Things get simple later in life...
OK, not everything gets simple
But emotions distill to their essence
There's no time anymore for the noise
While fighting to filter things out from the background
And background is what you've worked on a lifetime so far
Like picking out from the multitude that one perfect star
The one that aligns with the orbit you've found
With your head in the space where your feet found the ground
And all of your wandering brought you right here
To the point on this sphere where the tears in your eyes
Don't dim the reflection of the path you've been on
Leading up to this point where things all boil down
Reducing your life to the importance of focus
(“Particle in the Wave”, 2018, original encaustic)
How many midlife crises is it gonna take
To make it to maturity?
Like how a finite segment of a line
Can always be halved ad infinitum,
One’s life is always just halfway done,
And so we are always prone to midlife correction.
Bring it on we say,
As the floor falls out yet again,
But everyone knows everyone wishes
The floor would hold.
(4/1/26)
(“Utopia and Terror Merit Badge”, 2010, original oil)
Ideal and real exist in opposition
Like two children on a playground teeter-totter
Two children who will grow
To be completely different adults.
Idealism is the default of all infants
And is what all mature humans grow out of
Sooner or later, all too often much later,
Perhaps for some
Not until the moment of death.
It feels good after all to want what you want
And even expect to get it!
But realism sees beyond such wants
To what is.
Realism is the philosophy of accepting
Simply what is.
While idealism wishes for what can be
It may even seem noble
Yet is in-fact the ultimate intolerant view,
And taken to the extreme
Has led to the worst atrocities
In human history.
Does realism sometimes lead to atrocities?
Perhaps, but to the realist
They would just be necessity.
So idealism is the philosophy of infants and tyrants,
While realism makes do
And gets along as best as can be.
But this doesn’t have to be a morose fatalism
As there is always a bright side.
There is always a new day dawning
Somewhere at this very moment.
That isn’t idealism
That’s very real.
(1/30/25)
Self and selfless exist on a spectrum
A path of maturation
A path of relative perspective
From personal to transpersonal.
When you are young it is all about you
As you grow you see there are others too
Until when old, finally see those others
Make up the many, and you the very few.
All of us are hardwired for empathy
And compassion too
Although the two are not the same.
Empathy, connected to our pain centers,
Makes us feel other’s pain as our own,
A basically selfish concern.
Compassion, connected to our love centers,
Makes us want to take on and share
The suffering of others,
An inherently selfless concern.
Compassion doesn’t lead us to harm others
But empathy can. Empathy
Is what lies at the root of mass hysteria
Leading one to join a lynch mob
Soccer-fan riot
Anti-ICE protest
Or nationalist army marching to war.
Compassion is what leads us to see the other
As no different from ourselves
No matter what side the other is on.
In the end it’s really not selfless
It’s just self expanded
To include it all.
(1/23/26)
Destiny, oh destiny, why hide thyself from me.
Come out, come out, for all to see.
A life filled with struggle, then at last a surprise.
Why not reveal now how I self-actualize?
Have I no choice of my destination,
How I’ll proceed in my maturation?
How many ways could there be?
Or outcomes to this mystery?
More than one, surely a few,
Leave some things to chance, it’s the least you should do.
I want to have challenges and growth each day,
A purposeful life as I travel my way.
Life’s surely not over, with just destiny
My soul longs to live for eternity.
Buried in the depths of my soul is the unrealized hope of a full explanation
Covered over by shovels full of doubt and thoughts regressed
Brilliance which lost its edge from lack of use lies in a state of degradation
Can hope with its own will stir once again the creative mind
Bringing forth seeds of thoughts that demand to be expressed
That they may be embellished by those holding thoughts of a like kind
This is the essence of my life’s revelation
To expose those soulful thoughts, that all may be blessed
Luring thoughts that deserve our full admiration
To put them in rhyme I’m often inclined
For me it’s the medium that seems to be best
Alloying a rhythm to be intertwined
No matter the depth of their foundation
The soulful thoughts will evolve on their quest
Fulfilling the purpose of their creation
Swirling words from an infinite field,
Caught and thought in a moment of time.
Knowing not their future or their yield,
Their full potential may be sublime.
Allow yourself a time to reflect,
Give your thoughts the freedom to expand.
It won’t take long for them to connect,
Piece them together the best that you can.
For simple thoughts to be understood,
Whether written are spoken be clear.
Used correctly, they’ll be more than good,
They’ll be easy to read or to hear.
Allow your thoughts to simmer and stew,
Make your message be truly unique.
Add some depth for those special few,
Who hear more than just the words you speak.
Most of your words the crowd will not hear,
Or even remember in the end.
But those who listen, they will endear,
Mature thoughts on which they can depend.
I was helpless,
I was shining.
You were knowing.
and bestowing.
When my steps were unsteady,
you held my hand.
You were ready.
Age is just a number, you said
grinning broadly like a
little girl repeating a loving fib.
You wanted a protector,
a guardian of devotion.
But I am not your Paul Bunyan,
the mighty timberman in your dreams.
In my twilight, I remember so many
mighty forests burning to cinder.
Frailty disintegrates the will.
Big-strong-protecting-men wilt with age.
They offer their pleading eyes,
longing to be cradled.
Maturity is mortality ticking.
I was helpless,
I was shining.
You were knowing,
and bestowing.
When my steps were unsteady,
you held my hand.
My infantile eye left me crying in my spiritual cradle.
I was a baby in desperate need of the divine hand and a nutritious ladle.
With divine guidance and nutrition, I started to grow.
My legs got stronger, and I started walking. Then I started to know.
But somewhere, somewhere during my maturation, I walked away because I thought I was grown.
I felt I could go it alone, do it all by myself, all on my own.
Soon during my sole walk, I found myself constantly tripping, slipping, and falling.
With so many bumps, cuts, scrapes, and bruises, my legs grew weary, and soon I was back to crawling.
An aimless, petulant child crying out for help,
But oh, when "Jesus Wept."
The bumps, cuts, scrapes, and bruises did not cease.
But somehow, somewhere through the pain and toil, I felt a sense of peace.
Grow me through the pain, oh Lord, mature me.
Prepare me to walk upright, strong, and free.
The trouble with aging
Is people believe it requires
A “growing up”
A period of maturation
(did I spell that right).
I’ve been around for
Three quarters of a century
With a foot in two millennia
And I still think Pharts are Phunny.
All my secrets are safe
Because I only told them to the dog.
I still make carrot and green bean fangs
At the supper table.
If I “grew up” I wouldn’t
Climb trees to “get that apple, Papa”
Get on the trampoline with a 2 year old
Stop for Slushies with my Granddaughter
on the way home from her gymnastics class.
When asked “How are you doing?”
I reply: “I’m sitting up, taking nourishment,
Tying my own shoes and going out to play”.
Being a country boy has advantages
His mischief can be especially charming
But, when a city boy barely damages
His folks may find it all quite alarming.
When a country boy is perturbed
And gets involved in a mild kerfuffle
His folks will likely become disturbed
And, they will give him cause to shuffle.
A country boy can sometimes be coy
When facing an unfamiliar situation
While nothing astonishes a city boy
And he’s likely to cause consternation.
All in all, city or country, boys are a trip
They are slowly completing their mission,
While occasionally relinquishing their lip,
While they struggle to find their position.
Written July 13, 2021
I may be stronger
Than I doubt myself to be.
I may be no longer
Be able to bottle up my feelings.
I may have been weaker,
But even back then I was strong-spirited.
I may have been sheltered,
Yet in secret I released my feelings.
I might be the same
As I was long before these days.
I might be no longer
Able to contain the pain.
I might have been happier
Back then, before it all began.
I might have had
My moments of teary rain.
I must be stronger by now,
Maturation’s defeated me.
I must be aware by now,
That I’ve grown from what was sown.
I may be myself,
Reap the harvest of growth.
I may be relieved,
Because growing-up is what I’ve achieved.
Consequence
by Michael R. Burch
They are fresh-faced,
not innocent, but perhaps not yet jaded,
oblivious to time and death,
of each counted breath
in the pendulum’s sway
falling unheeded.
They are bright, undissuaded
by foreign tongues,
by sepulchers empty and waiting,
by sarcophagi of ancient kings,
by proclamations,
by rituals of scalpels and rings.
They are sworn, they are fated
to misadventure and grief;
but they revel in life
till the sun falls, receding
into silent halls
to torrents of inconsequential tears . . .
. . . to brief tragedies of tears
when they consider this: No one else sees.
But I know.
We all know.
We all know the consequence
of being so young.
Keywords/Tags: youth, youths, youth day, innocence, innocent, time, life and death, young, childhood, child, children
Rendered seed concealed in Love's nest
Tendered sapling fondling mother's breast
Adolescent twig fluttering with pubescent zest
Immature leaves on mating quest
Maturing frond passing coupling test
Cherished branches sprout; hearth's bough dressed
In due time, seasoned fruit; perpetuity's crest
Stale, desiccate limbs; vitality's inquest
You will never be perfect nor even
particularly good,
but you might just manage
good enough.
Hers was a complicated birth.
She was picked out
of a crowd of thirty newborns
sight unseen while lying in recovery –
her voice, felt.
Heeded during its infancy,
there would be awake-ness
a full minute before the cry,
fully cognizant and expectant of need.
Cared for, and still
witnessing her sleep for hours,
childish and solemn,
and never bored or feeling the need to flinch.
Relaxed now, but the daylight
hours are a different story –
no need to go into that here
(you’ll witness it soon enough)
but for now, consider me good enough.
Trusted
because, before you know it,
they’re all grown up,
and it seems I shall be, too.
Resigned.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.