We enter this world alone and traverse our course interacting, but never being part of another. Our conceptions are our own and may be edited with accepted input. In the end what we see is only ours and no amount of description can truly convey anything but an echo of the total. Thus we are ghosts even as we walk about. This leads to poets writing introspective pieces in a hope to share their human experience. Sometimes it almost works and sometimes is a blatant miss.
Poetry at its best is reflecting a common experience shared in some way by all people. I hope these selections meet that criteria.
Surreal
stark,
dark,
jagged,
disjointed,
staccato images,
rubble of what once had been whole.
dominos sequentially fall into each other.
a war scene of random rubble,
in the labyrinth
I stumble.
I'm lost,
lost,
lost.
surreal,
thoughts in shards,
eyes that dimly see,
I follow words but not meaning.
bricks, mortar, splintered glass litter
the field of my mind, a cacophony of vision.
Escher and Dali duel in me,
op-art, or warped view.
yes, surreal.
lonely,
shards,
shards.
Record Of Events
Talk to me in dulcet tones
of times long gone by
with words so descriptive
they paint on my mind's eye.
Memories that ripple,
bounce back yesterday's light,
so I can understand
both with feeling and sight.
Then I can see clear,
without the static of mundane,
and mayhaps understand
what's hardest to explain.
For if I comprehend
the mores of the time
then causality
can show—reason and rhyme.
Truth
The world is interpretation
of the things I see;
what I conceive
as import is my reality.
I stain white paper
with ciphers in dark black
and follow what I believe
down my own track.
I am all alone
on this terrestrial sphere
for what it speaks
are words only for my ear.
All doors are locked—
and I within;
perception is filtered
while entering my skin.
From the inside
I write my decree
and build truth
out of my vanity.
Nature almost writes itself
upon my brain,
but I edit it profusely—
only my thoughts remain.