Poetry Thursday: If These Walls Could Talk . . .

My therapist told me today that I’m in the midst of a “spiritual realignment” -- that I’m shifting. Sounds to me like car trouble on the journey towards enlightenment! For me, all meaning in life came from the external world, but now all meaning seems to be coming from my experience of my inner-life. As a consequence, I now hate my job – or at least it seems that way, because it has nothing to do with my journey. My job used to blow my hair back on a regular basis. Now it just blows on a regular basis. I’m happy that much of what used to be important to me is no longer important. But I’m struggling with myself as this shift occurs. This week’s prompt got me thinking about how much time I’ve wasted in the pursuit of a career that I once thought was noble and worthwhile. Now I just feel stupid. My therapist says, “Be patient. All will be revealed in time.” Ok. I’ll wait. In the meantime, I write . . .

If these walls could talk . . .

If these walls could talk
They would wait, like painted soldiers
Stoically, at attention
Hep – Hut!
Bravely adorned with art hung on nails
A bizarre crucifixion indeed
Bearing witness to their own silent scream

Sixteen years in quiet reconnoiter
These walls
Observing and patient
The lonely march of a career
If they could talk
Swollen with secrets
A life caged within and spent
Like a thunderous cannon charge
Though only more slowly
A skein of yarn
Snagged on life’s momentum
Unraveled and shapeless as air

Oh, to witness the body of life’s work
The measure of a man, Ha!
Frenetic and pulsing
Yet another day discarded
The hollow clank of the refuse bin
Marking the passage of time
Like a galvanized metronome
Alas the canvas is blank
Wiped clean each day by the cloth
Of the unlived life

If these walls could talk
If these walls could talk
A great and urgent cry
Would pierce the darkness
An audible beacon of hope
Take flight!
Discard this mortal theme
And ascend my brother

Ascend!

By Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

Poetry Thursday: Flicker

Holidays are great! So much free time to ponder the imponderables of life! One of my favorite things to do is go exploring. My favorite place to dig is in my memory. I’ve been digging around a lot lately and found a cache of old poetry buried in a secret place. I unearthed this old poem and blew the dust off it and gave it a good scrubbing. I think I’ll just hang it here to let it dry for a while before I put it away again for safe keeping.

Flicker

Beauty’s secret, revealed in the half-light of a candle’s glow
The last sip drained from lovers’ cups
An essence
The fragrance of flowers
Violets, Gardenias, Rose petals, Babies Breath
Intoxicating flavors, soothing to the lips
Love’s potion
Love’s poison
Immersed
Surrounded
Gloriously drowned

By Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

Poetry Thursday: Hope To Die

This is something I wrote many years ago. I guess it was true then, but now its mostly a lie.

Hope to Die

Fingers crossed behind my back I swear this is the truth!
I sharpened my deceptive skills against a stone cold youth.
Trying merely to survive.
As young as four (but I’ll say five!)
If only they had heard my cries.
And so, I swear I had to lie.
Cross my heart and hope to die.
I love the thought of suicide.

by Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

Munch Ado About Noshing

If you read this blog, then you’re aware that I have food issues. Not plural, just one – I eat when I’m highly stressed and lately, that’s most of the time. I wanted to talk to my therapist about it this morning, but I had an amazing dream last night, and dream work takes precedence over everything, so we didn’t talk about donuts. Instead, we talked about my dream, in which I was required to cry all of my tears into a cup and then somehow, the depth of my tears would be the ultimate measure of my soul. No, really! It seems bizarre that I can be undergoing this phenomenal spiritual transformation, and tap into the limitless power of the Universe, but remain helpless to a box of donuts.

My last post featured my Ego – Center Stage! It thinks I’m trying to kill it with all of my Consciousness work and it acts up like a three-year old regularly. I try very hard to keep my ego in check, because if I don’t, it shames me. Robin ( r’s-musings) suggested in her comment to an earlier post that she tries to follow this motto “What we resist persists.” Recognizing the brilliance in her suggestion, I thought I’d give it a try. I’d been trying to stuff my ego in a box over the last few weeks without success, and its been making me depressed. So I decided to hand the pen to my ego. It worked! I wrote a completely self-centered poem and discharged all of the excess ego energy that needed to get out. I felt like a million bucks after that (thank you Robin!) and my ego has been behaving nicely ever since.

Back to the eating . . . I figured if it worked for my inner-child, why not for my inner-glutton? So I wrote a powerful poem motivated by the energy usually reserved for eating. Again, it felt very good to get all of this on paper and I feel adequately discharged (again, thank you Robin!!) I haven’t eaten any crap yet today and I don’t feel the urge to either. Perhaps we’ve discovered a new form of therapy!!! By the way, I’m not really a glutton and to look at me, you wouldn’t know I have an eating issue – but God! It sure feels that way, especially when it gets out of control. (<---- My ego made me tell you this.) The poem isn’t factual, but it captures what it feels like to be me when I’m activated around food. Mostly, I’m feeling a lot of gratitude today – it’s a relief to feel relief.

Dr. Seuss on a Sugar Bender

Sugar is my enemy
Although it sort of grows on me
My stomach disproportionately
To what my waist size ought to be

Ate six donuts in one day
How much more now do I weigh
Contributing to tooth decay
I wish there was a thinner way

How much crap can one guy eat
And did I really need that treat
Surrendering to every sweet
Goddamn! I really miss my feet

The snacks that I should most eschew
I seem to buy and bite and chew
I’ll eat the paper package too
And then the bag before I’m through

My hunger to be un-unique
Has put me up that well known creek
Alas my boat has sprung a leak
That’s what I get for being weak

My cat waits by my feet for crumbs
As I consume tremendous sums
I push the food beyond my gums
With filthy-food-encrusted thumbs

Spaghetti-O’s a bag of fries
The promises to me all lies
A week’s worth full of useless tries
The ride to work and two more pies

I drive my car to foreign towns
Hit bakeries and make the rounds
My secret life of pie and pounds
Alone with just the chewing sounds

By Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

It’s All About Me!

I’ve often struggled writing poetry (and prose) because my ego gets in the way. My inner critic blocks the creative flow and micro-analyses the placement of every letter. However, I’ve found that the ego is an indispensable component of any quality writing. The ego picks up the pen and sets the time aside and the self eventually reveals itself, often in the most beautiful way. The secret is to find the proper balance between ego and self, for it is not possible to write with one and not the other. Truly it is a love-hate relationship but a necessary duet.

Sometimes, the best thing we can do is just let the ego hold the pen and have at it. My ego has been a royal pain in the ass lately. So I thought I’d let my “self” sit this one out and see just what my ego had to say, if given his own voice. The results were surprising and can be viewed below.

“There is no greater Sin after the seven deadly than to flatter oneself into an idea of being a great poet.”

—Keats

“Another and unexpected development in modern poetry is that writing the damned stuff is now often more popular than reading it. Poetry has become the favorite nostrum or therapy in this narcissistic age. I have looked into the matter carefully and can report that there are now 2,578,000 more poets in the United States, Argentina, and the Western Isles of Scotland than there were thirty-five years ago.”

—Alfred Kazin


For a wonderful treatment of the above subject, and a thoroughly enjoyable review of what’s wrong with poetry today, may I suggest you read the Worden Report.


Here’s my ego-laden poem – It’s a fun jab at myself, but believe me, I very much needed to say this! All I can say now is that after I wrote this, I feel so much more honest.

It's All About Me!

I am an egomaniac
my “I” did say to me
Admiring every syllable
In blissful reverie

My opinion, this night’s headline news
supplants the cataclysmic
Of course! But what would
you expect from one so narcissistic?

Arise the Sun! Be still the Moon!
The Earth turns as I say
The stars dance ‘cross the heavens
In my grand celestial play

My inventions go un-patented
No fear of duplication
Nor can I spare a moment
out of my self-adoration

I needn’t say I love you
For such words are insincere
Besides we both know who among us
I do hold most dear

Excuse my lack of humbleness
Humility, resignation
But apparently I suffer from
An ego-sized inflation

Be gone all those who criticize
I will not be diminished!
By now I guess you’ve figured out
my therapy’s not finished

By Dennis Tkon Copywrite 2006

Memories

Personal Inventory

I unscrewed the top of my head today
Just for fun
Placed my dome carefully on the table
For later
Fished around with a tiny teaspoon
Carefully
You wouldn’t believe what I found in there
Hiding
My first dog’s name
A linoleum floor I don’t recognize
The one egg my dad ever cooked for me
The textured pattern of my grandmother’s carpet
A garden where dead things grew
The incident with the crutch
The window I broke and lied about
And things too horrible to admit
I screwed the top of my head back on
For good

By Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

Poetry Thursday: Once Trodden

Dash, a crimson rose once trodden
Underneath a foot path worn
Quickly loves first kiss forgotten
For this love though do not mourn

Eyes now open light first seeing
Skies of teal, so heather blue
Turn the page on love now fleeting
Look back not lest you review

Come upon the broken hearted
Coiled up where love once sprung
Bonds that joined now long since parted
Echoes faintly love’s bell rung

Do in time think to remember
Chance perhaps will come along
Soft still glowing loves red ember
Dash a crimson rose love song

by Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

The Price of Ignorance

Our bookkeeper fashions pretzels with chocolate and sells two-dollar bags to raise money for her church. And I eat them in quantities that is, for sure, an affront to God. Yesterday it was cookies. The shame I feel outweighs the sheer quantity of food I take in. I’m not overweight yet. But as each pound returns, it deftly wipes its pudgy feet on the welcome mat and slams the door with such finality, there’s no doubt it’s here to stay.

Why not just one donut? Was it necessary to eat two this morning on my way to therapy, after I had promised myself that I would behave starting today? It was a new week God damn it! One would have been plenty – but two brought me closer . . .

I close my eyes and breathe in slowly through my nose and hold my breath – remembering the rush, the slow descent, the tide of calm rising within me, carrying me away from this godforsaken place as the drugs fulfill their intended purpose – their only purpose. I let the air in my lungs grow stale. My cells innocently protesting this unexpected deprivation. I let the feeling mature – it delivers its own pseudo-high. Again I crave more. Closer.

I’m disgusted at my weakness. Feeding a hunger not of my gut, but of my soul. An insatiable hunger to know you God, now that I’ve glimpsed your face, felt your touch, know your love. But the cage I occupy provides so little room – barely enough for a man to breathe, the crushing press of its bars a constant reminder of the price of ignorance. A sentence without forgiveness - the price of choices made blind to your love. I pray for my release daily. I pray that I may celebrate the love and compassion, which fill me in this tiny space – my corner, my universe.

The consequence of unfinished business

I feel pregnant with ideas and I must write about them. My awakening to consciousness is bringing so much light into my life – but with light comes heat. And too much heat is no good. I need an outlet to express my newfound passion. I’m on fire with love and compassion – a fire which does not consume but rather motivates. I want to fill my hiking pack with paper and pens and climb a secluded hill and look out over life and capture it’s reflections in ink.

But not today. There’s too much work to do. I hear you! Work can wait, it will still be there, but perhaps your passion may be fleeting! But then therein lies the dilemma. If I set work aside to write, there is a cost – the consequence of unfinished business. And when I do write, knowing that it is not leisurely creates tremendous pressure – so little time, your words must be perfect – Hurry! I rush my thoughts onto the paper and take no pleasure in what’s written. Of course it is not good. What did you expect?

I dream of a day when I'll wake up, alone. A writing desk in the corner. Paper. Pens. Time. Solitude. Amen - my prayer for today.

Poetry Thursday: Just You

Keeping with this week’s Poetry Thursday theme, I decided to go to a place that truly inspires me. It’s not a physical place like a library or my kitchen. It is an inner place – just a word – Gratitude. I spent a lot of time there on Saturday. Over the course of the day, this poem revealed itself to me, lazily. A sentence here, a word there. When I was done, I realized I had captured my personal spiritual journey quite succinctly. It seems to flow best if read very slowly. The following is true.

Just You

I summered in your garden
before life happened
There, on the hill by the lake
There were no other gods yet
Just you

Your door, open
Love spilled out
across the grass
wetting roots

I did not drink deeply
there on the hill
Dark clouds gathered
for me
The voice of false gods
on the breeze

Outside the garden
a season of rain
Love’s compass fast
with rust
Empty circles turned
wearing grooves

And you waited for me
There, on the hill by the lake
The grass strong
in your garden
Above your door
welcome home

by D. Tkon Copyright 2006