Friday, September 4, 2020

Two poems ----------- by Wendy Beamish


When I was young
And wild and joyful,
I met a mystic sage
She had a dark and golden heart
And promised me endless light

Being greedy and wanting
more happiness
I barely listened to her
And blithely followed her
As she spiraled down

To uplift you,
She told me,
I will take you
through the
Deepest darkness
Blackest blight
Searing sadness
And when you rise
you will break the
Like a swimmer
Bursting into the light

Following her down,
I became lost
in infinite night
in piercing pain
in tireless tragedy

Without the sage,
Doubt and Panic
overtook me
knowing I would
never be the same

But I fought,
Going up
Going down
And up and down
Again and again

And years passed
this way
As I fought to break
the surface

And sometimes I thought
I saw the light
Other times
I was soaked in darkness

And each time
I was near
The light
I healed a little

And then I
The light was not

Inspiration Lost

Perfectionism is
spotless white gloves,
freshly fallen snow,
unblemished porcelain skin.

But perfectionism
is parallelizing
when you're in
its grip

And inspiration
becomes mere

Perfectionism is
the hammer that comes down
on the nail,
the noose that hangs,
the seal on the coffin,

Perfectionism is
drowning in your
own idealism

Unable to
reach my ideals
becomes mere

has stopped me,
death by asphyxiation 
by a Tyrant
of my own making

And when can I breathe
just a ... little
I wonder

Who decides what perfect is?

For if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
perfect can take on many forms,
leaving it amorphous

The answer cannot
Holding tight to harrowing idealism
finding away
Exist between the lines

To allow mere respiration
To become inspiration

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