WALKING THE WILDERNESS
Poetry Collection
Writing/Art
Walking The Wilderness
Step by step, trudge on;
Walk on, walk on,
Climb the mountain that beckons;
A lonely plateau that calls
For only the few,
The few who are to be
Vessels for the muse.
Wider paths are on the earth,
Easier to navigate, safer to steer
Through life's many trials...
But the mountaintop beckons
For those who know their Fate.
Walk on, walk on,
Climb the wilderness path,
Fight your way to the top:
A bleak, barren ground
Where solitude reigns supreme.
Come alone, remain alone, live alone:
Walking the wilderness
Is walking alone with only
Faith in talent for solace.
The keyboard is like a finely tuned piano, and my fingers
race across the keys making a melody of written words
on the computer screen...the harmony reflected in a
reader's eyes.
Written words from the soul do speak,
And touch with a sharp feeling peak,
Like a fragile floating bubble,
A world unto itself until touched...
So the written words until spoken
A world of feeling from the heart,
Suddenly to burst and disappear --
The bubble gone into the unknown,
And the feelings lost in conversation.
You are hundreds of others
But you can never be
Just one -- yourself;
You have to say for them
What they cannot;
You have to be where you are not...
The confines of here and now,
Not your abode;
In a realm of them you must dwell,
To become the voice of people
Who are powerless to speak.
Please, do not grieve,
Or regret your solitary state...
For you shall forever live
In the vast multitudes.
It cannot be defined
Nor captured;
It dwells within,
And like a cyclone,
Raging with violence,
Sometimes damages its host.
Talent, the wild wind,
Recognized by millions
Who scream to hold it, own it.
But talent cannot be owned,
Very rarely even understood;
It must be unconfined, free,
To blow as wild as the wind.
Humans want a fleeting touch,
But talent, like the wind,
Escapes their greedy clutches;
Unknowable, the muse
Is an alien among us.
************************************************
Never-Ending Mystery
Creative artists trust in innocence --
They see a vision in a heart's mission.
Creative artists want to capture the essence
Of all humanity, of all life is --
They desire a deeper destiny than most.
Creative artists look beneath the surface,
They glimpse a shimmering image --
One which captures their imagination,
And embraces them in a never-ending mystery.
Playing one card at a time,
Laying it down stealthily,
But steadily;
Building hand upon hand
Of suspense, tension;
Smoothly stacking,
Tightly packing
Each card on the pile;
Then an ace falls,
The climax explodes:
A novel is born.
Why should I, a poet,
Seek to be oblique and obscure?
Dark birds flying into angry skies,
References to dim, distant mythology,
Are strange and crazy symbols
To an everyday intelligence.
And why should I, a poet,
Seek to speak only to genius?
In the back alleys of some big city,
On the lonely streets of a small town,
Out there somewhere are those to whom
I, a poet, should be directing my words.
These words should be familiar emblems
To common folks, to the sad, sorrowful or lost;
And these simple words should convey
TRUTH, HOPE, LOVE
In plain, clear language they will understand --
Not obscure riddles created by elite intellectuals.
Slant your novel this way,
Fence it in with restrictions;
Tuck it in like cornered bedcovers,
Then fold it back exactly
The very same way for public
Distribution, so it comes out bland
And never shocks or surprises,
But appeals to readers of repetition
And is sure to make monetary profit.
Males:
The piece has too much,
Or not enough,
The syntax is wrong,
The structure too long;
Perhaps you could do better,
Learn to be a fine writer
From my superior criticism.
Females:
The piece is good
I like it somehow;
The style is precise,
The subject not so nice,
Yet I think it has potential;
Sorry if I offend,
I apologize for my opinion.
Writing is like living,
Touching and moving,
Shaping and forming,
A feeling, a flight
Of soaring high...
Transcending reality
Into illusion,
Wildly abandoning earth
For glory-bound realms
Of the shimmery imagination;
Floating in timelessness
Without a trace of reason,
Suspended in spiritual wisdom,
Life now frozen into meaningful
Portraits of understanding
By the power & magic
Of written words.
Oh writing, my love...what are you to me?
More than anyone can know...for you are to me -- ALL.
When the wind blows outside my window
Howling for changes, for diversions,
Urging me to abandon this harsh conviction,
I cover my ears and let tears
Have their way with me:
Boring nights in front of mindless TV,
Trying to evade the Call,
Trying to soothe the hollow ache without you, writing.
But then the night comes when I sit again
Wrapped up with my creativity,
And knowing heart and soul is forever yours, writing.
It isn't that I want it this way...
Alone and unknown, perhaps always unrecognized,
It's just that you, my talent, command
And there is no manner of escape --
Not in pleasurable pursuits or idle restlessness,
Nor in subtle daydreams, which only spawn story ideas:
Every occurrence, every person, every nuance of an event
Is but another idea, another story, another reason
To write, to bring life to airy nothingness...
Creating, dreaming, living or loving,
It is all just part of the art of capturing
Life's fleeting images in written words...
A writer's gift to make it come alive for others,
To portray significant themes for all eternity.
So writing you are to me -- ALL.
Should I forsake the Call,
Whispered from earliest childhood?
Or should I heed it and go forward
Blindly into that maze of artistic souls
Who struggle, write and then tumble into oblivion?
In the end,
It doesn't matter about recognition or success,
For writing is a relentless master
That turns talent into a forever love affair.
And writers must write or be damned!
