Eden of eternity
Ushering the bearer into a new life of glee and glow
The crux ansata is a cross with a holy handle
The keeps you bones and blood blessed
All through life… after life, even from cradle
It saves you eternally, even if your mind is messed.
Eight billion miles away,
the asteroid grows colder
as the one inhabitant
who has no god, falls to his knees
and blows upon the spark of light
he sees from one retreating,
distant star.
~
Is there anything you root for in our garden now?
Must I cultivate it to make it grow?
Can't seed so many plots, I know.
Is there anything you savour in our melting pot now?
Seasons changed, and our flavours compound,
True essence to distil.
Blinded by what familiarity steeps
You know our brew only too well, you see.
I taste bitterness, you drink me.
Remember,
The days when cultures were raw,
Just fresh and jubilantly spicy?
Where exactly did that zest go?
Preserved, yes.
Unspoiled, no!
Simmered away as steam from a kettle,
Aromas mingled over.
Vaporous, hardly distinguishable.
Whatever happened to our cultural bouquet?
Trying to bottle it is so hard.
Is there anything you relish in our feast now?
These days our palates just don't know.
We're still simmering.
Taste! Taste!
“Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities.” — George R.R. Martin
crux of life & death
hunting possibilities
beyond the storm
the word crux
derived from cross
the point of intersection
in today's world
that venerable crux
defies all detection
The Crux of Life
Learn to rise above
Irritation, fury, rage,
Anger’s wagging tongue—
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 16, 2010
Poetic form: Senryu
The crux of the matter, I'm handsome and slim
A fact of evolution, my smooth velvety skin
Gratefully unsurpassed
For this amazing bod I have
But I still have this loving feeling though it's slim
In the essence there is acceptance
Unconditional to a point of escape
The exit to life in a rapture of mystery
In here love knows no bounds
I want to be the light when you are surrounded by darkness
I want to bring you shadow when the light is too intense
I want to surround you with the night when you need the daylight to fade
I want to envelope you with warmth when the blackness is too cold
I want to cool your soul when the heat becomes oppressive
Let me warm you, cool you, soothe you and shelter your soul
It is the very least that you deserve...The night, the day, the sun and the moon, the stars –my gift to you
Fact, real, and yes, al/l - so true,
can it turn, be like, misconstrue,
maybe like this, one, three, two,
be some topic of points of view,
a dream or goal still comes true,
affair's subjective of who's who.
Crux is a craggy, seasoned, sunbaked fisherman from Missouri.
Never one to speed up a story, and never in any kind of hurry.
He has no grandchildren of his own, but likes my daughter Grace.
Grace is three, and loves to run her hands over bristly whiskers on his face.
I never saw this side of him before, my mother said to me, but I had.
Don’t you remember when he used to come and visit with my Dad?
They would stay up all night laughing about wild tales of the sea.
And who was feeling his bristly whiskers? That little lad was me.