Poetry2ponder's Blog

By Trevor Witt.  Each entry from my Little Blue Book is separated by two spaces.  I will likely add titles to the rest of the entries later.

Worry not my dear friend,
For nothing matters in the end.
Success and failure are two sides of a single coin.

The outcome of the story usually depends on where you stop.

Your strength must come from within,
Leave your mistakes behind, but take the lessons.

Be kind to people – for they are fragile.

Remember to dance and sing while you are able to.  No song lasts forever.

Smile.

Laugh at yourself.

Rejoice in the success of others.  And be empathetic when they fall short.

Celebrate their joy and share their sorrow.

You are a light shining through the darkness.

If I should die tomorrow,
Do not be sad when I am gone.
Instead of being in one place,
I will have returned to all space.
Every breath I drew
Was a blessing and a gift,
And to spend my time with you
Took me higher than angels’ wings can lift.
A burden was removed from my heart,
Every time I saw your face,
And though I must now depart,
I finally understand G-d’s grace.

You are my stars and my moon,
You shine on me even in the dark,
Even if I should be sad on the nights you do not favor me,
How could I be angry? When you are my eyes, my ears, and the tongue with which I speak?
If I think I have seen you shine on the rest of the world, not just me,
Will I not also experience the glow of the moonlight and see its beauty?
If my eyes refuse to see that you are the source of my light,
Should I be angry with you or with them, since you are the source of my sight?
Is it not true that light is the source of perception?
And that the blessing yours bestows upon this world is no exception?
So how can I curse that which has blessed me?
Is your voice not the sweetest sound I have ever heard?
So how could I get angry if you told me an unfavorable word?
And if I were hurt by something you said,
The next sentence you speak would make me happy instead.
If you are the source of every sacred sound,
Then, are you not my ears and the music lifting my soul off the ground?
But, suppose I were foolish and forgot these truths.
Suppose I uttered an unspeakable oath in anger.
Or suppose I mumbled a mean and nasty slur.
The truth would not be in any danger.
For you are as beautiful as water is refreshing,
And other eyes would see and other voices would sing.
And even if my tongue momentarily betrayed me,
It would work to quickly change course.
For how can a tongue betray its motivation to speak?

Sadly, my message must come to an end.
I dedicate it to you, dear, dear friend.

With every breath,
I breathe love for you.
With every restless night,
I dream of sleeping next to you.
With every hour of shut eye,
I am renewed by the knowledge that the light of your smile comes with the dawn.
With every intoxication,
I lust after you.
And in every sober moment,
I am intoxicated by your charms.
The simplicity and grandiosity of my love for you seems to be hyperbole.
And yet true hyperbole would be insufficient to explain this truth.
You are the beginning and end of my prayers.
I only seek to understand and praise you,
Though I know you are beyond all praise and understanding.
Love,
the Faithful.

“Mama’s Bakery” by Trevor Witt, dedicated to Jesus Mastache
Enjoying a labne wrap at Mama’s Bakery,
As the cook speaks Spanish to her co-worker,
Cucumber, mint, tomato, and labne – yogurt-like,
Wrapped in Middle Eastern wheat bread
Greet my taste buds,
Brought together by fate
And truck drivers and farmers
Planting seeds, sowing them laboriously, and harvesting
Harvesting labors of love,
Fed by the sun, and the rain, the soil, and the almighty G-d.
Together, they feed me,
And all I can do is give thanks.

“I Write Lies” by Trevor Witt
I write lies,
As all poets do,
In order to tell the truth,
Of what I perceive and what I dream
and what I hope for
and what I fear.
I tell them for myself,
And for you,
So that we might learn something about ourselves.
I tell stories,
Lies hiding kernels of truth,
Illusions created by beautiful words,
So that you might see through my eyes.
And I don’t know what is more troubling –
That I tell lies
Or that I cherish them?
That I know I cannot know truth
Or that I am obsessed with approximating it?