Musing Mind of Wanderingdeerpoet

I am a fool- no, not even that- I am a dingy piece of trash in the gutter. Fighting the filth, unsuccessfully scrubbing while wallowing in it. Yet you pick me up with a gentle hand as if a loving mother. I do not deserve nor have I ever this grateful giving grace you show me. How shall I repay or what shall I give? I ask -so reminiscent of the ancient psalmist poet. I wish I could say that I will give you perfection, for that is what you deserve but I cannot, am not, capable of such despite my good intentions on this beautiful road so paved with them. My wounded psyche wonders… Am I on the highway to hell or simply standing still watching pretty pictures as they play within my head? Never really moving at all- not going anywhere – let alone nowhere. Only displaying these hopes and dreams and night terrors on to this projector in my mind. Where shall I venture to today? Perhaps memories of a greater, grander, simpler time? When, I ask, when was that? Side note: If I’m watching, wh...

  She speaks to me in hushed tones And screams at me aloud- The voice inside my head Understanding everything And nothing all the same. She sings sonnets of my joy A dirge of hidden pain. She is whimsy and a sunset That flow from me like breath- She is the tempest that burns within That my mind can’t lay to rest. She is the nimble words that flow From these kept fingertips of mine Writing such things I do not know- Where does she find them? These foreign words of passion And loss? Where sleeps the timid beast I call poetry? Who lives and dies inside this soul of mine? I will feel her awakening When the time is come- Her crazed, mastery of me I am overtaken. And my, what a beautiful devil she can be! With strong unforgiving blows She beats such meaning out of me. So, I will lie in wait here Until my muse arrives- A lonely would-be poet Just trying to survive.  

There he goes- the Goblin king- or perhaps I shouldn’t credit him so? But I’ve run short on metaphor as I’ve named the beast as many times. He troubles me, this manly demon and will not abate. He walks these halls as if they belong to him but only one man may lay legal claim here and You are not him , good sir. No, you are not him. You think yourself slick, sneaking about shadows, hiding behind your sicky sweet smile. Offering the appealing fruit of friendship- how shall I tell friend from foe? From your cubby hole, tucked around some corner, yet always watching, walking the grounds, inspecting all, an overlord with worn-out and weary soles- snatching up babes in their sleep or maybe, more realistically, just arguing with brick walls as you like to do. What’s that I smell? A fierce scent that rides the wind- the poison that pours from a broken man. Careful, don’t breathe it in!  Or perhaps merely the bog of eternal stench. They’ll be no bargain had here, sir. No quid pro quo of my ...

  I’m trying to keep my mouth . I’m trying to bar the gates. I’m trying to hold back the floodgates . In other words, I’m trying to stop myself complaining again. Those who know me know, know that the complaints flow so ready, so steady at the helm. I have a reputation, I’m sure. And not as they say, “I’m mindful. I’m demure” or whatever the hell it is Gen Z are saying. I am if anything, without meaning to be, I am most surely, assuredly, the exact opposite of that. I am at the edge of a ledge we will call justifiably crazy, effortlessly displaced and just this side of frazzled like a Doozer- always building just to have my earnest efforts torn to pieces like a well-served entrée’. I was overwhelmed again today. My how I wish I could say that I was overreached with passion. To be subdued with the lust and revelry of a book. A steamy glance interchanging lovely, surprising heat between two objects- objects of affections- out the corner of my eye. Yes, I want that and no...