Poetry 4-23-24

Posted on by sereichert

This is the last week of April, and so I offer a “still has that new smell” poem, straight out of the journal (so please forgive if I haven’t reworked it much). If you’ve enjoyed this month, if you’ve gotten out of your comfort zone and explored poetry, I encourage you to keep reading. Poetry is the boiled down essence of awareness and presence in the moment. It’s a straight line to another person’s soul and perspective and if the world needs more of anything these days, its building up compassion and connection between humans and fostering our common humanity. Enjoy this little off-shoot of one of my favorite songs. Its always good to have a conversation with the beating of your heart. The punctuation is intentional. I hope you can feel yours beating too.

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Conversations with My Old Heart

Hello, 
my old heart.
I'd nearly forgotten that you still lived
in this tattered cage of me

until you jolted awake
with such ferocity
that I was stunned to attention,
in the death of night

. . / . . / . . / . . / . . /. . . . . . . . .

Who put a kicking prisoner beside my lungs?
Why does he fight against his cage so?

Is it because I've ignored you?
Silenced you
reprimanded you
cuffed you 
when you spoke out in knowing beats
against the electrical reasoning
of neurons and logic?

Is it because,
this time it matters?

You're quieter now

I put my hand on top of you
and feel you push against my palm
fighting . . steady . .

pay . . attention . .
or you'll miss it.

You'll 
miss
it
all . . / . . /

What am I missing?

Your . . One . . Wild . . 
and . . Beautiful . .  life . . /

There you are,
my old heart
I'm sorry I locked you away 
for so long

Why? Why did you? . . 

Because I was afraid.

Of me? . . 

Of letting you lead.
Who knows where I might have ended up?

who . . knows . . who . . knows . . 
who . . knows . . who . . knows . .

Poetry 9-2-2021

Posted on by sereichert

It’s been a month-long week. Here’s some poetry that boils it down. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, whoever and whatever you’re spending your energy on–I hope it is worthy of your time and love. Take a breath…or seven-hundred.

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The Gift of Silence

What the silence gave me
was the horror
of having to sit with my own 
disasters
car-piled up in my head
like an apocalypse of trauma
each vying for attention
on the quiet stage 

I can’t whack-a-mole them down
without ten more sprouting up
the what about and
the have you forgotten when...
I'm the resistant owner
of a vice-gripped mind 
constantly expanding with 
unsettling pressure

What the silence gave me
was one full breath,
an ocean wave in and out
before the panic of being alone 
in the frayed mess of my life
took that air
in short, shallow gasps 
and suffocated my dopamine.

What the silence gave me
was the truth
that I’ve packed it all in 
too tightly
for too long 
and something
must give.
But I cannot ‘give’.
I was not built to throw away
I was not taught to let go.

I cannot sit in gifted silence 
because I cannot stand the sound
of my own shit show.
Raging its insecurities
its expectations 
like expandable insulation
in the cracks of my gray matter.
I cannot accept this gift
of silence
because my thoughts
are far too loud.

VerseDay 12-12-19

Posted on by sereichert

Here, in the middle of your busy holiday season, with the obligations and expectations closing in, take pause and have a little poetry break.

 

I am missing

Cried the mountain,

from your blood and from your breath

 

You are sticky in the pavements and

Choked in traffic

You are gut sick with expectation

 

And I am missing from your blood.

 

You are broken backed

And over ran,

Jazzercised and dieted

Into the pale haunting gaunt

That smiles back from checkout line shelves

 

And I am missing from your blood

 

You are sleepless and achy,

Eyes dry from small ideas

And false images, voices raised

Praising the ego unfaltering

 

And I am missing from your blood.

 

Come back and breathe me.

Come back to my silent path,

The truth of dirt.

Of pine needle crunch,

Rock fall tumbles,

beneath your feet which empty out the filth

and transfuse me back into your veins

 

I am missing

Cried the mountain.

Come and find yourself again