We Weep in the Darkness

We weep in the darkness
Believing in our aloneness
We feel the pull
The call
To the dark
Not knowing
The light is just underneath
Also
Beaconing to us
Waiting to embrace us
To brush away our tears
To let us know
We aren’t alone
Asking us
To open our eyes
And see
See the beauty that lies in our heart
Even if it seems so broken
So unfixable
There is beauty still
There is love
There is joy
No matter how torn
No matter how shattered it may seem
The light
The love
Are always there

Copyright Don MacLeod

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Over and Over

I write the same two poems

 

over and over.

 

One is called

 

“I’m in Love.”

 

The other is called

 

“I Hate Myself.”

 

They take turns,

 

rotate,

 

in my head and heart,

 

by the season,

 

or the weekend,

 

or from one moment

 

to the next.

 

Sunrise.

 

Sunset.

 

I’m sick of myself

 

and

 

I love you.

Lucky

It eats me up from the inside out.

It burns a hole in my stomach and

 

leaks poison into my bloodstream.

It boils and distills in my brain,

 

becomes a potent and powerful wave.

It absorbs the good energy and

 

burns it black,

a big bang in my heart.

 

Do you have one of these?

Doesn’t everyone?

In the Mirror

In the mirror I see a man
I ask who is this man
But I know
I know this man very well
But I don’t
He is new to me
As he is every day
He changes
He never is the same
New thoughts change him
Old thoughts leave him
And change him
His heart is broken one day
And full the next
Or broken one hour
And full the next
There is always joy
Always
A freedom I don’t see very often
I like this person
And I feel for him as well
Love has not escaped him
It’s there in his face
Laughter has also been a good friend
It too sits there
I never know who I will see
When I look in the mirror

copyright Don MacLeod

The End of the World

Today feels like the end of the world, so

I’m pretending that I’m high.

It’s easier that way.

I refuse reality. I will not play along.

 

The boulevard is smeared with piles of Oreo ice cream.

A river flows on the edge of the street and

10 year old boys race popsicle sticks.

My dad’s truck splashes by, almost hits us.

 

My dad doesn’t wave because

there’s work to be done.

There’s always something to do,

even while the world is dying.

Get it Out

Writing a poem

 

is exactly

 

like taking a shit.

 

You’ll just be sitting there,

 

working or

 

watching TV,

 

reading, whatever,

 

and suddenly,

 

it takes you over.

 

It becomes

 

the most important thing.

 

It is urgent.

 

Get it out, or

 

face the consequences.

 

 

Stranded

Nothing ends here
in the rush of the bitter wind
over the snowdrifts.

I have forgotten
the last call of the birds
as they left.

The rocks are bare
and sleek with white ice.

I stare at the ring light of ice
around the sun every morning.

The stars at night are endless.

The letter to me
from the one before me
says the winter goes on forever
and that I must stay.

But I need only my breath
as it leaves my body.
I no longer need
the weight of the earth
to travel.

I will build a ship
from ice
and the black pebbles
along the frozen river.

– Copyright Kay Winter