My Poem “Mark in the Mirror”

Sometimes we see things that are not there…
Sometimes we don’t see things
that are right in front of us…
Sometimes we can get lost in
the thought of a single stare…
Sometimes we see mistakes
and we automatically make order
out of the chaos and we filter out
all of the unnecessary things
that surround what we see –
in life, in people, in art –
and we naturally bring
the blurry into focus,
like the art of writing poetry.

Mistakes are natural,
mistakes are human –
however, mistakes are also annoying, perplexing, and for an artist
mistakes are futile in their drive
to want to share something
as close to as what they envisioned
and as close to what they imagined,
as any form of creativity can ever be…
Mistakes are imperfections –
however, mistakes are also
lessons to be learned from
and they are as necessary
for self-discovery
and self-examination
as listening and observing
to the specific rhythm and speed
with which a certain person speaks.

I have made more mistakes
than could ever be counted…
I have made more missteps
than I ever want to recall –
however, I am someone
who always makes a concerted
effort to look for all
the chinks in the armour,
to try and rectify my errors,
and to constantly search for a way
to redeem myself following
a period of illogical
inconsistencies and regrets,
and to take the time
to redefine myself
in order to weed-out
what I believe should not be
a part of my psychological
makeup, and exorcise once and for all
all the mistakes that have over time
become a part of the character
that I daily live with,
share a shadow with,
and who I see every time
I look in the mirror.

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My Poem “Throwback”

Every day, I look at things,
I look at people, I look at places,
and in my mind I am thrown back in time…
Every day I am reminded about
some of the things I have done,
some of the people I have met,
some of the places I have visited,
and what always follows
is an intoxication of memories,
feelings, colours, that rise
to the surface – like the bubbles
of a glass of wine…
Every day, I read things that I have written,
I remember what I did and with whom,
and I am overcome with a wave of dΓ©jΓ  vu
that floods my thoughts with
echoes of what came before
and what I had compartmentalized…
Every day, I hold on tight to who
and what means the most to me
and I try to remember every detail
of everything as accurately as I can,
while trying to correct for
Mandela Effect – which is a
prime example of how sometimes
our own memories can play tricks on us
and even blatantly make things up…
Every day, something new happens to all of us –
even if we don’t realize it…
Every day something new becomes
the inspiration for an explorer,
a storyteller, a musician,
a dreamer, a poet, that has such
a phenomenal and an amazing
effect that the aftershocks
from the revelations – that feel
like the tectonic shifts
that you can physically feel
when the Earth moves beneath you –
continue to influence you
in everything that you commit to afterwards…
The past, the present, the future,
the outside, the inside,
the old, the new, would not be what they are
and they would not mean what they do
without our own personal perspective…
The world is built upon things
and moments that are not meant to last –
however, if it were not for
all of the things that we sometimes lose,
all of the things that we leave behind,
and all of the things that are not meant
to last then we would never know
the true meaning, nor experience
the incredible power, of moments of nostalgia,
gratitude, and reflection from something
that can serve as a wormhole back in time
through which we can cast our mind’s eye
upon something in particular:
a throwback to an earlier time in our life.

My Poem ‘Balloons’

Where we have been
and where we are going
are tied together
by the threads of our lives;
while we are enjoying a good story
we never want it to come to an end;
darkness and light ties night to day
and day to night;
sometimes when we know
we are approaching the end of a great book
we will put it down and bookmark our place
so that we can pick up one day where we left off;
however, just as every writer
must finish writing their story,
every reader must follow a tale
to its conclusion,
and when they reach the last word of the last page
promise to return to the same story again and again –
the same, but different –
like periodically catching up with an old friend.

We all sometimes look at our own reflection
and do not immediately like the face that we see –
though someone else may look at the same face
and see the face of unparalleled infinite beauty;
we all should remember that a mirror
can only show us a distorted image of how we appear,
and the only true way of knowing
who the world sees when they look at us
is to go to the one person who knows us best
to describe us and tell us who they see
and what about us they most revere.

We all have reasons for what we do;
certain things and special people
have an indefinable gravity about them;
we all love people in our lives
in ways that we show every day,
but we sometimes feel a need to prove;
we all leave many clues;
I, myself, could never deny
an unbreakable connection –
once made, never severed –
because, just like the bound pages in a book,
bound people are linked forever
because that is what was always meant to happen.

Some people rise and fall by the resonance of a voice;
some hearts beat in perfect-time with other hearts,
and even when they are far-apart from one-another
they constantly sing “see you soon”;
falling in love is uncontrollable
and it is a fundamental instinct without choice;
all stories have chapters and twists,
beginnings and endings,
and some have a pace and a depth to them
that is as vast as space;
and though its true meaning and message
may not be as blatant as a telephone ringing,
the best thing about any story
under any cover is one that you can hold,
walk with, and even tie to something,
and is that which you should never let go of –
because once a story rises too high out of reach
it will become someone else’s,
and slowly drift away like the wind
carrying away a balloon of your own making.

My Poem ‘Thankful for’

As family prepare to gather,
as the sun shines
and the sky is blue –
as someone who is thankful,
as someone who is grateful,
who is both the loved and the lover,
I am thankful in more ways
than I could ever say
to be alive and to be able
to write this for you.

I take lots of time
thinking about the who,
the what, and the when
that have passed by like a river;
I constantly reflect
what I see and what I feel;
I have always considered
golden experiences
as memories to be made
a part of my DNA,
as well as simultaneously
to be remembered;
I have always believed
that no matter where you are in your life,
wherever you are in the world,
that there is always something
that to anybody else would seem small –
but to you that same something is a big deal.

As I have gotten older,
the things that I am thankful for have changed –
but that which matters the most to me
is still the same;
as I have lived, I have slowly come to realize
that life goes by faster than a bullet-train,
and things do sometimes happen
that you should not spend too much time
trying to explain.

Clouds form, rain falls;
colour is painted over the face of the dark;
there is no such thing as an impenetrable wall;
the seafloor, the sands of an island shore,
the photos of now compared to those of before,
that which will be forevermore:
the indescribable, the tangible,
the special, the spiritual –
that which only I will ever truly know –
is what I am the most grateful for;
however, the gift of love
given with all their heart
by the love of my life only to me
is the thing that I am the most fulfilled by
and in my life I am the most thankful for.

My Poem ‘Thirteen o’clock’

The clock has struck one too many times,
it is now thirteen o’clock,
there is a splinter in my mind,
time itself has stopped,
the past is a fantasy,
the future is an open and wide new country,
reality is broken,
the mirror of reflection has shattered,
I feel like I have awoken
and I am having to call into question
what truly matters.

There is an old riddle
about what you should do
if a clock strikes thirteen,
and the answer to that riddle
is to “get a new clock”;
there are many times in a person’s life
when they have to stand and stop,
look back, look forward,
not knowing where to go and where to turn,
as if in a state of shock;
revelations of ourselves
that occur to us should not be feared,
but they must be questioned;
mistakes are not always a bad thing –
sometimes they can be vital lessons.

There is a legend that says
that if a man hears a clock strike
thirteen times he can save his own life
or someone else’s;
I believe that the thirteenth strike
is when the true picture
of how the world truly is can be seen
by an instant amalgamation
of the fragmented pieces.

Today, right now, for me,
it is thirteen o’clock;
as I remember the road that I have walked and my path,
a shadow shrouds the events of my past as I look back;
it occurs to me that I have been here before,
and that perhaps the thirteenth strike
is the life I have been living within
every second for years;
time and life are like a time-piece,
and they can only function correctly
when going in the right direction –
and for every ‘tick’ there must follow a ‘tock’;
the spin and the orbit of the Earth around the sun
is constant, and I realize that I too
must keep my momentum going and I must
never contently stop.
There is only one way
to know true happiness:
to break free, however you can,
from the everlasting time
of thirteen o’clock.

My Poem ‘Did’

There is a beautiful sunset outside my window,
I am listening to Ed Sheeran on my iPod at the moment
to give my creative spark the get-up-and-go.

I have been writing since I woke up this morning,
and my right shoulder is literally aching;
I am about to have something to eat,
but I just want to write down in words
the things I am proud of,
and the things I wish I never did.

I am proud of myself
for using my self-taught gift of expression,
and with the help of a great friend of mine
getting two books of my poems published-
the support, the love, the miracle
to be able to share my words with the world,
in the way I always wanted,
is beyond anything that I could ever have wished.

When I was a kid I was a movie-loving boy
who made up his own stories for fun;
now I am a 33 year-old poet,
who still loves films,
and who goes to the cinema as often as I can.
When I was growing up I wanted to be many things
when I eventually became a man;
but now that I am standing tall, and looking back,
I am thinking that my life
might have been easier
if I had had some kind of life-plan;
I thought I would have been married,
and had kids by now-
at least that was my boyhood, adult-arrival, expectation;
however, a few things happened along the way
that were not part of anyone’s plan-
and those are what I see looking back at me
every day in my own reflection.

I hope there comes a day
when I can honestly say
that who I am now is who I want to be;
I hope there is a day when I can say
“this is what I have been dreaming at night about”,
and then waking up and turning it into poetry;
I hope one day I will be able to say to my own kids,
that I don’t regret the things I have done,
and if I had the time to do over again
I would still do all that I did.

My Poem ‘Imago’

The image in the mirror,
the reflection in the water,
the memories you will never forget,
the non-mistakes you will never regret,
the changing masterpiece of your life,
the height and the stream, from which,
and into which, you dive,
is you, is everything,
is what no one else will ever see,
or will ever know,
what you will be always and forever,
wherever you go.

No one will ever know your struggle;
no one will ever feel what you feel;
no one will ever know why you walked
and were splashed by all those rain puddles;
no one will ever see the image of your ideal.

There are skies of many colours,
that all mean something different to everyone;
there are situations and experiences that are also lessons;
the more intense something is,
and the more meaningful it feels,
can also mean the more fun;
you and your shadow are the ghost,
and the angel, or monster,
you can never out-run.

What you are going to be only you can decide;
who you want to spend your life with,
in one way or another,
is the answer to whom and what resides in your heart;
how easy life feels, you can only know
when you naturally realize
that you don’t even have to fly anymore,
because you can simply glide;
who will remember you when you are gone
are those who knew you and will always know you,
because of the marks and the ever-lasting echoes
of the muses of your art.

When you dream your last dream,
when you think your last thought,
when you have taught everything that you can possibly teach,
when you have been taught everything that you can be taught,
you will know that the metamorphosis you have been undertaking
is finally at an end and will be a link to everything
and everyone before and after you, like a bridge,
your entire life and its meaning will be who, and what you are,
and how you appear, and are seen, in your last image.