The Mill Pond Musings: February 2015

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Isolation

Isolation leans on his shoulders

bearing down with the full weight of silence

slowly crushing his spirit and grinding his soul

into the black tar sands of eternity

Joy has fled

from the relentless stress

of carrying all of the burdens

of life’s living on his own

Hope has long since wilted

under the drudgery of daily duty,

responsibility,

and neglect

Why he awakes each day has grown to mystical proportion;

there is no pleasure,

no recognition,

no support.

But, with each approaching dawn, he rises from fitful sleep,

drawn to the graying horizon,

to stand tall;

aches, pains, fears, and all

One day,

he will fail

to answer the call,

but not today.

　

The Banjo

Thumb,

Fore,

Middle finger

begin the transition.

No longer hesitant,

not yet confident;

they think not of the pluck, roll, or strum,

but of the transition from one to the other.

Not yet smoothly automatic

an errant twang

and buzz

now and then.

Limited as it is,

it is the first sound that can be called

music

struck by this hand in 50 years.

Countless hours before these three digits

can be considered novice banjo pickers, but,

they have taken the first inching steps down the pathway

of the long held desire;

and they feel good

about the possibilities

that lie

ahead.

　
　

Death Will Come

He grew up

wilderness in his heart

vast

wild

open

He sought adventure,

joy and challenge in

hills,

rivers,

forests

The cities assaulted

clawing gashes in his

happiness

spirit

soul

Life flew past

rushing years of toil

decaying

adrift

alone

He looks back

As end steals forth

seeking

personal

peace

Death will come

Only to find him

all

ready

gone

Monday, February 9, 2015

Consumed

The past 35 years have consumed me;

eaten

my core;

absorbed

my very essence.

Time and events have eroded the man;

corroded the confidence,

ground future anticipation,

crushed hope,

suffocated joy.

My body is marked with a full record of the physical wounds I have endured;

scars lie prominently

on the surface of hands,

face, arms, legs

and torso.

But those scars are the only remaining source of joy in my life;

they recall adventures lived

challenges met

and most often

bested.

They, and the wounds that created them

have had no hand

in the destruction

of who I was

to be.

The teeth, jaws, and acid that has consumed my present and my future are relationships;

unseen disfigurements within

destruction of dreams

disappointment in plans

and diminishment of soul.

Blisters oozed the force of life that

once buoyed my future,

leave me calloused

and awash

in the detritus of a life gone awry.