Poetry is power (for Bill) by Keith D. Sutton

To fervently gaze
into the deep
recesses of your soul,
if I dare,
and
extract
the disappointment,
agony. pain,
rejection,
and the sorrow felt
for a brother,
Who upon his honest epiphanic gaze,
placed the bullet
into its chamber and despairingly
splattered
the remains
onto the uncaring wall.

The pen is your weapon
and the words your bullets. Poetry
the shards of your heart shattered. splattered
scattered letters
onto the paper.

the difference
between life
& death.

“In Memory of my Friend Bill”

Listening to some Neil Young
“Tell Me Why” thinking of a friend. Missing him & his guitar melodies.

Young says, “is it hard to make arrangements with yourself, when you’re old enough to repay but young enough to sell?”

Meanings change as experiences stack up like cordwood. Understanding follows at its own whim.

I miss the haunting notes that flowed from his Martin. I miss the laughter we shared from his covertly ironic yet accurate observations.

I’m sitting in the dark as daylight once again peaks from the east. Just another day. Coffee. Lunch. Dinner. But I realize it’s not. It’s never just another day. I remember a day when I was so low & so lonely that even I didn’t know.

But he did. He knocks on my door & hands me this beautifully handcrafted guitar Truly artwork in an instrument. He sits down on the floor, as he often did, legs intertwined like a Buddha. He tells me quietly, “I’m worried about you,” and I didn’t realize it but he did. Our actions often betray our words. He loved & cared enough to do what many would never do–speak honestly. He said, “I KNOW YOU! Something’s wrong so LET’S talk about it.” And, you know, we did. And I still have that beautiful guitar hanging prominently on my wall–a reminder of hi honesty–his directness–his love.

A moment in a day like many moments in many days that go unnoticed–forgotten. But not all moments are created equal.

We carried on with life sharing sharp chords & flat notes–happy & sad moments. All of the richness that is wrapped up into a true friendship.

We never spoke of that devine appointment he had with me. And if I would have brought it up, he would have, as quickly, dismissed it. His efforts were in enjoying today, forgetting yesterday, and not worrying about tomorrow.

Neil carries on with his thoughts, “Tell me lies later, come and see me
I’ll be around for a while.”

As we all know, we never forget the past. We only hope to control what we rewind in our mind so it doesn’t control us.

My only question is, he was there for me when I needed someone most. Where was I when he needed me most? Another regret to add to my shelf of regrets.

I’ve heard that “life is the art of drawing without an eraser.” I think. I wish I had an eraser. I would need a jumbo.

All I can say is I love you guy, I’ll absolutely miss you, and I’ll see you soon. Oh. To be clear, later than sooner, God willing.

Poetry is power (for Bill)

To fervently gaze
into the deep
recesses of your soul,
if you dare,
and extract
the disappointment,
agony. pain,
the rejection,
and the sorrow felt
for a brother,
Who upon his honest epiphanic gaze,
placed the bullet
into its chamber and despairingly
splattered
the remains
onto the uncaring wall.

The pen is your weapon
& the words your bullet. Poetry
the shards of your heart shattered. splattered
scattered letters
onto the paper.

the difference
between life
& death.

A Tear Falls

a Mother cries
her son lost
needlessly
in war–
a futile struggle
determined by ideologies
Endorsed by many
yet
understood by few.

A vast notion of
patriotism
Fueled by power
words–duty, honor, freedom
semper fi
Revenge.
Sacrificed
for Mom & apple pie.

An emotional rage
against
Blind acceptance a
lonely cry
in the desert
Tears touching
A Mother’s heart
hardened
fallow ground.

Hope Deferred

Aside

“Hope Deferred”                 

Keith D. Sutton

I found myself struggling again

through periods I hoped I had

passed on and they had passed

through–wandered to another

hapless soul–left behind the

tormented moments, the hours,

and days, and weeks , and years. never

to return nor granting me peace. 

 

Yet here she was like a rejected p

fatal attraction forever present 

It the rear-view mirror. 

 

Perhaps she never truly walks away

or remains  silent  as she slips into

hidden crevices trap doors of

subterfuge and sleepy long

afternoon summer shadows only to 

eappear

at unexpected intervals

to torment in the name

of love

once

again.