Journey to Ixtlan

Later September, 2017, will mark three years of writing a poem a day. “Odes to God’s Ears” is about this adventure.


Odes to God’s Ears

While there words I’ve yet to use
there are fewer across the years
by writing poems once a day
dribbling out upon my pen
looking forward to much more
in this effort I must find
inspiration to march on
ascribing odes to God’s ears

I find aid in all things
the grains of sands near at hand
dribble through evermore
plumbing depths of my soul
prompts delivered by a world
the good and evil both compete
asking for an equal voice
through fair coverage in my verse

finding faults in dogma’s reign
exclamations made from high
brought to earth on the page
spoke with voice as truth exclaimed
words are feathers on the scale
between the right and the wrong
one seems the other when balanced
in the shadow of rhyme’s turn

humanity struggles on
I’m included in this domain
seeking portents that inform
why I fail and why I fly
still continuing to exist
another poem has been writ
stating less than you’d expect
ascribing odes to God’s ears.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170818.

I began writing a poem about poetry’s place in expressing a need to connect to the word, how the words may be different from reality, but still have a truth of their own. This very rough draft became “Healing Touch” after I watched a YouTuber I follow. They spoke of the healing presence of video production in their challenged life. I very much relate, using the expression of poetry to provide a “hook” for continuing to press on.


Healing Touch

When my words relate despair
a scratching pen stating woe
it’s no wonder that people turn
avert their eyes from lack of joy
I wish this were not the case
a happy world asks for more
just know that sadness has a worth
madness cloaking healing touch.

Sometimes life is full of walls
erected high, the stuff of lies
whispering deceit to our ears
that trials of life are solitaire
into this my words intrude
stating loud of hardship shared
participation is the norm
to common ills we all endure.

The other balm affirms my life
when thirst for doom is allayed
the chronic need is satisfied
to end it all, remove the hurt
by turn of letters, a poet’s cure
the muse's license removes stigma
in that space I can relate
of life's struggles felt inside.

Drama is not my base intent
though the words may relate
to the matters in my life
of life and death, moving forth
railing against life’s restraints
both in my life and outward felt
combining to crush a soul
that’s what I share, the brunt of it.

2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170707.

I attended a local poetry reading. There I discovered that a number of the readers shared a common theme in their poems. It is different from my themes. The realization hit me that a careful examination of a writer’s work can reveal a lot about individual poet and the “stuff” they process through their writing.


While I Heal

To each their own, their crux to write
the poet’s urge to say their voice
on topics painfully close to heart

the muse calls for honesty
not just once, but time again
on the topic put to page

in between lighter fare
of flowers and buttercups
spring to summer, nothing more

then back to angst, sterner stuff
elaboration of inner fiends
the writer spins thoughts to words

the purge is good for the mind
emotion filtered by daylight
the sun fighting against the dark

this antidote becomes the cure
as letters pour from end of quill
a tonic expressed to the soul

so my reader, fair citizen
forgive this poet for his sins
expressed to paper while I heal.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170522.

“None Shall Read” was inspired by the quote, “She lives in poetry she cannot write”, credited to Oscar Wilde. The active poet shares more than most, but even then there are some parts of their life that remain out of reach, by intent or inability to adequately share more.


None Shall Read

I live in poetry I cannot write
ink fails my hand to spill my life
though the page is no longer blank
they are not enough to reveal my life
the void filled with smoke's fury
something there, the question begs
how may existence be confirmed
when words fail their greatest charge?

Rhyme would save if form was king
prose by tradition, muse invoked
the trip of ear connecting lines
allowing flow to carry notes
greatest is the symbolic match
repetition at the end of verse
stanzas blessed with magic's touch
matters not when the middle fails.

The tome is imagined and then put aside
pages pulled against the spine
two covers promise with titled text
coming soon, the breadth I am
the volume heavy with spirit's void
estranged from the soul’s scribbles
what's come before to fill this space
what's meant to follow, what I embrace.

My breath attempts to fill the void
a voice to strive where script failed
conversation meant to cross the gap
between ledge of self and world at large
when my speech is forced out
all that's heard is a sad rasp
to substantiate the there to here
the silence drowns the waiting ears.

Ask privacy to work its guile
reluctance gone when none may watch
only self will hear the tale
poetic journey put to page
release the tongue, tell no lies
this would be apt is conscious knew
what to bring to diary’s womb
the void is found, not the birth.

In the end I live in the void
understated by writ of word
the reasons why are numerous
though in the end I always fail
I'll blame the words for their guilt
though they serve this master's call
no matter how I strive to express
my life in poetry none shall read.

© 2017, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170316.

I pondered a poem for a competition themed by quote of Ray Bradbury that included the words “You have to get up in the morning and write something you love, something to live for”. I write about many things. Some are joyful and others are despondent. All are expressed because I love to write, and at some level, I lovingly embrace what I write about even if it pushes into the darkest corners. The poem “Love of High and Low” speaks to the varied output of the honest writer.


Love of High and Low

In the morn the pen is held
by happy hand or less than that
it matters not in my heart
the love is there for what I write
afflictions seem to bend my will
even as I express beauty’s charm
I continue to scribble thoughts
requested by one beyond the doom.

Though darkness may press within
imaginings of my fevered brain
too long thought to know the way
the words I use reveal the path
if love were only pretty things
life would find the worst to complain
instead I find that the most tender spots
are born by love of high and low.

Life’s varied fount provides the source
the reason to keep marching on
God has asked me to share
all of creation’s mighty breadth
to these I write with greatest love
in varied terms that span the world
from pain to pleasure the globe does turn
each written for compassion’s arms.

2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20161227.

I asked a friend why they acknowledged one of my darker poems, one that spoke to a disquiet emotional expression. They were not alone with an acknowledgment. The same poem seemed to strike a chord with several people. This does not always happen. It is not uncommon that the contemplative poems are met with social silence. My friend responded with an answer that gave me hope that I’m not wasting my time sharing parts of a fragile human being . The poem “Albatross” is very loosely based on my friend’s answer.


Albatross

Poet tell me, how did you know
the heaviness that lurks below?
The reservoir of deep feeling
below the place that most can see
common ground has been found
shown in words spilled on page
with echoes of humanity
confirming a shared albatross.

Perhaps you speak for the muse
with conditions not your own
I don’t know if this is the case
as the words have the same weight
I feel as if the curtain’s pulled
from the window to my soul
this I guarded with too much strength
behind thick boards bound with steel.

A kindred soul is recognized
across the span of written words
around another neck I see
the fated bird of life’s curse
now I compare like for like
though you could not know
my inner heart and head combined
the secret shames of all my years.

Sadness is found in the script
I wish that you could not say
mirrored thoughts on the page
revealing you have these aches
this does not ease my regret
at what I’ve done and what I’ve felt
even so the pain relents
a burden shared is one that’s less.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160807

On Tumblr the quote “The right people will read all your chapters. The perfect person will help you write them” caught my eye. Through social media I am blessed with people reading my poetry chapters. The astute do learn something about me. This the nature of an artist’s sharing. Through my poetry I’ve celebrated those who have helped me write the chapters. That will be a topic for another poem.


Poet’s Mark

Read my book if you will
chapter and verse through the years
made plain on paper here
ready for those with heart to peer.

The pages turn as seasons passed
some are lost to winds of fate
others published for all to see
may the wheel be kind to those who read.

The joy flows from other pages
too bright to look upon unheeded
a mortal one should know this
that the rest of life must exist.

It was a journey with harsh remorse
of occasions cast to soul’s regret
even as the dice was thrown
without the chance of rewriting it.

The author does not know the end
when it comes or when life bends
to Father Time’s sharp sickle
harvesting all the physical.

Read the book after this has passed
of joy and pain scribed to last
ink spilled to write the place
of poet’s mark upon the world.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160704.

The poem “Poet's Triage” is about the place of poetry in one person's life. It was triggered when I commented the following to an online friend:

“File these (bad events) away as future poem ideas. I don't know if I could do what I do if it were not for all the sh*t I've been through. The joy too, yeah, there's that, but I am beginning to believe that people who know only joy don't write poetry. They don't have to. ”


Poet's Triage

I once thought I was quite mad
this thought is still resonates
my point to make is about writing
those things I suffer through.
To come out and speak my mind
would be the bludgeon misapplied
on kind readers with same struggles
not wanting reminder of a cruel world.

I blogged once a day in an effort
to force the inner to find ease
with a world both loved for beauty
and hated for the self-existence.
The angst was skirted in attempts
to share the lunacy within
with vanilla revelations so shallow
as to make wonder bread delicious.

A day years later I was rescued
by the hand of an old friend
poetry had come and gone
from my pen to spilled ink.
Now avenue for revelation was given
to the voices raw with rage
turned against the owner's self
in desire to end existence.

Distance given to bloody tales
denial is the artist's prerogative
even as the guts are spilled
of a tableau of a life exposed.
Uncertainty is the masque
of poet's sharing to the masses
when the wordsmith does proclaim
for themselves or other men.

Larger forces are at here at hand
with tidal forces of humanity
their capacity for joy sometimes outdone
by the longing for something more.
My story was more dire than most
with the tinge of endings wished
though the source is too common
to the expanse of my fellow men.

In the end the dungeons expel
the worst of corpses kept within
through the rhyme of lyrical
wrapped in muse's license to reveal.
Don't imagine confessions tell
that the vampires were mine this day
brought to life to be expunged
witnessed by you fair reader most kind.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160417.

The poem “Arrange the Words” is about the workflow of creating poetry. No matter the construction technique, or the resulting structure, the goal is to reach out to the reader in an impacting way.


Arrange the Words

Arrange the words on the page,
begin with thoughts tailor made
to pull the heart strings of readers fair,
to scream the secrets held within.
Vanguard sentences lead the charge,
marshalled first as thoughts collide.
Leading edge to stanzas full,
focused intentions of the poet's will.

The story then begins to form,
short in nature but full in breadth.
Miniature may be its size,
but look to see the message concise.
The river flows through the land,
so does the poem across the page.
Hill and hollow are not seen,
instead terrain is verse proclaimed.

Perhaps to rhyme is the poet's choice,
or to repeat in syllables spoke.
Neither is required when words do speak
to the reader of poetry.
Writer's style please step aside,
there is a task the Muse requests.
This is the most important goal,
ask the mind to think and heart to flow.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160318.

The poem "Mercy's Bless" was inspired by the portions of the foreword in the book "The Poet's Dictionary", A Handbook of Prosody and Poetic Devices". The foreword spoke of poetry in terms of muses, dance, prayer, and the feminine inspiration. These imperfectly came together in my poem.


Mercy's Bless

Angel wings and shrouds of pain,
burning bright in night's cold sight.
Words to lift and those to ground,
poetic muse please guide my hand.
Let me write of passion's place,
separation and prayers to faith.
All of these are Muse's face
as I seek this to scribe these lines.

This dance is made on razor's edge,
one or other will prevail.
The blood of strife pass away
as I share fruit of union's grace.
It is natural to ask these boons
from the mistress of fay Moons.
Treasures at hand will dispense,
though exchange of mercy's bless.

Distraction given to differences,
unconscious of the binding threads
between the wayfarers of Muse's dream
presented to those who wish to see.
Similarities are contrite
when the moats divide the right
from another other, each their own,
the same in difference ever more.

Prayer is my muted voice,
exclaimed loud in written words.
Those who hear are held to task,
silent witnesses to a grasping heart.
To those who bend on same knee,
I bid hello with last stanzas.
May you fly among the clouds,
far from the painful shrouds.

© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160224.