The Soul Collection

A few poems about the soul, our driving forces, and standing up to life's many trials.

A Window to the Artists Soul...
Waves and Tides...
Thou Art That...
I am a Poet...
The Evening Hides Me...

A Window to the Artist's Soul

(For Christin)

(A) breeze blows through
an open (window)
Drapes float on the gentle

winds, drifting closer
(to the) canvas

The (artist) turn(s);
cool air refreshing her body
and (soul)

Her unfinished work calls...
the master must be obeyed

Waves and Tides

I have learned...
That some people are as the waves...
Striving to break free from irresistible forces.
Giving so much of themselves...
Only to fail, and come crashing down once again.

And I wonder...
Do the waves truly love the moon?
Or is it freedom they seek?
Freedom from the smothering grasp of the Earth...

I have learned...
That some people are as the tide...
Seeking change, growth, progress.
But it is the long term that they focus on...
And their patience pays off in the end.

And I wonder...
Are the tides the meek who shall inherit the Earth?
Or have they simply decided,
That it's not better to burn out than to fade away.

Thou Art That

For Sarah

Passion burned like fire in her eyes...
A lust for life shown on pursed lips.
She breathed in new air in a new town on a new day.
Only she was the same as yesterday.
But, was she really?

Big cities, small towns.
Trains, planes, cars.
She's seen them all, knew them intimately.
Riding the rails in a passenger car, clickety-clack, bouncing along an old country road in the back of an old Chevy pick-up, or just walking quietly along the shoulder, trying to thumb a ride... it was all just a part of the search.

She searched the world inside herself.
Though it seemed to most that she searched without.
But what's the difference anyway?
Thou art that, Sarah.

Desire quickened her stride.
She could taste it, almost.
The connection she longed for, the bond to this world.
She watched herself...

Watched herself do.
Watched herself feel.
Watched herself search.

The path seemed so long...
The end nowhere in sight.
No clear goals.
No plans.
But who needs plans?

Old Bull Lee once asked Sal Paradise,
"Why're you going to California?"

"Just for kicks, man. Just for kicks."

I am a Poet

I am a poet.

Don't you see my goatee?
My sullen expression?
The echo of a long dried tear
Rolling down my cheek?

Can't you hear the words of Shakespeare
And Thomas and Ginsberg raging
Against the walls of my skull?

Doesn't my uniform set me apart from
The Heartless, the Soulless?
From those for whom pain is
A bumped knee, or a pimply cheek?

Do you judge me weak for the
Way that I dwell?
For my need to arrange my agonies
Into an ABAB rhyme scheme,
Teaching my soul to dance in
Iambic Pentameter, through
Metaphor and simile toward the
Ultimate end; Catharsis.

The Evening Hides Me

The evening hides me in its shadow,
as I curl up in my room,
safe from the treachery of woman,
and of man,
and of the universe,
and the fates.
I create worlds in my mind,
and fight enemies of my own imagination...
I always lose.
I fear the return of responsibility,
the terrible light that reminds me of reality and of duty,
and of worlds beyond my control.
Of enemies not of my own creation,
of battles to lose on my own.
Of consequences, and prices to pay.
The price of living through the night.
Of hiding safely in my room.
The price of loving another...
and losing them.
Sing to me O night.
Sing your sweet lullaby to comfort me 'till the dawn.
Wrap me in your cloak,
and keep me safely from the dawning of new days,
and new fears,
and new pains...

04-21-98 - 0105hrs