Writing A Poem.com: February 2020

The Child

There is a child in me,
Surprised at what he sees,
This eternal child,
Always surprised,
Especially now,
Seeing the passage of time
Marked upon my face.

O time,
I still don’t understand,
Though I’ve changed from boy to man,
Though I will change from what I am,
The child,
Remains.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Designated Places

You and I were fallen angels when we met,
Fallen from illusions of a certain control over life,
Thrown together by the certain fate of happenstance,
Anonymous in our dark, confessional corners,
Free to be disarmingly honest.

We had little left to lose,
Certainly not vanity,
Not in our drowning gasps,
Not in the freefall of our despair.

Yet we were reprieved by our surrender
And familiarity welcomed us back,
Each to our designated places,
Rejoining the world,
No longer close.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

The Secret World

The little ones among us,
So full of the moment,
The eternal “now,”
So disconnected from history,
Without serious contemplation of consequence.

They dance down supermarket aisles,
Flailing arms and legs in outlandish choreographies,
Possessed by some inner music,
Some inner, innate rhythms.

I watch their energetic, unselfconscious geometries with envy.
Would that I could be so free-spirited,
So unconcerned with the observations of others.
Would that I could unleash my inner whirling dervish.

Yet if I began dancing down supermarket aisles
I doubt others would share my joyful abandon.
More than likely I would be suspected of intoxication,
Or some variety of mental impairment.

Watching the little ones gyrating down supermarket aisles
I remember what it was like,
Living in my secret world,
The world of a child my parents left so long ago,
Those practical, preoccupied people,
Pulling me into their world,
Too soon,
Too soon.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Praying

Praying,
All this praying,
Filling empty time,
Becoming a substitute,
Becoming the center of your life.

When at last the promise appears
You turn away,
Too comfortable now
In the familiar sameness of prayer.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Questions

Why?
Why am I alive
When with every breath I take a child dies?

Am I just another ant in the ant farm?
Or am I a traveler on the road to divinity?

Am I a blade of grass reaching for the sun?
Or am I a ray of sunlight cast indiscriminately upon the world?

Perhaps I am just a man with time on his hands,
Time to think beyond bodily needs,
Time to ask questions,
Time to create questions out of madness,
A kind of madness that comes when living itself is not enough.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Anatomy

Inside,
There is light and dark,
Without reason,
For reason follows intuition,
And intuition follows
Something I cannot name,
Something light,
Something dark,
A place in the heart
Which is not really the heart,
Which is not really a place.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Animal Again

O the noise,
The fire,
The mad multitudes,
Armed,
Dangerous.

This new society,
So sick of civilization,
Animal again.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

My Love Asks Nothing

My love asks nothing of you.
My love is its own reward,
And punishment.

If you do not love me
My love will leave you alone
And I will continue to feel great pleasure,
Great pain.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Amen

When you begin a prayer
You open a door.

Keep the door open.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Courage Is Required

“Oh I reckon,
I reckon I'm a cowboy,"
I wrote in careful, deliberate script
Upon the first page of what would be
The treasured notebook of the new American Shakespeare.

The muse was speaking
And I was listening
When my older, less literary brother appeared,
Yanking the notebook from my hand,
Reading my first half stanza
And laughing.

It would be weeks before he stopped taunting:
"I reckon I'm a cowboy!"
His deeply intimidating stare
Mocking me,
Humiliating me for daring just a little transcendence.

The years have turned my attention,
More practical pursuits,
Yet the muse still faintly calls.
I take pen in hand and see my brother's face,
His mocking, disapproving eyes.

O yes,
The troubled path of the poet.
Courage is required.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

You

I love what is unfinished,
Unfolding,
Undecided,
Free from certainty,
Curious,
Growing,
Eagerly embracing change,
Surprised by each new day,
Listening for the voices of angels,
Ready for a miracle . . .

You.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Playground

We are the little children of God
Who decided we want to do things on our own.

So God said, “OK,”
And put us here in this playground.

We’re still learning how to play together nicely.

We’re a bit slow.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Almost Enough

O circumstance,
Enemy of dreams,
Unyielding wall
That keeps us apart.

Circumstance like science
Cannot be wished away,
Will not be denied,
Only overcome by those
Who allow desire to overcome reason,
A perilous course,
Full of grave consequence.

You and I weighed such consequences
And turned away from love’s unreasoning madness,
Wounded,
Scarred,
Yet saved from eternal sorrow by the words:
I will always love you.

It's almost enough.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

When I Am With You

There is a part of me that awakens
When I am with you.

Not that I had forgotten.
No,
I remember everything.
The blush on your cheek,
The tiny pink ribbon on your delicate white dress,
The curve of your shoulder,
Your restless sleep.

All my memories are charged with emotion,
But they are reflections of the past.

When I am with you
There is a part of me that awakens,
That memory cannot recreate.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

The Real Thing

True,
Incomparable love
Comes when your heart finds a home.

It may not last,
But if you’ve ever found it,
You’re one of the lucky ones.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

What Do You Really Think?

What do you really think?

No,
Not what you’ve heard,
Those predigested generalizations
Tailored to specific constituencies,
Foot soldiers amassing in the unity of certainty.

What do you think that’s genuinely yours,
Uniquely yours,
The product of your own ingredients,
Of your own mental exercise,
Unaltered by expectations of approval
Or disapproval,
Stripped of cliché,
Of second-hand observations . . .

Summon the truest voice within and tell me,
What do you really think?

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Life Lessons

We grow old and discouraged,
Worn by repetition and disenchantment,
Wondering what life is for.

We forget the answers are all there,
Waiting to be rediscovered in storybooks,
Where Peter never loses the enchantment of youth,
Where Goldilocks learns respect for the sanctity of family,
Where the diligence of a little pig saves the lives of his brothers,
Where running away teaches Dorothy there’s no place like home.

Cradled by a mother’s love
We are safe and we are forgiven.
The world is once again full of wonder
And life will never end.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Angels Can Only Do So Much

Angels can only do so much,
Depending on their age, experience and motivation,
Intercession not being as easy as one might suppose.

Consider political upheavals.
Consider natural disasters.
Angels can only do so much.

And there is considerable reluctance among the winged
To capriciously alter the course of human events,
Knowing how motivational calamity can be,
What with all the problem-solving it requires,
Knowing how the evolution of the human race
Is enhanced by a few obstacles now and then.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

The Passing Of Another Summer

Don't Take This Literally

I’ve been way too coherent lately,
Too literal.
Some of my more artistic friends
Blush
At my naive,
Prosaic,
Poetry.

I actually use the words
“Love,”
And “heart,”
Even “God,” for “Pete’s sake.”

I “dream”
And sometimes I am “sad,”
Sometimes full of “hope” and “joy.”

I apologize to my more sophisticated friends
For my unadorned simple-mindedness
And would deconstruct coherence with obfuscation
But alas,
I am “too far gone.”

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

This Politician

The solemn occasion,
The honored dead,
The grief of a nation assembled in memoriam.

The earnest words,
The inspired speech delivered by this politician,
A showcase of compassion
Cleverly constructed by his speechwriters
To magnify his public image.

O the tortured expressions of sorrow.
Yes, he feels our pain,
Yes, he casts his humanity out upon our weary nation,
A nation so desperately in need of a leader.

This politician presents himself,
Offers himself,
This humble servant of the people,
This shepherd,
Eager to employ the suffering of a nation
To his own ends.

Those skeptics among us,
Aware of his grandiose disingenuousness,
Can not,
Will not forget how many lies he has spoken,
Winning so many earnest hearts and minds
With such sanctimonious deceit.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Life

Maria Something

She doesn’t know why her car stopped.
I don’t know why it ran,
A thing many times discarded,
Salvaged only by her desperate situation.

From Mexico she comes,
This young, sculptured woman,
To work the rag trade
In secret sweaty buildings
Where all generations labor
Behind rows of blunt, brutish machines.

I cannot help her,
Knowing little about cars,
Less about miracles.
I lend her my phone.

“Gracias,” she says, smiling so sincerely.
Her eyes are black stars in a white-hot sky.

A breeze riffles her pleated white skirt
With hot and dusty Sunday afternoon air,
Revealing her long, leather-brown legs.

She is calling her cousin,
Waiting for him to answer,
Leaning against the warm metal skin of my car,
Pressing her carved, callused fingers
Against her feverish forehead,
Pulling her burnished brown hair away from her moist neck.

She waits for him to answer.
I wait for him not to answer.

I want to be with her
In some flickering candlelit room,
Her lips brushing against my ear as she whispers.

I want to touch the source
Of this inviolable beauty.
I want to know how she can smile
So killingly sweet,
Knowing what America would do
With such a life.

~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved