Surviving

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

2017 04 08 Poetry, Or Am I April 15, 2017

Happy weekend everyone.

The poem below is one that I wrote a few years ago. I haven’t had time to write much these past couple days, so I’m going to the bull pen for this one.

I have pretty weird dreams, more so these past few years. Are they associated with my vision loss? Who knows. All I know is that I see faces more vividly now, and some of these faces are of people that I haven’t seen for twenty years or so. Some even older.

One funny thing about my dreams is that I don’t dream of people I have met since I became blind. Why is that? I know I haven’t seen their faces, but I have built a mental face of just about everyone I have met since 2010. Perhaps it’s because I picture them as a mental image only? Perhaps my mind hasn’t built a database that it can pull information from during dreams?

Perhaps I might never know, and still, I dream.

I hope you all have had a great first half of your weekend. May the spring blossoms fill your days with colorful joy.

Deon

***

Or Am I

I lie awake in morning hours
Stepping out from cluttered dreams
Dusting out the cobwebbed drawers
Waking up, or so it seems

It’s hard sometimes to separate
My reality from my sleep
The perceptions of my waking hours
And my wandering slumber’s deep

Countless skits of searching steps
Closely looking for a clue
Wrestled down by an unseen foe
With goals to carry through

City scapes and country roads
Take me far away
Amidst crowds of familiar face
Not caring what I say

Memories from the twisted night
Blend in with simple ease
Blazing trails for setting suns
Cast out for open seas

Endless tasks that seem at hand
Surround the piercing day
Breathless ending to a hurried start
Transforming lumps of clay

Not knowing if it’s night or day
I stumble ‘cross the stage
Guiding hands and friendly tone
Help me find the page

Pull the shades and shut the light
The spinning day is through
Thoughts and visions lay me down
As dreams come into view

Casts of characters wait in line
The tasks are all at stake
Have I somehow fallen off to sleep,
Or am I wide awake?

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2017 04 07 Poetry, In a Darker Room

Hello again. Please excuse these posts that are titled by a different date than the post entry. I wrote a few poems for the month, and am just getting to posting them on this blog. Thanks, and hi again.

To have vision loss is a journey of the heart and soul. Many times as I have searched for a sliver of light, I found myself celebrating the simplest of things that I spent a lifetime taking for granted.

Through the loss of that light, I have found new ways to discover the light, the illumination that now exists from within. I owe so much of these new ways to you all, for your words, your inspiration has helped me so much these past few years.

The light has a way of dancing across a world. The shimmer, the flicker, the incredibly quick dance of shadows as the day moves along.

So many things in our lives depend on each other. We bring things to life with the words that tell the story, and with each letter, the dance begins.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say with this submission, but like most everything I sit down to write, the reasons and the meaning changes each time I read the words back.

It’s another morning in April, and another poem for the National Poetry Month.

Have a great Friday, and forever write on.

Deon

***

In a Darker Room

In a darker room the light loses its way.
In a darker room the mind trips over light.
Brilliant flashes of turquoise and gold.
Illuminations set in motion mimic stars in flight.

In a darker room a word Pirouettes.
It leads to another as they flow in rhyme.
Ballet of meaning, of purpose, of life
Gathering a story that spins back through time.

In a darker room a mind rambles on.
Wandering and veering in step with the dance.
Flashes of light, flickers of fate.
Storied words that give darkness a chance.

In a darker room a door opens wide.
Timid heart roars with a passionate beat.
A picturesque view through the mind’s looking glass.
A story revealed as the words take their seat.

 

2017 04 07 Poetry, 22 Years

Hi Again.

Time has a way of changing things. The clothes we wear, the foods we eat, the songs we sing, the life that we live, all of it has a habit of changing, and sometimes without our being aware.

22 years times 2 I was but a teenager, trying to figure out where my adulthood might take me. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever, well, never in my wildest.

22 years ago a trendificational change grabbed hold of my life, and 22 years later, the change has never let go. It’s been a good change, a strong change, a change of direction, of pace, of likes and dislikes, and through 22 years, it has caused tremendous change in me, around me, and in spite of me.

On this 5th day of April I am reminded of how things used to be before those 22 years. I’m mesmerized by a memory or two that have led to today, 22 years later.

I hope you all had a great day, and as a poet from Maine once reminded me, no matter where you go, there you are, so why not go grab yourself part of it.

Deon

***

22 Years

22 years ago, a world suddenly changed.
A window whispered hello.
A window opened a door to yet another window.
A beckoning call rang through a home.

22 years ago a mouse became a friend.
A desktop gathered an icon or two.
A single tower began to teach.
A cursor swept across a square screen.

22 years ago, a window of amazement grew.
A personality fell for a hard drive.
A list of hobbies could only stand aside, and watch.
A question slowly turned into curiosity.

22 years later a mouse sits quiet, and sighs.
The colored windows now swim with the sharks.
The sounds of the keys sing a different song.
The monitor light galliantly flickered, and then slowly faded away.

22 years the window looks out across a different field.
The window glows with a different light.
The window gathers in a different sound.
The window opens a brand new door.

22 Years.

 

2017 04 05 National Poetry Month: Invisible World April 5, 2017

The fourth of the fourth. Has sort of a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?

As a lot of you know, being blind can easily turn into a state of mind. Some days we’re the windshield, and some days, well, we ain’t. When I reach out for an object, a door knob, a glass of water, and my hand ends up exactly where I intend for it to be, man that’s a good feeling.

And then there’s those times when everything seems to be two inches to the right of where it’s supposed to be.

I used to write a lot about losing vision, but it seemed as though there were those periods of time when that was all that I wrote about, and the repetition really seemed to gnaw at my core, for as my writings tend to lean towards the opinion that being blind was, is the last thing on this earth that I want to be, or do, or exist with.

And then, I write some more.

This poem digs deep into the fabric of a mind gone blind, a mind looking for a place to be, a mind looking to find a way to see without the light of vision.

And enough with the rhetoric from the ridge.

I hope you all had a great Tuesday, and thanks for allowing me to explore the possibilities that writing affords me.

Be well and keep on writing.

Dp

***

***.Invisible World

Gathering strength of mind.
Hoping the footsteps will keep in time.
The future cleverly hides in the shadows.
Fading glimpse of independence threatens to be only what used to be.

Obscured visions slow the footsteps to a crawl.
An invisible canvas searches for a colorless world.
Artistic voices paint their faces from within.
A character is revealed.

Lightless days quickly become the past.
A new chapter searches for a title.
The student’s cane sweeps across an invisible world.
Begin to learn, to teach, to live.

 

2017 04 04 Nat Poetry Month: Birds of Blue

April 3rd is here, and it looks like another cold start to the day. I’m not complaining, I’m just saying, if you know what I mean.

Rituals come and go, like the rights of spring, but some rituals blend in and trend their way into a normal routine that just seems like it should be there.

We love our animals out here. When I hear a coyote pack call in the night, a barn owl echo through the midnight trees, the Canada Geese, and of course, those pesky birds that throw their waking calls at you just like clock work.

This poem I dedicate to one of my favorite flyers. No matter the cold, the weather, the time of year, they’re always at the ready with their unique song.

I hope you all have a great day, and it was good to sit back and listen to the call last night. You guys are an amazing bunch of inspiration, and I thank you for it.

dp

***

Birds of Blue

Fingers move slowly in the chilled morning air.
The furnace clears its throat as it fires up a morning song.
Blue jays gather atop the spruce outside and patiently wait.
Their unmistakable calls echo out along the April morning breeze.
Peanuts, cereal and bread fill the breakfast bowl.
The kitchen window opens and the birds shrill away.
The food is thrown, the screen slowly closes, the wait begins.
One by one, those beautiful birds of blue effortlessly glide back to the spruce.
The youngest of the jays slowly drop to the ground.
They chorus loudly with their joyous breakfast call.
Holding open the window, I cradle the empty bowl and smile.
Another beautiful day on the ridge has begun.

 

2017 04 02 Nat Poetry Month, Questions April 2, 2017

Yes, it’s April 2nd, and from what they tell me, spring is still in the air. I agree that it’s probably in the air, but the ground here on the ridge still looks like winter’s icy fingers will be here for another week or three.

As spring is finally waking up, I’m reminded of the different seasons. I’m also reminded that life is reminiscent of those seasons. The birth, the growth, the learning, changing, adapting and everything about it brings it all around to those days when we say good bye to those we love.

This poem reminds me that sometimes, life moves too quickly. Before we know it, those things we love are gently pried from our grasp. It’s something we all go through, and it’s something we all could stand to do without, but then again, such is life.

This poem is dedicated to my father, and all those I have loved, and lost.

Life goes on, and on, and on.
Have a great day, and Happy April 2nd to you all.
dp

Questions

Slow down you guys.
Where are you going so fast?
Why did you need to leave so soon?
Is your work here finished?

I’m not sure if you know this or not,
But even though you’re not here, your inspiration lingered behind,
Your friends will always be just that,
And you will be missed.

Will we ever see you again?
Will I ever see you again?
Even though you’re not here, can you hear me when I talk?
Can you see my searching eyes?

There’s so much about you that I’ll always love.
That I’ll always miss.
That I’ll always admire,
That I’ll never forget.

Can you see the countless faces of the past?
Can you feel the love from those you were born to cherish?
Can you see the face of God?
Can you feel the touch from all the lives before?

Fear not, for you will always be brave.
Worry not, for you will always know.
Be quiet no more, for we will always listen.
Love forever, and you shall always be loved.

One and all, we will miss you all.

 

04 01 National Poetry Month, Howling Wolves

Welcome one and all to the 2017 National Poetry Month.

With these last two years, I have submitted a poem a day to this blog, and hopefully, this year will be year number 3. Time will tell, right? grinhave

This surely is a gloriously musical month, for poetry surely is the music of the soul.

I would like to add the following poem to my daily submissions, in hopes that all who love poetry gather in their chances to indulge a line or two of this form of writing that has always been a moving passion of mine.

Although this poem is a little dark to kick off the month, it acted similar to many writings of mine, in that it jumped out onto the screen with merely a few touches of the keys.

And again, the goat rambles on.

Happy late April 1st to one and all, and here we go again.

Howling Wolves

A beggar’s meal is all that’s asked.
A morsel, a crumb, a sliver of hope.
Questions that lie scattered in the shallows live on, unanswered.
Fingernails continue to carve their weary script along a furrowed brow.

Pray tell where the tips of broken shoes wander.
Hollowed out hints lend nothing to the curious heart.
A pictured work of art, but for one lost stroke of the brush.
Gather in the hours, only to wish away the day.

Weathered fingers clutch at the void.
Tattered wool beats back the howling wolves of winter.
Pangs of empty hunger cut deep with unfeeling fate.
One misplaced story,
Never to be heard,
Never to be felt,
Never to be forgotten.