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Patrick Whelan Poem
In my head, things aren’t always right,
Darkness looms, threatening to cover the light.
There was a time, when all was muddled and completely askew,
The madness reigned, constantly recreating itself anew.
At times I thought my mind was connected, to everyone in the world,
Their hopes, dreams and fears, all connected to me, completely unfurled.
I felt I could speak to others, by projecting my thoughts,
I lived in a fantasy world, my sanity forgot.
I knew I was the savior reborn, here to right the wrongs,
I was secret agent to the world, but for my power, evil would not be long.
Today my mind is mostly calm, the voices receded,
The occasional delusional pattern tries to be seeded.
When my mind was lost, it was then that I truly found myself,
For when the sanity returned, the old me was put on the shelf.
One cannot always see the struggle within us,
In our minds we are not always master, despite all the fuss!
Copyright © Patrick Whelan | Year Posted 2015
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Patrick Whelan Poem
Love is one of the forces of the universe, that cannot be forced,
When we try to capture and tame it, it usually ends in divorce.
Love is wild and free, and to chase it is a fool’s errand,
For it is when we give up chase, and feel all is lost, it come to us and is quite apparent.
Love cannot be caged, or live in a jar,
It has to come to us freely, whether from near or from far.
To find love, we must give it, both to ourselves and everyone else,
That outward projection comes back to us as others see our love of self.
To give love we must have love, all those around us can see,
What is truly in our hearts, the possibilities that may be.
The rules of the universe, dictate that attraction,
Project what you want to come to you, and you will have satisfaction!
Copyright © Patrick Whelan | Year Posted 2015
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Patrick Whelan Poem
Temporary love
By: Patrick J. Whelan
What is happening in the world today?
The old fashioned relation has seen a decay.
The idea of loving one person for the rest of our lives,
Seems to have been replaced by, your good enough for right now, this point and time.
So few people seem to want to try and fix what’s broken, just throw it away,
End this now, so I can go out and play.
I believe in part it is due to lustful thinking,
Too many relationships started with sexual drinking.
Getting to know a person, and making connections,
Has fallen to the side, a hot lover seems to be the new direction.
Good sex is important, don’t get me wrong,
But even that gets boring, after too long.
To me making love, is much more attractive,
An act of passion, that is intellectually interactive.
The idea of the relationship, is not totally lost,
But to embrace the idea, losing instant gratification is the cost!
Copyright © Patrick Whelan | Year Posted 2015
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Patrick Whelan Poem
The mind of a poet, is akin to the inner workings of a big clock,
The thought processes like the gears and wheels that never truly stop.
The clock must be wound, and so must the writers mind,
The events from day to day, feed the process in kind.
A clock must be lubricated, for each writer this happens differently,
The end result the same, the thoughts come very naturally.
When the hour approaches, and the striker gears start to function,
A poet puts pen to hyde, and words flow out in dramatic conjunction.
The ideas in a poet’s head, number more than the minutes in a day,
It is more like the grains of sand on a beach, ever flowing where they may.
The grains of sand cannot be counted, but must be accounted for,
The verses that flow through the mind must be written, or they fly out the door.
The mind of the poet, can be beautiful or dark,
Without the poet, life would be stark!
Copyright © Patrick Whelan | Year Posted 2015
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Patrick Whelan Poem
The beauty of pain is that it helps us recognize love,
The awesome glory of lightening, the majestic flight of a dove.
The stem of a rose is covered in thorns,
But at its tip a soft, velvety flower is born.
The sun that burns with a fire that could kill,
But without the heat and light, all life would be nil.
When we injure a leg, then heal and run,
We appreciate much more, the simplicity and fun.
Hurt teaches us appreciation, for the gentle moments,
A dark dirge, flows into a sparkling sonnet.
Without loss, love cannot grow as deep,
Without fear of a fall, the trip to the top seems not as steep.
Pain accents beauty, of this I am sure,
The heart that has been tested, is one that will endure!
Copyright © Patrick Whelan | Year Posted 2015
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