Poetry Website

He appeared from the rolling hills of the countryside. Among the
maples, cedars, cottonwoods. The deep thuds of pumping oil wells. His
days of exploration, scaling barbed-wire fences, throwing two-seamers.
Always afraid to miss out. Fascinated. Infatuated. Fully immersed.
Never sheltered, the son of a worldly traveler, the son of a
blue-collar splicer. Learned, open-minded, experimenting with
experience. Met it all head-on. Always there. Saturday nights near the
bonfire. Cheap beer on ice. Good friends. His inconspicuous departure.
Forgotten reasoning. To find something, maybe? What did he seek? Was
he secure? Was he satisfied? Was he bored? His motives unknown. He
still pops up occasionally. Waves hello, then he’s gone. Almost a
stranger now. Still has that look. Curious. Stoic. I’ll never forget
his face.

Rejection, burned deep into my insides. Obscured by a thin veil.
Fleeting hope’s eternal torture. Connection to warmth and safety,
unceremoniously severed. Phoning-in my purpose. A free man trapped in a self-made prison. Haunted by pervasive thoughts. Loneliness ever present, my loyal companion, my inviting refuge. Discarded without remorse. Desperate for time to save me.

Shackles of the status quo’s bondage to the metric ton of neatly
alphabetized and color-coded subgenres. Serving to feed the
motivations of inspirational status seekers. Driven by the
self-serving hidden agendas of monetary and emotional greed. Standing on the sidelines and perpetuating a plagiarized self-expression. Pretentious manipulation driven by shallow intentions. Victims and perpetrators equally guilty for allowing the lingering emptiness of insecure projections to persist. Counterfeit ramblings of a homogenized identity attempting to diminish the authentic,
unapologetic brilliance of the white-hot laser that incinerates any
and all deception and exposes the unspoken flaw.

They are sand and wisp,
these voices and faces from
long ago. Why can I not forget
them? Because they have been
permanently pasted to the screen.
They used to matter so much.
How I read to please them,
watched to please them, learned
so they would never ask
a question without an answer.
Now I see they are only grains
of sand, wisps of air,
and I am reminded of Midsummer
lines, fools and mortals.

More at http://jddehart.blogspot.com.

Futility. The negotiations between future and past have reached
stalemate. No hope of reconciliation. Purpose is lost. Attempted
meaning constructed with useless emotion from the bowels of
self-loathing and heartbreak. Drawn and quartered from the
fabrications of nonsense under the guise of virtue. Self-serving
undertakings of a frivolous nature deconstructed by the weight of
irrelevance. Deaf and blind persistence fueling the despair of once
inspired intentions.

Desperate yearning saturated in hopeful delusions spawned by the
invisible toiling efforts of superego preservation. Denial of the
void’s painful existence blurs the profound truths of the beautiful
salvation in the acceptance of its own being. Painstaking deception
unearths the the brutal obviousness of transparency. Bystanders slowly
skimming the surface fleece the armor protecting what is underneath
the displayed facade. Secretly immersed in the frantic search for the
catalyst that undresses the buried and bottled up colors at the core
of its layers.

Vegetation sprouting lush through the by-gone reprise of
inconsistencies between neglect and obsession. The indifferent
infatuation that forced out the brilliance of a captive movement.
Muffled by the flotsam and jetsam of deafening cries for attention and
disruption. Gray perception and duality of idealists drown out the
warm companionship of identity. A beautiful uniqueness diminished by
by squeaky wheels and empty cans. Digging for the awesome glare of the
fire beneath in the complex sweep for elusive epiphany.