Sample Poems by J.M. FitzGerald
The Misunderstood
As for the talking,
if I wanted something said,
it would be here.
These lines exist as they do for the falling,
for the unrevealed hurt,
for God to cry and angels fear
at my corruption,
at my shaking,
at my curse.
I need time to get away,
but present demons love me worse,
and figure ways to pose as muses.
They point to where my secrets wither.
They bruise the heights and stir the lows
with longing songs that ever crave to scream:
Let me come back!
No voice is greater than this.
What happened to the blasted silence?
No one should believe I'm real.
I disclaim myself for persona,
or I'd be bawling.
The poem is over,
I used to feel.
But now who knows?
Magus
I would be one of the wanderers,
with heaven watching.
Observe, you reflections, I glance away.
Notice the wonder spring forth in ancientness,
steep the spell held in spices, hypnotized.
In dreams I descend twenty steps at a time,
am afraid how I'll land if I fly too high.
I try not to say I, and claim myself,
a sign of consciousness uncovering.
Who calls me, from such transience?
We will ourselves into vastness,
like children at graves,
a wind with just one chance to blow,
both toward and away from itself in surprise,
or life is waste.
There are shooting stars, then that which lingers,
even hovers like a hawk, a halo, a messenger.
None can bear looking straight into the sun.
We see it reflect off the ocean by day, the moon at night.
Imagine someone's sun fly away.
What must it search for, in its burning?
Galaxies witness it bursting through silence.
May it hover to the end in spite of where it finds itself.
Let innocence cling to the universe, swirling,
get high and go hungry, distill our minds
till we can't control what pours from inside,
and at heart remain addicts, ever humble.
Medicine
I remember the sound of dreaming,
the tiger, the arrow, the voices, the stars,
and still soak in the meaning.
Eyes cover the goal of existence.
I want my soul back.
I think I left my body too.
Dowse me in misbelieved meaning,
unforeseen magic, ancestral devotion.
Control events, alter consciousness,
let language tear me to pieces.
Divine the hidden, teach me to feel.
Reveal me on a different level.
I've studied night and here's the deal:
it's rough seeing anything perfect.
How did I get here is the question.
I think too often of creation,
the lowest common denominator,
at love's worst, hoping for glimpses.
I see wind move in pieces, moments, others, even less.
This line could be about you, believe me.
At least I could offer some proof as to nothing.
Sway, all you mothers of God, for emotion,
Sway, all you on your knees praying.
Sway, you twisted musicians and lavender fields,
for ocean, pulse, and pain crave passion.
Words bent on angels, reverb, circle higher,
disappear like shadows into light, and make me wonder.
We will dream, at least I will, of nameless surprises,
but until life rises from its likeness,
may we heal one another.
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