How do we find our way home? Will friends carry us? Is the path lit by fireflies and moonlight? Will we see through the distances time throws at us? Is creation done or is there still work to do, some small tasks left to us? Do we cross eyes and dot tees, engage in minutiae befitting our status? Is there even a meaning in that? Is there a meaning in anything? Or Do we just wait?
Your poem, Paul, reminds me very much of Samuel Beckett's play Waiting for Godot, where all the character's wait around for a god who never turns up. Maybe waiting, with false hope, isn't such a good idea. What if we make the journey, regardless of its possible futility, with a torch of our own making (made from our poems)? Wouldn't that, at least, pass the time quite pleasurably for us?
Very astute Martin. That's quality age perspective. Young people feel compelled to action, to make a change, a difference. Aging helps us understand our "status". Paul, that's a good poem, a pot stirrer.
Finding our way home isn't some gentle stroll under the stars. It's a battlefield, littered with uncertainties and existential landmines. Friends? Maybe they'll carry us if they aren't too lost themselves. Fireflies and moonlight? Sure, if you believe in fairy tales. But more likely, we'll be stumbling through the pitch-black chaos time loves to hurl at us.
Creation isn't wrapped up with a neat little bow. There's always more work to do, even if it's just picking up the broken pieces and slapping on some duct tape. Cross eyes and dot tees? We might not need to be perfect, but engaging in the minutiae keeps us from spiraling into madness.
Meaning? That's the cosmic joke, isn't it? We scramble around, trying to make sense of this twisted play, and sometimes all we get is a handful of ashes. But that doesn't mean we stop searching. Waiting isn't passive; it's the calm before the storm, the moment before we unleash our full potential on whatever comes next.
In the end, it's about fighting tooth and nail, clawing our way through the darkness, and trusting that somewhere along the line, the path will blaze with the inferno of our will. So, no more waiting. It's time to move, to act, to rage against the dying of the light, and carve our own way home.
I live by this quote. Elizabeth Taylor famously said, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some red lipstick, and pull yourself together."
Paul, your poems of late are mirrors of your heart ache. My heart and my hand in friendship are held out to you. They always will be.
What a comment, Gloria, with so much sense to it. “In the end, it's about fighting tooth and nail, clawing our way through the darkness, and trusting that somewhere along the line, the path will blaze with the inferno of our will.” And that is what we’ll do.
Thank you for your comments and your friendship, Gloria. I truly value both!
Gloria, I take my hat off to you for writing this. This is an absolutely wonderful comment - one of the best I've ever seen. I love the part where you say:
'In the end, it's about fighting tooth and nail, clawing our way through the darkness, and trusting that somewhere along the line, the path will blaze with the inferno of our will. So, no more waiting. It's time to move, to act, to rage against the dying of the light, and carve our own way home.'
That is so poetic in it's own right. And you even threw Dylan Thomas into the mix.
Wait? Hmmmmm. This sounds too passive for all the passion you have written about. Gloria wrote a fabulous response to this poem… and the tone of recent poetry you’ve published here.
Grief is visiting. Allow it a place to land for a time. The ache from your brother’s death will change over time. And while you walk with this, we will carry your hope.
Thank you, Teyani. Most of my recent poems began before my brother died but were finished, it’s true, in the aftermath of his death, and there’s no denying death has had an impact, as it should. I will probably take a bit of time off from writing to sort myself out.
I'm so incredibly sorry to hear about your brother,- so sorry for your loss. My own brother died during Covid and I wasn't permitted to go to his funeral, so I understand your situation perfectly. My solution, for what it's worth, is: Don't stop. Keep going. Crawl on. And that will help people like me who are crawling too. Thank you for writing this poem.
Thank you, Martin. I can’t imagine losing someone under the circumstances you lost your brother. Let’s not crawl on, let’s walk on into whatever the future brings, knowing we will always have questions that may be difficult to answer but the difficulty should not stop us from asking them.
Take the time that is needed. And express yourself here as much as you want. I can see from the comments that you are deeply cared about. Many are here for you. Your poetry is a gift to everyone, as you flow thru all the feelings of reality.
When I have processed the death of someone I love, I found that telling their story has helped me. It is possible that either your prose or poetry about him, your relationship, how he lived and his crossing might carry you in this tsunami of grief. Whether you make the writing public or not. At times it helped me to tell the stories to strangers, (as I told of my Dad in the Father’s Day post) other times I spoke only to myself and those who knew him well.
Trust your heart. It will whisper what you need. And as Gloria offered, I do as well, I’m here if talking would be helpful.
Hi Paul, “How do we find our way home?” You ask. For me, it happens with the recognition that I am already home. In the depths of all experiences, in all actions , thoughts and love. None of which preclude a deeper waiting. Daniel
Listen. Wait. Move forward. Always forward. You made me think of one of my favorite Tolkien quotes:
“Go back?" he thought. "No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!" So up he got, and trotted along with his little sword held in front of him and one hand feeling the wall, and his heart all of a patter and a pitter.” By J.R.R. Tolkien (2012). “The Hobbit: 75th Anniversary Edition”, p.100, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
I vote for the division of labor. If someone will dot the eyes, I’ll get the tees crossed, then we can sit together and wait, and know the story we helped write.
I think I’ve lived into some of my own answers to the questions that nagged at me earlier in life, yet I might discover the answers I’ve found are only provisional so I sometimes pose the questions in my work for others to read, reflect, comment—it’s another way to learn.
That was perhaps my shorthand. Maybe a link is a better way of saying it. Listening to the interview there's definitely connections. I've studied storytelling a little so I'm interested in the overlaps with this poetic voice I've found.
The way home can be paved with mystique or strife and sometimes both but standing still just guarantees those looking for you take longer to find you so all you need is to take a single step and you're already closer than you were.
Your poem, Paul, reminds me very much of Samuel Beckett's play Waiting for Godot, where all the character's wait around for a god who never turns up. Maybe waiting, with false hope, isn't such a good idea. What if we make the journey, regardless of its possible futility, with a torch of our own making (made from our poems)? Wouldn't that, at least, pass the time quite pleasurably for us?
A torch made of our poems? Seems a good idea, Martin. Thank you.
Very astute Martin. That's quality age perspective. Young people feel compelled to action, to make a change, a difference. Aging helps us understand our "status". Paul, that's a good poem, a pot stirrer.
Thank you, Wes—I take that as high praise, indeed!
Finding our way home isn't some gentle stroll under the stars. It's a battlefield, littered with uncertainties and existential landmines. Friends? Maybe they'll carry us if they aren't too lost themselves. Fireflies and moonlight? Sure, if you believe in fairy tales. But more likely, we'll be stumbling through the pitch-black chaos time loves to hurl at us.
Creation isn't wrapped up with a neat little bow. There's always more work to do, even if it's just picking up the broken pieces and slapping on some duct tape. Cross eyes and dot tees? We might not need to be perfect, but engaging in the minutiae keeps us from spiraling into madness.
Meaning? That's the cosmic joke, isn't it? We scramble around, trying to make sense of this twisted play, and sometimes all we get is a handful of ashes. But that doesn't mean we stop searching. Waiting isn't passive; it's the calm before the storm, the moment before we unleash our full potential on whatever comes next.
In the end, it's about fighting tooth and nail, clawing our way through the darkness, and trusting that somewhere along the line, the path will blaze with the inferno of our will. So, no more waiting. It's time to move, to act, to rage against the dying of the light, and carve our own way home.
I live by this quote. Elizabeth Taylor famously said, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some red lipstick, and pull yourself together."
Paul, your poems of late are mirrors of your heart ache. My heart and my hand in friendship are held out to you. They always will be.
What a comment, Gloria, with so much sense to it. “In the end, it's about fighting tooth and nail, clawing our way through the darkness, and trusting that somewhere along the line, the path will blaze with the inferno of our will.” And that is what we’ll do.
Thank you for your comments and your friendship, Gloria. I truly value both!
Gloria- this is so spot on. And thank you for that Liz Taylor quote. I love it.
Gloria, I take my hat off to you for writing this. This is an absolutely wonderful comment - one of the best I've ever seen. I love the part where you say:
'In the end, it's about fighting tooth and nail, clawing our way through the darkness, and trusting that somewhere along the line, the path will blaze with the inferno of our will. So, no more waiting. It's time to move, to act, to rage against the dying of the light, and carve our own way home.'
That is so poetic in it's own right. And you even threw Dylan Thomas into the mix.
We wait and listen with our hearts.
Yes, with our hearts, Gayla—Thank you!
Wait? Hmmmmm. This sounds too passive for all the passion you have written about. Gloria wrote a fabulous response to this poem… and the tone of recent poetry you’ve published here.
Grief is visiting. Allow it a place to land for a time. The ache from your brother’s death will change over time. And while you walk with this, we will carry your hope.
Thank you, Teyani. Most of my recent poems began before my brother died but were finished, it’s true, in the aftermath of his death, and there’s no denying death has had an impact, as it should. I will probably take a bit of time off from writing to sort myself out.
I'm so incredibly sorry to hear about your brother,- so sorry for your loss. My own brother died during Covid and I wasn't permitted to go to his funeral, so I understand your situation perfectly. My solution, for what it's worth, is: Don't stop. Keep going. Crawl on. And that will help people like me who are crawling too. Thank you for writing this poem.
Thank you, Martin. I can’t imagine losing someone under the circumstances you lost your brother. Let’s not crawl on, let’s walk on into whatever the future brings, knowing we will always have questions that may be difficult to answer but the difficulty should not stop us from asking them.
Thank you, Paul.
Take the time that is needed. And express yourself here as much as you want. I can see from the comments that you are deeply cared about. Many are here for you. Your poetry is a gift to everyone, as you flow thru all the feelings of reality.
When I have processed the death of someone I love, I found that telling their story has helped me. It is possible that either your prose or poetry about him, your relationship, how he lived and his crossing might carry you in this tsunami of grief. Whether you make the writing public or not. At times it helped me to tell the stories to strangers, (as I told of my Dad in the Father’s Day post) other times I spoke only to myself and those who knew him well.
Trust your heart. It will whisper what you need. And as Gloria offered, I do as well, I’m here if talking would be helpful.
Thank you, Teyani
Hi Paul, “How do we find our way home?” You ask. For me, it happens with the recognition that I am already home. In the depths of all experiences, in all actions , thoughts and love. None of which preclude a deeper waiting. Daniel
It was a wise man who said, “Wherever you are, there you are.” One just has to recognize that there is no other place to be.
Listen. Wait. Move forward. Always forward. You made me think of one of my favorite Tolkien quotes:
“Go back?" he thought. "No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!" So up he got, and trotted along with his little sword held in front of him and one hand feeling the wall, and his heart all of a patter and a pitter.” By J.R.R. Tolkien (2012). “The Hobbit: 75th Anniversary Edition”, p.100, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
That’s it, Diane!
I like that.
Thanks, Martin. I just posted from my archive the quote and article (which Paul made me think of!)
“How do we find our way home? Will friends carry us? Is the path lit by fireflies and moonlight?
Will we see through the distances time throws at us? “
I hope so.
In the meantime; I guess “ we just wait”
The poem asks the question but I’m not waiting! Thanks for the comment, Lor.
They say the waiting is the hardest part!
I vote for the division of labor. If someone will dot the eyes, I’ll get the tees crossed, then we can sit together and wait, and know the story we helped write.
Perfect, Joshua!
Still waiting…🙏🥰
Creative thought. While you wait, think about taking the first step. Someone else has already done it.
Interesting poem Paul, and questions. Rilke guided to 'live the questions' . I'm on this return journey well and truly now, in all its mystery.
Making my peace with the questions.
And their slowly, unfolding answers.
Ps the good company, the music, poetry and odd glass of red wine definitely masquerade well as fireflies!
I think I’ve lived into some of my own answers to the questions that nagged at me earlier in life, yet I might discover the answers I’ve found are only provisional so I sometimes pose the questions in my work for others to read, reflect, comment—it’s another way to learn.
I've been listening to this today, maybe some interesting probes relating to your questions. Perhaps myths and art/poetry are interchangeable?
https://youtu.be/bu4wVTl6sAE?si=6e2mAPJHp-NbYwF1
I’m not certain myths and art/poetry are interchangeable, but I’m sure they’re related. Campbell is always worth a listen and a view.
That was perhaps my shorthand. Maybe a link is a better way of saying it. Listening to the interview there's definitely connections. I've studied storytelling a little so I'm interested in the overlaps with this poetic voice I've found.
Oh, yes, definitely an overlap, with connections to all of the arts.
The way home can be paved with mystique or strife and sometimes both but standing still just guarantees those looking for you take longer to find you so all you need is to take a single step and you're already closer than you were.
To wait does not necessarily mean to stand still, does it?
True! Really reminds me of the 'all who wander are not lost' saying. If you don't have a destination in mind, you could just be exploring.
What is this home you speak of? I suspect the answer to depends on the question.
I suspect you’re right, Elsie—Thank you.
, ah - the waiting
Thank you for reading and commenting, Lori
Do we cross eyes and dot tees
Love this little word play!