Poetry inspired by Davy and Emily D


sunrise over Malaysia’s central mountain range, I woke up early one holiday morning and caught this

I am writing a series of thoughts for 2018 each week I have a new prompt. When I wrote this week’s I saw a poem form. Here it is. If you’d like to read the full story you can here.

I have a small house and it is my sanctuary
I also feel at home under a big tree
feeling loved by the gentle breeze
and rustling leaves.

But I am safest when I am honest with myself,
That’s truly being home with me.

We wander aimlessly looking for attention
and affirmation
from the world around us
yet only end up with second hand consolation

Meet with yourself,
especially at that lonely midnight hour,
when there’s no one to reach out to
or talk to,

reach deep within yourself
and encounter you.
Sometimes it may be
a very terrifying figure you might encounter,

almost ghost like because you neglected you
in search of another person or object to comfort you
You are the home you build with the raw energy
and inner power you possess infinitely.

I am home even when I alone, for I am not lonely,
I am safe in the arms of my own balanced psyche.

inside of me are chambers and apartments
that are locked away
and some open for public view,
I shut and open doors and windows
not in random order
but with a subconscious nature
asking to be understood.

But I can only be understood
if I am not afraid of myself,
and what I see inside of me.

I surprised myself the most
when I met my true self,
inside this host.

This post is partly inspired by Davy, a respected Barista here at Go Dog Go Treetop Cafe and his “Poetic Beats”; do listen to his reading and discourse on John Clear’s – “the Old Year’s Gone Away and by Emily Dickinson’s “One need not be a chamber to be haunted”

Guest Barista Eric Syrdal-The Lady of the Forest…

The first time I met her
She wore a gown of brilliant pastels
verdant and bright
I watched butterflies dance
in the center of her heart
like living gems
she wore a crown
of apple blossoms as I played
on a carpet of wildflowers
beneath her feet
unable to speak
I could not find the words
to describe her

The next time I met her
She wore a gown of deepest green
soft velvet and rich tones
of midday heat
I crawled into her loving arms
and she rocked me
in her cooling shade
night birds sang me a lullaby
as she wore a crown of stars
high above her head
and when it was time
to make my way back
the dappled moonlight and fireflies
would light my way

The next time I met her
She wore a gown of scarlet
tongues of flame
dripped down from
her Auburn hair
her breath
washed over me
as I knelt
in the sea of fire at her feet
with head bowed
I asked her to take this chill
from my bones
She wore a crown of gold
on a throne of brown
I lay my burdens on the moist litterfall
and for a while
I warmed myself by the fire
of her company

The last time I saw her
She wore a gown of pure white
with diamonds in her hair
as I came to her
I thought myself
an Ill-mannered oaf
no gifts did I bring
no tithe of fealty could I offer
no hope did I bring
for warmer days
and the glow of another sun
to rise on the morrow
my back was bent
my shoulders low
I wore the grey and white crown
of an older man

I came to kneel
at the foot of her throne
and once more to breathe in her beauty

I said,
“My Lady, I bring you nothing. Except the memories of you I keep in my heart.

She said,
“My Son, I am more wealthy than I could ever be…there is nothing more I need.
Because you have come home.”

Eric Syrdal is an independent poet/author. He’s an avid gamer and Sci-Fi enthusiast. He enjoys reading science fiction and fantasy literature and spends a great deal of his writing time focused in those genres. He is from New Orleans, Louisiana, where he lives with wife and two children.  You can read more Eric’s writing at My Sword and Shield….

In Response to a Poet’s Love Song of 1/24/17

This week, I share the poem that introduced me to Christine last January.  I am always startled by old poems and wonder, “did I really write this?”  Perhaps I did not, life’s changes make us different people even if we believe we are somehow connected to some strange version of our past selves.  Just stories, all of it, persistent memories that don’t want to let go of our present self, perhaps thinking they own the clue we need to make the best choice in this moment, more than the self that is alive and present today.  Alas, how did I get there from here?  Please take the time to read this poem and follow the links to our baristas pages to discover more of their great writing.

In Response to a Poet’s Love Song of 1/24/17

My body now wakes up on its own at 4am
Somehow, transformed from insomnic
To discover the backside of night
And find it as pleasing as Goldilocks
Found the third bed eating the third porridge.
When I talk to the old poet in my journals
Or in files found on my computer that don’t
Remember being written, he chuckles at the
Absurdity of the idea of me waking early
To do anything other than take a piss.

My body now wakes up on its own at 4am
The acoustics of this silence are similar
Yet so very different. Waking creatures
Are more for meditations like these than
The beasts that haunt hours that aren’t stilled
Inside a heart that hears only its own beating
As it tells tales that ache with longing, with pain
That never really was felt, only misunderstood.
This depth, this texture, this darkness marks
The underside of my eyes just as well, thank you.

My body now wakes up on its own at 4am
Still needing coffee in my oldest possession
Aside from stuffed animals hidden from view:
The coffee mug bought at a convention in college.
My hand still holds the pen, a new lover from Japan,
My sensuous mouth still spills familiar treasures
That makes me fall in love all over again. I adore this.
But now, I feel a presence, like eyes glowing through
A window. I am seen. Seen, my stories take me on
Journeys I didn’t even know I wanted to go on.

A response to https://braveandrecklessblog.com/2017/01/24/poets-love-song-romantictuesday/

With additional thanks to: https://thereluctantpoetweb.wordpress.com/2017/02/16/the-backside-of-the-night/
for being inspired enough by the phrase backside of night to hopefully start a meme

What is the Best Time of Day to Write Poetry?
for asking the question that got the whole backside of night thing going to begin with