by Phoenix A. Desertsong, Staff Writer, Healer & Advocate

"Afar" is a short poem from late April 2017.

4-28-2017

"Afar"

To be here with you
A gift I don’t deserve
All these many years
From afar I observed

A hero worship
Can be a curse
Forgot who you are
Living life in reverse

Aren’t we all but mortal
Living under linear constraints

Trying to find a special portal
Where we can dream without restraints

(C) Phoenix A. Desertsong 2017

Don't we all want a fairy tale ending? "Fairy Tale" is a poem about just that.

"Wonder Child" is a poem about a free-loving child who doesn't understand how disturbed and cruel the outside world can be.

Can I speak through a word

And really tell you how I feel

Can I tell you I love you

And really tell you what I feel

Can I give you the treasure of treasures

And really tell you what you're worth

Can I hold you forever and forever

And really get what I really want?




Can I climb the highest peak

And really find adventure?

Can I spelunk the deepest cave

And really get to the bottom?

Can I cry enough till my eyes are dry

And will I wash away all this pain?

Can I promise you my best

And ask you to wash away

These emotional stains


Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2006

Inside’s a maddening collage

Of vivid mental photography

Some of it dearly beautiful

But a lot of it pitiful

Sad stories repeat and proliferate

As all the tears flood around me

I find it increasingly hard to concentrate

 

Seeing those sad faces over and over

Always the best friend to the pushover

Trying to wake the sleeping children

From under their thick ignorant cover

Too much bullshit that’s been fed

Into their innocent lil’ heads

But truly they understand more

Than is expected and accepted

 

Cursed photographic memory

Forgettable scenes of the nobodies

Unforgettable thru unique perspective

With a mind well cognizant of

The fact we’re far more than bodies

Run by chemical action and reaction

Inside an album of the forgotten

My photographic memory’s a curse

Has me often living in reverse

My only comfort is that things

As they are - could be far worse




Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

What a fantastic prelude

To an awakening most rude

You’ve all been blinded by the lies

They’ve made you so confused

What is left to reach for?

What should you awake for?

 

What does tomorrow have in store?

Just to repeat the same old bore?

There is a way out of this loop

Stop looking for secret messages

Hidden in your alphabet soup

 

Don’t let them make you jump

Through another unnecessary hoop

And now you awake anew

As today, you fly the coop



Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2005

I'm slowing down to a crawl

Even though I wanna run

Want to run with you all

I'm back here feeling alone

I've been here a long time now

Waiting all day for tomorrow

Following a dream that waits for me

On a road that's always going

Felt lonesome a long time

And the remedy is at my fingertips

And it won't be the flirt that finds me

For I see none with my eyes

All of those and none of them

Are viewed with these eyes of mine

And knowing of me will never be ours

Until knowing knows itself

When these verse are of your voice

And of a choir are made these rhyme

I've been lonesome for as long as I know

A barren soul houses us all

Though the hue of my vision is distorted

I long for when I meet you outside

This shell can be traveled through

But be wary of what is your method

Gentleness will only do

What we want in the beginning and after

So lonesome for a long time no more



Copyright (c) Joshua Packard 2004

Read more of Joshua's lyrics at JRPSongs.

There I go again

Dancing to my theme song

I'm such a wondrous hero

Righting all the wrong

Only to discover

A twist or a turn in the plot

Another mystery to uncover


I'm Mr. Good Guy

Here to entertain and appease

Please keep me on reruns

I'd like a little more exposure please

Let's end this season on a cliffhanger

Let's give the yuppies a tease.


Here for a few more laughs

Only to be shut up

By the network's cancellation

How rude of them, to override me

Another corny hero show-off

They're calling me


Copyright (C) Richard Rowell 2004

No blood flow to my head

Drowsiness just a way of life

But here comes a thought

That I wish to write about

My dreams are acted out

Like a collage of movie scenes 

A dream montage

Keeping my head up

Pretty much impossible

What was that I was dreaming again?

So much like life inside

When my head plays it out

Then I forget so much back here

Place where the rules of nature

Need not apply in any way

Words can be so clumsy

In dream things can be 

So much more clearly stated



Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2004

Trying to get back my poetic mojo in early 2014, "Stanzas of Seven" is about my strange propensity to write seven-line stanzas. While I don't always aim for that particular structure, it happens more often than not in a lot of my work. So I decided to sort of dedicate these verses to this quirk found in so much of my poetry.

January 5, 2014

These stanzas of seven
When paragraphs fail me
Are a sort of heaven
For my self-expression
I didn't want to be a poet
Any longer, no more
Yet here I am again

These stanzas of seven
Are a bit of a form
Rhyme scheme is optional
But there must be structure
Some sort of order
To bring these thoughts 
Together in some fashion

I cannot shut down
And let my thoughts
Burden me any further
I am missing something
There is a great emptiness
That I do not know
Quite how to fill

I only know one remedy
But it is not perfect
I cannot pretend to hide
That I am lonely and afraid
That I will never be 
Anything, anyone of consequence
Any more than a rambling fool

These stanzas of seven
May be my last hope
To brainstorm away
For a solution to this
Malaise that won't go away
This suffering lack of purpose
For a faltering artist



Copyright (c) Richard Rowell 2014

January 5, 2014

Can I write to a theme?
Can I reflect on these words
And give you a reason
Beyond they needed to be written?

Are these reflections on life?
Or are they just pretty words?
I do not know what they are
They simply are what they are

Is there a theme to whatever I write?
Maybe there is to you, but I
Am not one to openly classify
I simply produce what I do



Copyright (C) Richard Rowell 2014

I  heard her cry as they crumpled their papers
Scattering them over her beautiful floor
I heard her cry as they cut down 10 trees
Then, hundreds and thousands more

I heard her cry as they polluted her waters
With paper, plastic, oil, and cans
I heard her cry as they used that same water
To clean off their dirty hands

I heard her cry as they disturbed the animals
To build structures that polluted her sky
I heard her cry as they kept on going
Without even stopping to say hi.

I heard her cry as she realized their thoughts
Were not of her beauty and wondrous sights
I heard her cry as she fell apart
So they could rise to 'greater' heights

I heard the Earth cry as they paid her no mind
Too busy tending to their daily chores
Did you hear her cry too from all of her strife
Or were you one of those closing their doors?

---

This poem is pretty much self-explanatory. Those familiar with some of my poetry and articles may know that nature and taking care of the Earth is a passion of mine. Sometimes people get so caught up in their normal routine that they don't think about the Earth. There are many things people do, not realizing (or sometimes not caring) just how much impact it has on the planet. I often wish more people would open their doors to an eco-friendly change, so that the Earth might last longer.

Will they? What do you think?

*I originally published this via Yahoo Contributor Network