Poetry2ponder's Blog

“Running Towards My Demons (Try Number 2)” by Trevor Witt

Running towards my demons,
Greeting them magnanimously,
With patience for my shortcomings,
With compassion for my fears,
And cheers for my joy,
High-fives for my successes,
And smiles for my love.

A different approach,
A new perspective,
For reflection and growth,
It’s not all terrible,
Though it’s not all great.
Sometimes, we laugh,
Sometimes, we cry.
Sometimes, at the same time.

Afraid to admit that I am trying,
Because trying sounds so trying,
Precarious, like tight-roping above the abyss,
It will be okay though –
The worst that can happen
Is I fall to a grizzly death,
While falling feels like an eternity,
And everyone sees me,
Telling me they told me so,
And I mourn for my shattered ego,
As I get back up,
Climbing towards the rope,
For Try Number 2.

“Starting to Heal” by Trevor Witt

Starting to heal,
Beginning to feel,
Something, something akin
To excitement, joy,
Enthusiasm, desire,
Beginning to
Believe
In possibilities
Could I be
Happy?

“Accountable” by Trevor Witt

Accountable,
At the end of the day,
Feeling guilty,
Feeling unaccomplished,
Staring at regret,
As my reflection glares
Back at me from
The past photons which fired
And bounced off the mirror,
Hitting the rods and cones in my eyes,
My eyes, the beholder of my life,
I must be accountable,
To me.

“I have remained (To become myself)” by Trevor Witt

I have remained,
A shadow of my desire,
A fragment of my ambition,
Though I want,
I have not sought,
Though I wish for,
I have not worked for.
I used to associate wanting with lacking,
An older interpretation of the word,
But, as I age, I see my understanding give away,
And I am left striving,
To become myself.

“A new injury (Despite the aches)” by Trevor Witt

A new injury,
Something happened,
I guess,
Getting older,
Does that,
New bruises,
Muscles sore,
So I lay down,
For a few moments,
I remember rest,
Despite the aches.

“The Birds Were The Original Weavers (I Do Not Know)” by Trevor Witt

The birds were the original weavers,
Building baskets as homes,
Up in the trees.

The bees constructed hanging honeycombs,
Utilizing geometry and physics,
Long before Euclid and Aristotle.

And ants have waged war,
And developed hierarchical societies,
Since long before we stopped foraging.

We are newcomers,
Babies, crawling upon the Earth.
What comes next?

Only the Mystery,
The Omnipresent One,
Knows, I

I do not.

“Chocolate, a giant chunk (Scurry on my way)” by Trevor Witt

Chocolate, a giant chunk,
From my pain au chocolat,
Fell to the ground, dirty,
Tiles, like cobblestones,
Outside the cafe,
The thought of picking it up,
Crossed my mind, as did many,
Other thoughts, like eating it,
And getting sick.
But maybe I should
Pick it up, like I am
Picking myself up,
I do not want others
To get sick, like dogs,
Or like squirrels, perhaps I should,
Bury my dropped treasure,
And scurry on my way.