There lies infinite healing powers inside a pen and paper. This art form provides a medium for the restless, dancing words inside the mind, wishing only to become liberated. They are happier dancing on pages of a book and the ears of others.
In a word Storm,
Poetry is that expression that turns life’s trepidation into instances of pure intellectual elation.
Has everything we see, hear, or feel, been perverted by the awareness of by our own inadequacies?
Or paralyzed by the fears that encroach like the foggy mists that invade the Irish hills early in the morning?
Poetic expression for me is much more than a way to see Wisdom’s influence on the spaces between the words I write.
The paper is the battlefield my pen marches onto to pay homage to the mastery of thought that reigns over all reality.
Yes, that’s right, I do think, I do contemplate, I do meditate, the Why that is a prevalent question verbalized by the Silence.
There is no other way to escape the penance of a life sentence of imprisonment in and to one’s own mind.
If you finally choose to satisfy the nagging voices of Intention and hear reality’s voice of reason, then a positive outlook can find the meaning of your life’s purpose.
Do you hear me, I mean really? Finally the house-guest who has spent 14 years Marionetting my life like a Master Puppeteer, has found the Emergency exit. This exit is through my mouth; In Spoken Word my ideas find the freedom to get born into existence.
My mouth, like the barrel of a gun spits the projectiles that add the thunder to the rain. The rain that is currently soaking society; why should we seek cover? Why not go dancing in the rain?
Every so often the lightning strikes, and then all we are left to do is count,
to find out, how far away is the eye of the storm.
Surprise, we are in the eye of the storm, and safe here,
but here, have an umbrella just in case….
Poetry has been that one outlet that is always accepting of my mental confusion. Surviving catastrophic brain injury in 1999, for me poetry has been instrumental to my recovery; socially, motivationally, and too therapeutically; even romantically. Sometimes it is true that the paper is the only one who will listen to my pen. Such a mental exchange brings light to the darkness that sometimes shadows my world.
Thank you poetry, you’ve saved me!
~ Michael Gardner (2013)