Surviving

Feeling the warmth of the sun on a cloudy day. A glimpse into a blind billy goat's unique, ever changing perspectives.

2015 04 27 Poetry: Cane April 27, 2015

Three days left in the month of April. This is my 27th post in a row in honor of National Poetry Month, and I welcome you, one and all.

I do write a lot of poetry. I guess I enjoy the rhythm of it all. The movement of the scripted verse, the melody of the lines, the poetic chorus that takes shape with each word. It’s a form of music for me, and if you know me, you know that I completely adore music.

I tend to write alot about my vision loss. It’s been five years, and some of my best growth during this time has come in the form of writing. It has allowed me to climb inside my head and pull out some amazing pieces of writing that, well, honestly I have a hard time believing that I wrote. I’ve written short stories, essays, poetry, emails, all about losing my vision. A day doesn’t go by that I wish I never lost my sight, but a day doesn’t go by that I don’t feel thankful that I am still able to take part in one of my passions. Writing.

Being blind comes with a ton of experiences. It comes with extreme highs and deep pounding lows. It leaves me searching through my mind for clues to help me make it through the day, and it helps me build an imagination that is second to none. I see what I imagine, and I imagine what I see.

The following post was written a couple years ago, and it plays a major role in trying to capture some of the emotions that I feel, to this day. It is poetry, and it was written by a searching, competent man, who just happens to be blind.

Thanks for dropping by, and have a wonderful rest of your day.

Deon

***

Cane

Trust is a five letter word that fumbles across my lips.
It’s tone is simple enough, yet it’s uncomplicated meaning eludes me.
Helplessly fearing where I tread seems more appropriate, and complacently calm.
Unseen roads haunt the soul of the sightless spirit.
With a soothing touch, the white cane opens the eyes of my mind.
Seeing with the stick is such an unfamiliar complexity that eludes normal past logic.
The fear is instilled deep and hidden from those who care to look.
Dreaming through a frightening shadow, I see what I hear, what I smell and touch.
I now can dream of what used to be unseen.
Visions appear through a slumbered sight.
The dream unfolds as the day unwinds.
The brightness remains unclear, as the warmth falls down upon me.
I reach for your vision.
I grasp at your sweeping voice.
Touch all that remains hidden from view, and lift me up to see.
Carry me on your shoulders, and help me over the obstacles in my journey.
A world never before seen, comes to life through the cane.
Bring the shadows to me.
Help me feel the road ahead.
Guide me through the darkened path.
Light the twists and turns that lay ahead.
Remember me as the one who trusts.
Remember me as one who learns.
Remember me and lead me home.
Teach me and I will learn.
Speak to me and I will hear.
Show me and I will see.
Guide me and I will follow.
Help me up, and I will trust in you.
My mind understands what my soul feels.
My heart embraces what my fear cannot.
My drive lights the heart of the frightened child within.
Caress the pained dawns and brush the color back into my smile.
Sorrow and pity have no place in my scripted stage.
Raise the curtain and shine the stage lights on the encored events that place their hands upon my shoulders.
Lead me, guide me, direct me, show me, and tell me I will be ok.
If I learn to trust, the belief will follow.
The belief in me will follow the cane.

 

2015 04 26 Poetry: One April 26, 2015

Could it be? Can it possibly be the 26th of April already? Is this one of the fastest months the universe has ever seen? Hmm?

It is surely chugging along at a good clip, and I am honored to have you stop by once again. Thank you very much.

I have said aloud a lot that I have an addictive personality. Ever since I can remember, whenever a trend finds its way to me, if it’s something that strikes my fancy, I’m in, one hundred eleven and a half percent, and you better not get in my way or I’ll go sit in a corner, pound my heels against the floor and start sucking my thumb!

No, really though, even if there isn’t a corner around, watch out.

I have loved my addictions, each and every one. I’ve also grown to hate a certain number of my addictions. It’s a fine line sometimes, or at least that’s what our conscience tells us. Dang strong thing, this conscience of ours, or at least mine.

I have seen addiction change my life in ways that was unannounced and unexpected. I have seen these baffling powers control all logical thinking, until, well, there ain’t much logic. I probably didn’t start with a huge amount, so I should have been more careful from the start. I probably thought I was, or I should say, my addictions fooled me into thinking that I was.

I am blessed that I found a handle on my addictions before they completely ruined me and everyone around me. I found a fellowship and jumped in head first. I thank God for those who crossed my path and instilled in me the belief in myself that had vanished.

The following poem is a reminder to me of how far I have come, and how short the distance is to where I came from. I continue to admit many things every day, and I pray.

Take care and thanks again for your support during this National Poetry Month.

God bless the writers and their stories.

Deon

***

One

Weeping tears mark the progression of life
Small droplets of painful woe mark the steps
Salted trails down unsuspecting cheeks dry against a harsh, bitter wind
Pleading eyes peer towards the Heavens as the soul inhales deeply with anguished breath

Unrelenting memories flood the chambers of a captured heart
Thoughts frantically dash about with electricity as the veins surge
The imagination wreaks havoc with unanswered speculation
Again the lungs deeply expand as the body uncontrollably quivers

Well trained torment tightens its unforgiving noose
Eyes dart quickly, searching for a secret escape
The conscience rapidly rubs its hands together, and smiles
With retreating logic, the moment is at hand, again

Shaking hands grasp and pull against a disappearing will
The mouth waters and the eyes peer as the ghosts circle around
A gripping, twist of fate unleashes the manipulative poison
Eyes flitter, then close as an unwelcome guest moves back in

One is too many
One million is not enough

 

2015 04 25 Poetry: Mother April 25, 2015

April 25th is here, and once again, so are you. Welcome! I hope you’re all doing well.

I write a lot about a lot. I write about the sun, the moon, the stars, the seasons, the birds and wildlife, and yes, I write about family. It’s the most important thing to me under the sun. It’s what holds my world together, and it’s what keeps me moving forward.

There is no love like that which we feel towards family. There is nothing that grows stronger over time like family. Putting it mildly, there’s nothing that will ever compare to, you guessed it, family.

I was thinking of my mum this morning. I thought back to when I was a little guy, and how calming and soothing it was knowing she was there. She instilled in me a lot of the characteristic traits that keep me company today. She gave me a piece of her heart that I will selfishly keep with me through all eternity. She expected things from me, and demanded things from me. Through it all, she gave me what I needed to become the man I am.

This poem is dedicated to her, my mom. Even with all of my love, I will never be able to express how much she means to me and how thankful I am that she is, indeed, my mom.

dp

***

Mother

Mother, oh mother, hear my pleading call
Shivering child from years ago stands before you
Grant me access to your warming heart
Calm my scattered spirit with your magical potion

I remember your words as I craved your touch
I remember your gentle kiss on my forehead
I remember wrapping my arms around you
I remember

Please sing me that same, soothing lullaby
Please rock me in your arms until I fall fast asleep
Please tell me everything will be alright
Please

Walk beside me as we brave the world
Walk beside me as I dare to dream
Walk beside me as your older boy discovers the unknown
Walk beside me

Promise me a handful of possibilities
Promise me of the love that awaits me
Promise me a family of my own
Promise me

Rescue me from a dastardly foe
Rescue me from an unrelenting obstacle course
Rescue me and whisper your calming tone
Rescue me

Sing to me your praise as you stare into my eyes
Sing to me of the opportunity each day provides
Sing to me your anthem of faith, love and hope
Sing to me

Share your secrets with me
Guide me towards tomorrow
Pray for me as I do for you
Watch over me with confidence

Soothe my skipping heartbeat with your healing touch
Calm my worried gaze with your gentle touch
Release my anxious breath with a mother’s touch
Mother, Oh Mother

 

2015 04 24 Poetry: Letters on the Screen April 24, 2015

How did it become the 24th of April so fast? Is this a joke? Someone ripping off two days for each one? Hmmm.

Anyways, hello again. I hope you’re all having an enormously entertaining day.

I don’t know if you’ve ever thought this before, but aren’t letters pretty cool? I mean, without them, there wouldn’t be much communicating between each other. We’d be reverted back to grunting and stuff. I suppose even grunts have letters though. Ugh, for example. It declares a communicative skill of sorts, doesn’t it?

Ok, I admit it. I think I’m losing my mind.

How many letters is that? Are you counting right now? Good then. It appears I may have your undevided attention, or not.

Letters are finite. They line up, one after another to build moments in our lives that are each uniquely different from one another. Without letters, there is no sentence structure, no verse, no, communication, so to speak. Without letters, I’d probably be hauled away for unavoidably pounding away on a keypad built for absolutely nothing in particular.

Just picture it. Ok! You can stop now.

Thanks, and please find the poem pasted below for the 24th of April. It is still National Poetry Month and we’re closing in on the home stretch.

Remember the power of letters. Remember the power of words. Remember not to forget and away we go.

Have a great day, and thanks again.

dp

***

Letters on the Screen

Words that I type can never fully describe just how I feel.
They can never wrap their letters around the lifting tides of emotions.
They can never form the text that tells of the pounding swell of feelings and thoughts. They can never completely tell the tale of a story hidden deep inside.
? They just can’t.

As the letters form on the screen, I wonder if they even come close to the thoughts racing through my wandering mind.
I wonder if they even come close to capturing the highs and lows of the swirling emotions inside me.
I wonder if they even come close to the stories and passages and scripts that are slowly unraveling on the floor.
I wonder if they even come close to the center of it all.
I just wonder.

I search for the letters to form the words that I feel inside.
I search for the text and the phrase that justify the thoughts racing around me.
I search for the metaphors and clichés that define the meaning of everything that I feel.
I search for the truth that lies cleverly woven into the fabric of my life.
I search for it through the spinning hands of the day, and into the countless dreams throughout the night.
And again, I search.

I believe that the hidden lesson will show itself one day.
I believe that the words forming on the screen hold the key to the internal passages.
I believe that if spelled correctly, this life can have many different and wonderful meanings.
I believe that the sound of the keys popping under my fingers is my story calling out.
I believe the words that appear on the screen will open the mind of the quieted child inside.
I just believe.

 

2015 04 23 Poetry: Little Fireman Boy April 23, 2015

Hello April 23! How have you been? How about the rest of you? Good then, and here we go again.

September 11th will be remembered by every American, probably for all time. It should be, for it marks a turning point in our great land. The bravest of the brave came out that day to share their pride and love of country. They came to help each other, one another, and as the buildings fell, the flags across the land rose for the world to see.

One September morning, ten years later, my wife and I were driving into Waterville when we were held up in traffic for a parade honoring the first responders. It was a bright, sunny morning, much like the one from ten years earlier. As I sat in the passenger seat, my wife told me what she saw, and as I heard the roaring trucks and whirling sirens, I felt a rush of adrenalin unlike much of anything I had ever felt before. An emotional swell was building up inside me, and then, she leaned over to me and softly started telling me about a little boy who was standing on the corner, watching the parade. As she spoke, I could hear her throat tighten as she started to cry. Well, it wasn’t long before I was crying too. I pictured this little boy in my mind, and everything else seemed to fade away. The passion and the pride all made sense, once again. I remembered that I too was an American, and I too nearly burst with thee pride of a nation.

Three and a half years have passed since that morning of the parage. I will never forget it. I will always see that little boys face as he waved his little American flag, stared up at his father and smiled.

I wrote the following poem in memory of that day, and in memory from the morning of ten years before.

God bless America, land that I love.

Stand beside us all.

dp

***

Little Fireman Boy

He stood on the corner, so small, yet so tall
As the trucks rolled through, one by one
Air horns were blaring, as sirens screamed
Under the September morning sun

We sat there and watched, the misses and I
As the fireman’s parade rolled on through
This young lad dressed in full fireman’s gear
Stood tall as the sirens blew

With his helmet and mask and his oxygen tank
He stood proud as the parade passed on by
Standing tall in his boots that he filled up so well
As the roar of a jet filled the sky

He waved at the trucks that passed by him that morn
While the sirens continued to blow
Just seeing him there in that coat and those pants
Made my passion and pride start to grow

The honor he showed as he stood in his suit
Made me swell up way deep down inside
As I remembered that morning from ten years before
I reflected, and paused, and then cried

Never before had it all seemed so clear
Or so simple and proper and pure
This young boy standing so small and so tall
Was the hope, and the faith, and the cure

As the last truck went by, he looked up at his dad
His face filled with smiles and such joy
He had captured my heart and tugged at my soul
This brave little fireman boy.

 

2015 04 22 Poetry: Narrows of the Bay April 22, 2015

April 22 and how do you do.

I love the ocean. I always have, and I always will. I was born in a coastal town, way down on the most eastern point of Maine. In fact, the town of Lubec is the most eastern town in the United States. No, it isn’t Eastport, it’s Lubec, and the folks of this historic town wear their pride as no other.

The ocean has a way of becoming part of you. The smells, the noises, the high and low tides all seem to take hold of you and never surrender. It is magnificence unrehearsed, and unlike anything else under the sun, there’s a sense of simplicity that can never be duplicated.

I feel the salty spray whenever I write about the sea. I hear the gulls cry, I hear the horn of the lighthouse in the bay, I crave for every part of it and even as I sit here, miles away from its pounding shores and think about it, I recall the wonders of it that captivated a small child as he walked along the shore.

This poem is about the sea and how ordinary life of those living there can differ so much from any other. It is the sea, and it is one of the loves of my life.

Thanks for stopping by and have a remarkable day.

dp

***

Narrow’s of the Bay

Summer time raises its head over the salt water flats
Buoy bells ring out across the early August morn
A lone seagull cries out from atop the canning factory roof
The day’s first tide marches in through the narrows of the bay

A newspaper delivery boy pedals down through a vacant alley
One lonely car makes its way down to the docks
A church steeple stands tall, searching for the sun
Scattered clouds skip high across morning’s first light

Marquee lights flicker, then burn bright at the local corner diner
A man sitting on his lunch pail pulls on his fisherman’s boots
Salty air slowly drifts up through the center of town
One by one, the boat engines come alive

Conversations of current events circle the salted planks
Two dogs scamper and run along the downtown shore
A bread truck comes to a stop behind the local grocery
A fog horn sings out from the watchful harbor light

Two barking seals slide off of the breakwaters edge
A young man on the deck of a boat repairs a lobster trap
A store front awning opens wide and proudly waves hello
A little girl and her mother give daddy a good bye kiss

One by one, the boats leave their wake as they head out to work,
A squadron of seagulls escorts the plowing hulls out to sea
A growing quiet settles in upon the emptying docks
One more summer’s day wraps itself around the small coastal town

 

2015 04 21 Poetry: Words April 21, 2015

April 21st is here and a how do you do. thanks for stopping by Surviving and do find a comfy chair.

I have loved to write, pretty much, my whole life. I don’t get it right, I know sometimes I get it wrong, but I know that it fills my mind with wondrous tales, rich with memories, imagination and life. I like all forms of writing, from biographic, to fictional, with a pinch of poetry and non fiction thrown into the mix. I have never been very good with English, and sentence structuring tends to make my head spin with it’s never ending twists and turns. I do love to create word flows that have their own characteristics, be they incorrect or correct. The ways words can run across the page against the wind and slowly take off in flight leaves me breathless, and as I read these textual creations of magnificence, I am in awe of how one letter after another can turn into something that not only stands the test of time, but defines it.

There are so many amazingly wonderful writers out there, and after being introduced to a few of them and learning from them, I believe my passion for writing has grown even more evident.

Words are all we have some days to tell each other how much we care, how far we can go and how often we choose to live this life.

Thanks again for stopping by my blog. I appreciate the support and hope you all have a day filled with just enough words to make it a most memorable one.

dp

***

Words

Whispers of words echo around cluttered corridors
Catch phrases and metaphors find their purpose under a spinning sun
Meanings defined, they settle quietly along a dusty bookshelf
Carefully collect them all, and safely log them away

Hollow rants and empty rage make their lasting book marks, quick and deep
Relentless torment cuts to the quick with selfish tone
Devious plots slowly attack and rip away the pages of carefully gathered time
Hate and anger lie cleverly hidden, armed with blades of sharpened text

Armies of unforgiving envy ravage a misspelled, barren land
Whirling verbs and advancing adjectives take little blame and accept no prisoners
Plotting their pillage, they strike their targets with deadly, shameless punctuation
Misspelled innocence stands little chance and surrenders, beaten, battered and bruised

Alone, in a secluded chapter, love waits its turn
After patiently plotting a paraphrased path, it slowly makes its move
Carefully selected praise with words of beauty wrap around and tug at wounded hearts
They find their way, their paragraph, their purpose, their home

The darkened lands of dread and pity give way to an ever changing font
True meaning and everlasting purpose slowly rise beyond the eastern margin
A new, peaceful light reaches out as it shapes the sentence structure of another day
Metaphors of love form and take shape, with pure passion and welcomed affection

The page has turned.

 

 
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