I am lost in my head,
But I write about the world.
I write of smells and textures,
Of expressions and intentions.
I write of hands trailing over rough bark,
Of hair brushing across faces.
I write of the brisk night air,
And how it makes me feel.

My mind does not rest,
Getting caught up in what-if,
What-was, and what-will.
I hide away from the feeling world,
A method of self-preservation.
I sometimes miss the world outside.
But the beauty can be painful,
When you feel as much as I.

I write of other people and other places,
But I wonder,
How much do I write of me?
Am I in the whispering breeze,
The tinkling rain,
The darkness of my words and the light?
I pull my mind away from the world,
And put it back within my words.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

What is poetry?
Why, the work of a poet.

But what is a poet?
One who creates poetry.

Then all can be poetry?
Yes.

–

Sometimes I do not feel like a writer.

These words don’t come from me,
They come through me.

I am a conduit for something else.
I am merely hands
And intention.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

I don’t trust words. I trade in them, I appreciate their beauty. I watch them dance across my paper, trailing ink in their wake. They are ephemeral and magical, they can take you soaring into the air or diving deep into the earth. Words can express sublime love or sublime hate. They can be forthright and honest, or they can hide and deceive. They have so much power, so much influence, and yet, they are ultimately a fantasy, as insubstantial, as ever-changing, as the wind that carries them.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

Winter air rushes
The lungs, freezing from inside,
Gasping for breath. Cold!

–

Snow falls from silent
Skies, stillness blankets the world.
For a moment, peace.

–

Bright skies send sparkles
Through the windows, sunlight warms
Laps cozy inside.

–

Early darkness creeps
In, but tea and a good book
Drive the gloom away.

–

Thirty degrees in
March is much different than in
October, trust me.

–

The snow is melting;
You can smell it in the air.
Will it freeze again?

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

Anger rising up

no matter how hard you fight,

until it explodes.

You can only let

it wash over you so long,

bitter on your tongue.

Bite your lip but words

spill out like oil coating your teeth,

poisoning the air.

—

Some days you are tried,

and see no good in the world,

even if it’s there.

Maybe tomorrow

there will be sunlight in these

words, joy on this page.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

It is hard to see
The sun through the storm clouds, but
It is always there.

Pretty words to hear,
But so much harder to feel,
To believe in them.

Sometimes the world is
Just darkness, nothingness, a
Void that swallows you.

Knowledge and belief
Don’t always walk hand-in-hand.
Today, I don’t feel.

(Or do I feel too much?)

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

Read me aloud,
For my words were meant to be heard.
To march from the page
And dance through the air.

Read me aloud,
For my words were meant to be heard.
Read me in a clear, strong voice,
One that is heard over the clatter of everyday life.

Read me aloud,
For my words were meant to be heard.
Read me in the softest whisper,
One that is meant for an intimate listener.

Read me aloud,
For my words were meant to be heard.
Read me in the voice of the wind,
One that sings to the water and the trees.

Read me aloud,
For my words were meant to be heard.
To celebrate our voices, our stories,
And to speak to the world.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

Lies and bluster spin
Round and round, round and round, til
Our minds become numb.

—

We the people weep
As we watch justice, honor,
Slaughtered before us.

—

Tyrants rise buoyed
By the thoughtless, the fearful,
Eyes closed to the truth.

—


Updated:

After the vote, I
Am wordless, yet not surprised.
Conspiracy wins.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

The kettle hisses,
Water bubbling away,
Ready to be poured.

Hands soaking up warmth,
The feel of smooth ceramic,
Face basking in steam.

A dark stain blossoms,
Swirls emanating from the
Small bundle inside.

A fragrant perfume,
Subtle and deep, fills the air,
Florals and spices.

Flavor and heat burst
Across the tongue, spreading calm
Through the whole body.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

Sometimes I wish
my words were really mine.
To have a path, a method,
something I understand.

But since these words
are not mine,
they come and go
as they please.

No ordered form,
no plan in place,
just the words,
and words, and words.

So, you see,
the words aren’t mine,
they come from
someplace else.

I am merely
hands that type them,
mouth that speaks them,
a being to actualize.

And sometimes I wish
they listened to me,
but then I remember
they aren’t really mine.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020