We Rage

 

In the dying light,

we rage,

as we were told to do,

by Dylan Thomas.

Perhaps we didn’t follow

the directions.

 

If we are to rage,

then let us do so

for the good of the many,

that haven’t seen the light,

and not look back on our follies,

but on our grand achievements.

 

Let us rage for the right

reasons, not out of some

long archaic duty to an

antiquated notion of Puritanical

mores or beliefs. Let us rage

for the future and the light just emerging.

 

As aged people, on our death beds,

we should look back with pride

at what our rage has wrought,

for the betterment and progression

of all people, rather than how well we

stuck to Dogmatic traditions of the past.

 

Rage against the darkness,

rage against those who refuse to

embrace a future where being

closed minded is the biggest sin

and the worst shame of all.

Rage for a future.

 

Don’t waste your rage on what has

been done, use it for what can be.

Do not become an old crone in bed,

with eyes tearful with regret in your death nells,

for raging in favor of a dying past,

instead of a full and hopeful destiny.  

 

Rage, Rage, for the emerging light.

 

 

 

When They See You

 

When they see you,

for who you are,

it’s exhilaratingly

terrifying;

especially when they see;

You.

 

And all your splotches,

blemishes, scabs and scars,

smeared over with make-up,

gregarious personality traits,

dabbling in the stream of

misdirection and joke telling.

 

It’s a sort of love,

that blooms, or explodes,

or erupts from the depths of

you, beaming and bubbling,

from the bowels of all creation,

in blasts of radiating validation.

 

It’s when we see them

for who they are,

that makes you want to

go back to the shadows

and get in your gilded armor

and hide until they’re out of view.

 

Sometime the lure of

the shadows, or the suit of

gilded armor, is preferable

to the bright eyes, seeing you,

for what seems like the very

first time.  Every time.

 

Their judging gazes, fixed on you,

waiting on their tip-toes in

anticipation for what crazy

thing you think next.

The “how-dares-yous”, that

seem to tumble from their eyes.

 

Like your tears,

as you recoil, because you

were seen by the wrong eyes,

at the wrong time, in the wrong light,

the stage wasn’t set, the cues were all

off…

 

Oh God!

Just start the band already!

I want to get off this stage!

Drop the Curtain!

 

… their eyes,

in the dark,

 

seeing me for who I am,

is exhilaratingly terrifying.

 

 

 

 

 

Ba Dum Tssshhh

 

Timing is…

 

Everything.

 

Or so I’m told.

 

So when you see this…

 

 

 

 

poem,

 

 

 

You’ll know that I

 

carefully crafted it

 

to give the impression

 

of the…

 

…passage of time.

 

 

 

So you might…

 

 

…think on it,

 

a little more

 

than…

 

usual.

 

 

…Timing.

 

 

 

(Ta-Dah!)

The "Un" of it All

 

The “Un” is trying to get me.

The un-motivated,

the un-happy,

the un-resolved,

the un of it all.

 

Fat fingers of depression,

trying to curl their

way around my neck,

to choke me with devious glee,

un-satisfied with the present.

 

The face of depression,

hidden in unlit corridors;

unfazed by the unrelenting

lengthening of Sunny days,

and potentials to come.

 

Unforgivable in its haunting

of my always tired mind,

unashamed of the torment

its cracking knuckles cause,

as they echo through my head.

 

Undaunted, I fight against

this creeping and unwelcome

pall of sadness, ever present

enemy, of the most unpopular

kind.

 

I’m steeled,

but rusty,

unsatisfied with my defenses,

unabashedly awkward in my

sword-play.

 

The “Un”.

The unrepentant depression,

swirling around my head,

like Emily Dickinson’s fly,

in her ear as she died.

 

Uncalled for violence,

unpolished blade,

dulled, unsharpened,

in the shaking hands

of depression.