Tag Archives: response

Little bridges

Neither from the sanctuary of the shore,
Nor from the midst of the crushing rapids
Is the full force of the current apparent.
Only when the poet straddles the border,
Immersed in both solidity and pain
Do the feelings coalesce to word,
Bridging pain and reconciliation,
Darkness and wisdom.
Be wary of cries from the torrent,
And rest assured that those upon the shore have no heart,
Look to the bridges of the poet,
And rescue with love
Those who have fallen.

In response to:
The Untitled Poems: A Collection Of Thoughts (Pt. 3) | Diary Of A Fed Up Lad


Response to Ladygleesy

“Do you have a place you like to go to to write? Tell us about yourself, sir?”

Do I have a place?
As in,
a physical location,
or more metaphorically,
a place?

Historically there have been many,
as I reread words drafted so many years ago,
fields of battle that birthed a nation,
a ‘prison’ – symbolic ire of an expat
against a foreign land.

More recently,
I scribe in a cave,
a corner tucked away underground,
removed from the sun,
devoid of history and purpose,
yet bordering on lands rich with craft
and music
and memory.
But this place is of yet empty,
and I have no yet into its few cubic feet
poured any fluence of meaning,
nor instilled therein
the distillation of thought,
and thus gilded the walls with depth.

and yesterday,
I scrape the barrel of time,
eking a moment here,
a word there,
as I test this renewed bed
of poet,
something nearly forgotten,
comfortable as old shoes,
memories of prior works
that need mending
and modernization.

I do not have a place defined,
thus you read many remnant words,
as the birthing of new verse
is laboring under this dearth of resource –
a lack of time
and of devotion of space.

I have built for myself a space,
and recently imbued it with mystery
and memory
and craft.
With my blood,
my sweat,
and my thought,
I have constructed four walls and a roof,
hardly guarded against the elements,
yet rich in inspiration.
I believe that I shall go there,
for as of yet,
no word have I there uttered,
nor recorded of my own.
It has been a place of physic,
of thought bent to creation of form
rather than thought bent
to the recording of perception.

Perhaps the time is ripe?

Poem a day challenge #61 (The New)

‘should have been’
attempts to give power
to the past,
something that does not exist,
in reality,
but only in your perception.

now is all there is.
there is no
‘should have been’
in now.


The New 

By Scott Bailey © 2013

The new can’t replace the should have been
The should have been haunts us forever
Though the new will be a healer
And receive all our love just the same.
It’s pointless being angry at fate
But that doesn’t stop the burn
The frisson on top of everyday stress
For the should have been we always yearn.
The new will have it’s own should have been.
So maybe we will understand.
And make a happier will be.
At least that is the plan.

Get the previous ones here

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3. A word from god

these are very strong words,
coming from a space tiger,
though perhaps,
as you are poet as well,
they have their place.
but exegesis and proffered,
wed and nimble and decreed -
they stir my brain,
a tiresome task for a friday.

I think that I shall beware space tigers in the future.

You Are Shining

That night you were shining
as the flowing light of a million stars aligning,
or so my tortured mind perceived,
as I hoped myself worthy to hold
 the rainbowed flowers painted golden at sunset.
 Only those midnight shadows dared to touch your face,
 perfectly chilled to an icy clarity,
 rejecting the touch of all others,
 denying them the ‘honor’
 to grace your frozen flesh.
 The wind swept your raven locks
 o’er your eyes ripe with tormented sights,
 I wish that I had shut mine own
 and turned away ere the pain
 or permanent separation from who we were,
 unbearable extinction of all that was within in,
 closed off from all that is within you,
 denied my every hearts’ desire.
 I wallow in the misery here,
 in this place without you,
 without the shining light of your being,
 cursing the bones
 of the soul upon whom
 you shine that cold,
 fierce light.
I own nothing of this poem, as the words are a twisted perversion of what I read, consumed, and spat out from my pain.

Caitlin Breanne

Since my poetry collection is available again, I’ve decided to post one more poem out of this collection for you. I hope you’ll enjoy it.

You Are Shining

Tonight you are shining.

As you gaze at me, I feel the rivers rushing and the stars aligning.

I feel as worthy of you as I am to see rainbows, and flowers, and sunsets.

I see the midnight shadows touch your face and it fills me with envy. 

Who do they think they are to dare to touch such perfection?

As if anything or anyone is worthy to have such an honor.

The windswept vision of your dark hair falling across your face torments me.

To be pulled away from you, to close my eyes even for a moment shall be too much to bear.

I love all that is within you with all that is within me.

To behold you is…

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Things I hate about myself

this is a terrible contemplation
that serves only to belittle
the wonder that is you,
like hating an angel
for wings that glow an off-color,
a butterfly whose antennae
tickle the flower too much.

Emotions: Happiness

happiness is the reverse of the coin,
the ‘heads’ to the ‘tails’ of sadness,
neither are real.
Only peace is true,
and it is blissful joy.

Peace is,
and we can only rarely
exist in that place.

The Faded Pages

More than an emotion,
A way of existence
It moves through us
Only if we welcome it
It is but a shy creature
Waiting to be coaxed out
Breathe in happiness
Absorb what there is to see
Live within reach
Of what is to come
For it may only last moments
It’s more than an emotion.
— The Faded Pages

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Facing It ≠ Putting Your Heart In It

what terrible sadness
to understand,
to grasp,
the infinite line of humanity
with hands outstretched,
waiting in sadness for that glass.
I break,
questioning if truly,
this pain is in my perception,
and not the blunt hammer of reality.

Rampant and Golden

I don’t know why
but in the place of poetry
only sleep
the weight of covers
the dull ache of the body
asking mutely for escape
a cheat for freedom
deep dark soldier
the fight all gone
……….just before battle
just before truth
just before the tolling
…..of the bells where
destiny will separate
the loved
…..the merely
……………vain lovers
and I will not stay awake
to count the hours
and weep on my knees
because I’ve seen
what brokenness looks like
and have marched
to the bugle call
held in my fist
burning on my tongue
and I’ve had my share,

so I pass
and let the glass of wine be
handed right down the line

“The Nameless Black” by photographer Dragan Todorović


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Who Are We

we are the imperfect children,
made in the image only,
toiling with our incomplete,
broken perception
of the yearning of creation.

Gray Poet


Who are we to think that we
Can look at a sunset and pause
Yet we see flooding torrents
And look to God as the cause.

Who are we to think that we
Can do as we wish with the land
Then we see ills striking friends
And ask if it came from God’s hand.

Who are we to think that we
Can get away with whatever we say
Not a thought given through the week
And maybe worship God on just one day.

Who are we to think that we
Can make the world a better place
Bending even the natural laws
And fearing now to even bow our face.

Who are we to think that we
Can stop lifting our eyes above
Giving little of our self in return
And take advantage of God’s love.

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in winter, the trees look decrepit, forgotten.
in spring, the trees reawaken to who they are,
and become outwardly beautiful,

…”it never came,” said the oak sleepily in december.
“wait,” said the fir.
“it never came” said the ash drowsily in January.
“wait,” said the pine.
“it never came,” said the poplar through a yawn.
“wait,” said the spruce.
in spring, their laughter tickled the crocuses.
in summer their shade cradled the toadstools.
in fall, they all prepared for a sleep,
to dream through the ling winter,
of the gentle rains of the spring.
in winter they wept as the saplings mourned the cold.


To holler without sound, I’ve been listening
For a while now my love and there is
A story in my head. I cannot tell you
How it goes but it runs the distance
Of all my known fears and beyond.
The waking hours that creep
And strangle my feet. I am not
Going anywhere. I am not falling
Asleep. I am a watchtower
Forgotten, decrepit but I hold
On to the last vestiges of a former
Light. I can still cast some shadows
They make up for the absence
of what it is, I cannot tell you.
I am a watchtower and I will hold
On to the last.

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