It isn’t yielding much result,
I’m still living below the bread line,
I don’t get a full night's sleep,
I still haven’t gotten the desired reap.
I come home after a hectic day,
Behind a closed door is a gloomy ray,
My kitchen gives me a cold comfort,
Nothing there commiserates my labour.
Not a star I see in you my father says,
I worry when I think about you,
I want to shut the door to my muse,
Believing it’s not a worthy fuse.
I pour myself into my art,
Amidst my turbulent part,
My father doesn’t see a serious son,
He sees the least of his children.
I almost tossed it out,
But for the joy it still brings,
But for its swift wings,
It’s a river that flows to me.
At night I still see the sky’s yellow eye,
I think it isn’t a lie,
The man outside may not be the one my father wants,
The one inside buoys the one on the outside who is on the path to a blooming meadow.
October 17, 2024.
Categories:
commiserates, father, inspirational, me,
Form: Rhyme
The monks line of sight,
lays low upon the horizon,
multi-shifting clouds
cast long glances,
upon the land, longing
to stretch its calloused feet,
relieving the earthy itch;
like a salty brine water,
saturates, maybe invigorates,
as it commiserates in sobs,
casting broad for its sister,
the osmotic sea.
His naked eyes
blur the dark outlines,
as he pencils In an
apt impressionistic
frown, of which he
caught mindfully open;
the door to the soul, he
intuits is his to find,
alone In the crowd;
like slogging through time;
as when walking through
the wet craggy bogs
of his woes;
as the line of site fades
in trance, not forgotten,
his myths encircle
his way.
Categories:
commiserates, fate,
Form: Free verse