It’s this place
I find myself in now,
Past the youth markers,
And the resilient greener grass once
Buoyant beneath the cleats of ball chasers
It’s the mountain
I once saw myself being
Vacillating now on a distant horizon;
Good intentions becoming the name of a
Drink in some dingy bar in the Falklands
It’s all those many quirks I inherited
Over the years, (from much struggling)
That became weapons I wield against
Everything that threatens me
The reality that I am far too often
Unconcerned with the feelings of others,
The songs of their hearts, their hopes and dreams,
And being resistant to embrace their dysfunction
For fear of becoming like them
Indifference causing me to become so withdrawn,
And self-absorbed, that I can’t taste anything but stomach in
A relentless quest to find the grail I fancied in my youth
So I’ve ended
Up a reclusive dreamer,
Seeking meaning in nature,
And all man has NOT created,
A poet who purges life’s problems,
A novelist creating love, harmony, and
The adventures that he’s always hoped he
Would experience, (before life became a treadmill)
An idealist, disenchanted, still searching for
Honor and integrity in an egocentric world,
Refusing to give up on what he once saw,
Living among the draymen and dicers,
Composing restless melodies,
Faulting the Beatles and
All those early examples of success and happiness for the pedagogy
That gave life a kind of hope that would prove fruitless in the long-run
richard lloyd cederberg
2/10
richardlloydcederberg.com
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Unconcerned with the feelings of others,
The songs of their hearts, their hopes and dreams,
And being resistant to embrace their dysfunction
For fear of becoming like them"
a true poet is a being of empathy ... seeing others as they see themselves, as well as seeing himself as they see him (to paraphrase A.Huxley) the poet then sees through the doors of perception ... and embraces the uniqueness of his being ...
i enjoyed and understood this perfectly
thank you
enjoyed the pic too guess you could tell :)
I feel as though you are hard on yourself for some of these qualities: 'reclusive dreamer', 'indifference', 'self-absorbed', withdrawn. I can't help but recognize this as the writer's curse, because though we write about people, many of us have a hard time being around them 24/7. By nature, we need serious alone-time to brew and create, and to let what we write flow out. Unfortunately, life moves on without us. We miss much. I've often wondered if its worth it. There are no fruits of labor in most cases. I recognize all of these qualities in myself, and yes, I often wrestle with the thought that maybe they're not so much shortcommings as they are aspects to an artist's temperament. Not to say that we should feed that side of us recklessly, but rather embrace it as part of the whole. Another thing I wonder is if there's a breaking point: Why do some people go their entire life pursuing their dreams, never giving up, and some throw in the towel? These are just a few questions your poem stirred in me. The picture is perfect - it has a sense of heavy thought. You seem to be pondering your purpose, or perhaps questioning your heart's calling. Great one:)
Sheila
Regis
Your pen speaks out against all that man struggles with, while he is mortal...I too, have turned to nature, for she rejuvenates totally, once a year, and this years leaf, will be as pretty as last years leaves...perfectly budding in bright limes, at first...then blooming out to decide its gender...Fall does come... for nature, she dies before our eyes, but remember...she rejuvenates! We must find a way! How can mortals bring life back into their 50 plus year old bodies? Blast Yellow Submarine and dance the Makarina? I shall! :)
I love how you send me off...Lord Richard~
Love and Peace~
Kimmy~
Georg
PS. that bar on Falklands have a strong smell of dirty sheep inside!
Be always safe,
Karen
Kudos!
John
a wonderful insight we all have
love and hugs
mary etta
And self-absorbed, that I can’t taste anything but stomach in
A relentless quest to find the grail I fancied in my youth." Yeah, this pretty much describes me on a daily basis. And a lot of others too. I have dreams all the time dating back 20-25 years or so. So much wanting to recapture the zest of passion and discovery which infected me like a prairie fire. It's all gone now. I keep waiting for it to return. I think the crux of the problem is this. We live in a war on consciousness. Designed to overstimulate and render the brain frozen. We forget what the true meaning of life is. We suffer from deep emotional and psychological trauma. We are split. From our true selves. No idea why we are here and what our purpose is. Separated from our being and trapped in a mental, limbic, reptillian prison. The key is to find a way back. To ourselves. Therein lies salvation and peace. Great work Richard.
Thank you, Sir.
Lynnie
that just left you with nothing but it's exhaust to smell and see. Don't blame the Beatles, they were just at the right place at the right time. Blame all those screaming. They yelled for 20 years till they realized they were dreaming. And their dreams shattered when they looked in the mirror and saw their mom or dad. I TRUE poet can write through the mundane (if he/she doesn't go insane) and come out smelling the roses before the fragrance evaporates and they as a vapor dissipates. That fourth stanza - vintage rlc. Been missing reading you, but this was more than worth the wait. Doug
Love,
Susan