A Cauldron Of Intentions

By Wil C. Fry, 2017.12.31, 18:58

(Copyright 2017 by Wil C. Fry. All rights reserved.)

Words in my head
Words on a page
Words that make me think I’m a wizened sage

Do they pierce you
The things that I said?
Do they bring you
To a new place in your head?

Does anyone else feel this sense of dread?

Am I wasting the
Precious breath that I breathe?
Am I wasting my
Bruised fingertips as I seethe?

Nobody needs to bleed

One thing I know
Is that I can’t make myself stop
No place I can go
To bring the words to a stop

Climbed all the way to the top
Only to still be looking up

They’re floating
Blistering bewildering badgering bumping bouncing
Today, yesterday, and some other day
Thinking more than I can possibly say

It’s a pressure valve
Letting off steam
From inside this cooker
Where it can sometimes seem

That there aren’t enough words.
That no one’s listening.
That I’m misunderstood.

The pen isn’t mightier than the sword
But it’s kinder. Smarter. Better informed.
Thoughts that are formed
Then aborted
Like wealth when it’s hoarded

Scattered, frothing, foaming, bubbling
A cauldron of intentions
Pulsing with frustration
Vibrating with desire
To change just one mind
To say the right thing just one time

In the crack of the asphalt I found a corroded dime

Let’s walk
And talk
And listen
In one big circle that leads us back to

Or put on our thinking caps and
Do nothing

What if we already know the answers?
What if all the arguments are stale?
What if noone wants to truly change?
What if every question wastes time?

There is no why
There is only when and where and how
When is now
Where is here
How is quickly

Excuse me while I kiss this guy
The sky
Duss Kie

That was weird, Jim.

They told me there are no more heroes
They told me everything is as it should be
They said step down and play your part
They said it’s time to start running

Cower and quiver
Work the Earth and watch her quake
Tonight we shiver
Tomorrow we shake

Looking for a single crack in the foundation
A fissure in the wall
Holding back all
That needs to be

The anger that burns is a wasted take
The sadness that bleeds is a wasted ache
The horror that suffocates still sits on the throne
The indifference that laughs cuts me to the bone

You walk with your latte
On the way to a paw-tay
But you stepped on a crack
And all the backs are breaking
Nobody’s faking
Everyone’s taking
The Earth is baking

While a few are waking

Saw a dead Messiah on a stone
She can’t be the only one
Wondering why nothing is done
Slowly, quietly... a moan

No coherent message
Just a thought
Just a word
A stream
A blast
At long last
Leaping over the past
Going every speed but fast

Sinking into the night
Something just isn’t right
But I’ve lost the will to fight

At 506 words, this is the longest poem I’ve written since Sept. 11, 2000 — A Nomad, As Always. As of this writing, it’s my seventh-longest of all time. Of my 12 longest poems, it’s the only one that wasn’t written in either 1999 or 2000.

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