Expressive Domain

Journey of Life

Weights that I carry
Through years of agony
About to end finally

A new window of hope
Bridges between the gaps
The unknown and the past

I will dare lose my doubts
And should I need to forget
To find the right rough path

A leaf of life has fallen
Comes a new, better one
Nourish it, for it to bloom

Avenues of the future
Promise of new adventures
With touch of sweet tortures

Float, the dawn has come
Pack your spirit with dreams
Sail away with optimism

A new journey has begun…

Enjoy more poetry by Silent Poet Klaus at:

Poems of Life and Love and Quotes

www.poemslifelove.com

Beyond Diversity

The silence in the room
was the loudest noise,
each so afraid
to say the wrong thing.

They said nothing.

That said everything.

A Better Use for Our Sticks

My home is shut
to the approaching storm,
boarded up tight,
as you peek in.

I am only beginning
to see myself
through the window
you open.

Prop the window open.
I may not have the strength
to keep it up
alone.

If change
is allowed to blow in,
I must feel
the stinging debris
that hits me.

Help me
stand against the storm
with you.

Nobody Heard You Say That

Grandma says
that sun makes me sneeze
as particles rise
in the heat.

My head turns to the sound
that I thought I heard,
that wisp of a word
in the air.

Grandma says
that I should let it go
as words can never
hurt me.

Your eyes look to the dust
that floats in the light
as it settles
on me.

I am dirty
again
as you have brushed me
off.

(The following poems were written earlier,
but have new meaning when applied to the topic of diversity.)

Behind the Hidden Wall

Behind the hidden wall
a face stares back at me.

We strain as if to look
but neither one can see.

We stained the wall with tears
the hearts on both sides wept.

Our past is bound and tied
in memories still kept.

Our memories will help
to keep us close beside.

We cling to our desire
to reach the other side.

We wait the time away
till face to face we see.

Behind the hidden wall
a face stares back at me.

No More Than You

It is true I have suffered
but so have you
and we cry together
our common tears.

My tears with no more pain
than yours
fall onto the page
as I spill them out.

They land in drops
like Braille to be felt
by you who can’t see
past your own agony.

So I force you to look
at the page where I shout
and in your kindness
you reach out to me.

And in that moment
when you reached for me,
you stopped your crying
and began healing yourself.

The Man in the Moon Has No Hands

I walk in socks
unwilling to wake
the sleeping
as I pass the window
showing multiple images
of myself,
distorted and untouchable,
in the blackened night.

It is easy
to slide quietly
between the pains
of glass
and into that darkness
where my regrets
leave an untouchable
mark.

I can stay in the shadows
as long as the moon
is on my side
and keeps
his hands
to himself.

Extrasensory Perception

It’s all about you,
and I am listening with my head nodding,
my eyebrows lifting at just the right time,
so you keep revealing
because it’s evident I feel
the depth of your pain.

You can tell by my furrowed brow
that if I was held hostage
by foreign assassins who plan
to pull out my eyelashes
one at a time until I cry out,
I wouldn’t retell a single word.

It’s all about my love for you.

But sadly my questions
are not meant to be misinterpreted
as interest,
just merely my attempt
to help speed your story along.

Because if I was connected
to their lie detector,
it would no doubt record
that I don’t care.

I just want my turn to tell you,
with my eyes searching your face
for obvious signs of concern,
that it’s all about me.

And if you loved me enough
you’d listen.

Stop Watch

My watch face tells me
another ten minutes passed
and I recheck the wall clock,
but it isn’t confirmed
until I look out the window.

The driveway lays calm.
It is tolerantly waiting
though my aura of desperation
has settled unseen
on the pavement.

Even with repeated practice
I haven’t learned to pace myself
in my back and forth
back and forth
competition with the window.

But the window and time are partners
in a gunny-sack tied together
by my impatient waiting,
and only when you stumble in
will the race be over.

Objects In Mirror
Are Closer Than They Appear

In the back seat
of our family car,
we are rolling up the windows
and complaining to dad
about the odor
coming from the cornfield
we are passing.

The farmer,
riding on his dusty John Deer,
is taking in the deepest
of breaths
sucking it all in
until he is tasting
the scent
of money
growing deep into
his fading pockets.

He can afford to smile
and wave at us
as we pinch our noses
and drive away.

Flatlined

There is a lifelong
debilitating disease
that artists suffer
causing them to abruptly wake
from a sound sleep
as if from an electric shock
with their shifting eyes thinking
resting on nothing in the blackness
until they frantically
reach for the notepad
and pre-sharpened pencil
on the nightstand.

The ability to write
without seeing the line,
a compelling genetic defect,
is causing them to break
from the rest of night
to rise with their thoughts
before the dawn’s activity
can flood them away.

Their lovers have come
to follow in their wake
turning off curling irons
and moving pots off the stove
where interruptions
have carried them away
drowned in thought.

Burnt Sienna

When she was small
and picked up her crayons
the 64 box
held all the colors
she needed.

And my Crayola girl
colored in magenta
vibrant and lively
bubbling with the laughter
that painted her mood.

And gray was bypassed then
for sepia and raw umber
when forceful scribbling
was needed.

So there is no surprise now
when her nights
are marked in black and white
with no way to erase
the mistakes of the day.

If she had been playing
with an Etch-a-sketch,
she might have learned
to turn her troubles over
and shake them away.