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.

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