I wish

I wish for my missing heart.

The soft touch of sea air
brushes against my face.
I wish for her soft hand.

The golden flecks of sun
sparkle like the stars.
I wish for the sparkle in her eyes.

Soon reunited the heart is found.

Scribble 2

During one of my two deployments to the Persian Gulf, I went through a period where I wrote a lot of short poetic desriptions. I call them that for lack of a better way to describe them. They are not, to me, truly poems on their own, but do contain a sort of poetic nature to them. Either way they are some of my favorite little snippets from my journal. Let me share a few:

• A garden within a cubical
of sidewalk, planted by natures
hand, lends a brilliant venue for expression.

• Sitting on a bench beneath
a shade tree kept me from
howling at the moon.

• A row of trashcans within
a locked enclosure.
Forced recycling?

• In a clutter I dwell between
dirty dishes and the remains of
a long journey.

I know they are a bit odd, but they bring to mind the clearest images of the moment that I captured with them that they will forever hold a fond place to me.
P~

Untitled, (age 16-17)

Time drips by,
with but a subtle hint of life gone past.

It creeps by,
leaving only the distant ticking of the clock on the wall.

It has no true form,
but gives slight clues, such as the gray hair of an old man's head.

Time is precious,
however it comes from a well which will never run dry.

Time is lonely,
but only for those who choose for it to be so.

Why is it that man,
unlike the universe, attempts to control time?

Perhaps it's because man,
unlike the universe, has a limit.


P~

Scribble 1

Digging, always digging.

Shoving the earth around.

Making it better, more functional.

Like plastic surgery on an old woman.


P~
Some time in 1992 while in Saudi Arabia.

The world inside my dreams.

My eyes, they see not the things they wish to;
a solitary bluff of green grass topped by a tree,
with rolling fields of grain and wild horses roaming.
An intoxicating world, a playground for you and me.

These things I say I wish to see have been hidden or killed off by us,
A rushed society of material things with factories spilling smoke.
Our engines that we make, they pollute us too.
We must take this problem more seriously, for it's really not a joke.

Our ancestors, they called our home a land of virgin soil.
They said also that our lands would yield bountiful crops; and so they did.
And I say did, for our land is drying out, for we have misused it.
Things like this I did not notice when I was just a kid.
But now I do.

And now I only see these things in my peaceful dreams.
These dreams of spacious meadows, of gently blowing wind.
The quiet world of forests and unpolluted streams
and I dread the moment of daybreak at which time my dreams must end.

I long to see these things again, the things I've never seen,
I wish to go at least once again to where I've never been.
To my world of forests with gently flowing streams,
the world I love so very much, the world inside my dreams.
P~ 4-15-86

I had to chuckle as I transcribed this to the blog. I wrote so dramatically didn't I? "For this'', and "for that..." oh well, I was 15 and in 9th grade. I Guess I was a bit of a greenie before it was vogue huh? I had to fight the temptation to edit and change the way the poem read. I think I could re-write it better, but it is what it is, I want to document it as such. Maybe some time in the future I'll get back to it.

Hope you like.
P~