Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

The Question

Thursday, August 18th, 2016

me in Rift

The Question

And old man gazed with sightless eyes upon a silent sea
and wondered: have I missed the tide?
I should have scattered seeds upon the wind
and sewn a richer tapestry
I should have built my castles in the sand
and dared the wind and waves to do their worst
Instead, i stand here wond’ring on the dune
and wait for evening’s breeze to call the night.
Yet none can say that I did not attempt
to make a mark. I soared on wings of hope
and raced the sun across a hollow sky
but when the flight is done, no trace remains;
the clouds themselves will fade, their storms forgot
as mountains crumble into sand
I wipe my weary brow with trembling hand…
Please tell me it was not in vain
when all the stars go out, and silence reigns
Please say there was a reason for it all
when matter is a memory
I was too busy earlier to hear
but I am listening now. Is there a Plan
that holds a place for rocks and trees and us?
Were all our minds mere accidents -
our cries in pain and joy a useless noise?
Or is there more to know, a path unwalked
I want to know. I want to hope.
But so far, all I hear is gulls and wind.

– MRK 7/31/2016 Crystal River, Florida

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And Not To Yield

Friday, March 7th, 2014

me“We are not now that strength which in old days
moved earth and heaven;
that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
made weak by time and fate,
but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find,
and not to yield.”
— Alfred Lord Tennyson

I know the feeling.
.
.
.

The Way Ahead
.
The way ahead is dim, like that behind,
the future is not here; all that I have,
will ever have, is is just this moment now,
a grain of sand inside the endless flow
from top to bottom of life’s hourglass
all that I hope, and all that I regret
mere figments; and, eroding in the wind,
I stand, unwilling ever to give up,
a relic of my folly, unashamed,
I made my choices and I paid the cost.

Does anyone care? It really does not count
if I’m remembered; I will always be
in time embedded, will have always been
when all these atoms go their separate ways
and all the echoes of my words unheard.
My life had meaning, and it always shall,
though words unread upon a cosmic page.

And if you also stand upon the rock
and feel the wind caress you, as I do,
if you have tasted joy with the despair
and smiled through pain when no one felt the sting
then we are kindred; brethren, take my hand
and know that in this moment all are loved
no Author hates His characters; though small,
we have our lives; we’ve woven in the cloth
of this great tapestry; no thread unblessed.
I gladly take my place with all the rest.

— MRK 8:33 Am EST, 2/7/2014 Crystal River, FL

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And Emptiness is All That I Have Left

Tuesday, February 25th, 2014

meI am usually an upbeat guy, which is surprisingly considering my current circumstances. But I am sensitive, and I can quickly flip into EMO mode and feel endless despair. The surprising thing is I am never suicidal despite how bad it gets sometimes being me.

I wrote this poem after midnight. Haven’t slept since yesterday morning now so it is maudlin, of course. But still worth the effort.

And Emptiness Is All That I Have Left

I still don’t know how it went all so wrong
the day was drawing to a close
and we were chatting happily, so much
enjoying our companionship. But then
the darkness came to mock our happiness
from whence it came, I do not even know
but suddenly the silences were more
as you were pondering to set the boundaries
and then, not knowing how, I was the bad guy
and even to be punished for my needs
and I could not believe you’d shut me out
and just hang up on me, no second chance
and emptiness was all that I had left

What kind of fool would make his life such pain?
why do I even try? And now despair
is all I have for company. I curse
the impulse to reach out, and then be slapped
to share a joy unwanted. Solitude
is not as painful as this sorry state;
my head is pounding and my stomach hurts
with no chance for forgiveness, I am damned
to long for someone who has shut me out
and emptiness is all that I have left

It seems my thoughts are not thoughts to be shared
so clumsily I walk this field of mines
and my emotions cannot pass my lips
for they’d embarrass you, make you feel trapped
so I am trapped, forbidden then to share
the growing feelings you’d not rather hear
and as I stew in silence, trapped, alone
and serve my endless sentence in the dark
futility sinks in the claws of pain
and emptiness is all that I have left

— MRK 12:44 AM, 2/25/2014 Crystal River, FL

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All the moments count

Saturday, August 10th, 2013

me-T78Still here, still plugging. Still writing the third book of my trilogy.

The writing slowed down for a month. I managed to distract myself and get off-task flirting in chat rooms, reaching out electronically to try to build some relationships. It’s true that my work tends to isolate me, and sometimes I get so lonely that I’ll talk to almost anyone to break the silence that enfolds me. And there is always Netflix to distract me. I am always finding great shows I missed the first time, and it is so easy to binge on them, watching episode after episode. I watched the first four seasons of FRINGE and can barely wait for the final season to get on Netflix in September. And I’m devouring Breaking Bad now, another treat whenever I need a break from the writing.

The good news is that some very smart people have read my manuscripts and think they’re good. I realize that I am in danger of creating my own brand of elitist literature, of writing stuff that only Braniacs like me can appreciate. I’m hoping that isn’t happening, that I can keep it all in balance.

All the Moments Count

From moments rude or loving we are sown
Difficult to raise, impossible to own
Hard to love, easily disliked,
Explosions of life, barely controlled
in crucibles of agony we’re forged,
by strife tempered, brought to an edge
honed by practice, polished by desire
Into the fire we plunge yet again
And all the moments count.

Staggering from setbacks, raging at Fate,
churned in confusion, we stumble and fall
on shores of neglect the sea casts us out
where we mumble and draw with shaking fingers
our words in the sand, knowing the ceaseless tides
will erase all traces, we nonetheless persist
to try to pass some message on…
And all the moments count.

But life is sweet, even the dregs
that we sip from a cracked cup
with shaking fingers. Even the dregs
are better than the empty cup that awaits us all
at the end of the bender. Is oblivion sweet
with no one to taste it? I’ve no hurry;
the Void will be there when the gas runs out
and my engine finally coughs and dies
And all the moments count.

What will you leave the children of tomorrow?
Not my children, but there will be children;
we leave the Earth to their tender mercies
and hope they’ll do a better job
of balancing the forest and the fireplace.
I missed that bus, and so what I will leave
is probably my work — a message in a bottle
for the future fool who will understand it.
And all the moments count.

— MRK 8/10/2013 10:47AM EST Florida

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And a Clanging Cymbal

Thursday, February 14th, 2013

meQuery letters continue.  Life goes on, and as it does, it behooves us to remember the important things.  Often I lose sight of these, distracted by my circumstances, by despair at what I have not accomplished, by my hopes of things yet to be accomplished.

Fortunately, there are reminders, like today, Valentine’s Day. It is easy to become jaded, to become disillusioned by the commercial rush to exploit this annual reminder of the importance of love, when ginormous heart-shaped boxes of chocolates infest the stores, when trees die that we may send paper cards to our significant others, assuring them of the high regard in which we hold them in our hearts.

But step back from the brink of contempt.  Do we despise the shopkeepers for selling us food or clothing?  No, because we recognize these as necessities. But how much more necessary is love!  Can a soul survive, loving nothing and no one?  Yes, I have had times when , as a male, I thought love to be nothing but a conspiracy of poets and troubadours, something made up to “pretty up” human reproduction, something to which we males must pretend to subscribe if we wish to get laid. I was younger then.  Much younger.  I have seen fads flit, wars rage, and presidents come and go. I have come near death and confronted my mortality. I have held jobs and lived in various states. But love, I have discovered, is not a luxury.  It, too, is a necessity.  As food nourishes the body, and experience the mind, so love nourishes an ancient part of us that has not left when civilization arrived. Therefore, it is only right to stop and remember, when reminders such as today arrive, what love means to us and how it has enriched our lives.

To The Women of My Life

I’m not a wealthy man.  For me is not
the mansion in the country.  Nor have I
fine clothes or rich possessions; so I think
when to such others turns my envying eye…
But when I think of you, who gave me love,
a love no man can earn, no artist paint,
and no musician play into the wind,
My error shows; for you have made me rich
a pauper loved holds more than any bank.
Without the love my parents shared,
I never would have drawn a single breath;
without the love a mother gives her sons
who knows how cold and callous I might be?
My heart’s been broken, many times repaired
by ladies come and gone, that I have lost
from foolishness or distance.  Still I say
the fault was mine that I have never wed.
I want you all to know that you are loved
and will be loved, as long as I draw breath
and even longer, if there is no death.

— MRK  2/14/2013

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Pondside

Tuesday, March 27th, 2012

pondsideFrom Sun to lily pads, the light
that crossed the icy heart of Night,
feeds the plant that feeds the crew
of they who mine its storage,
feed the fish that pace the pond
and hunt its waters; patiently,
all round the edge,
the grasses and the flowers wait
to sip the seepage; butterflies
and dragonflies that ride the air,
and everywhere the anthem bright
of sentient data dancing.

–MRK

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