Scratching the surface

It began then,

I used to practice on voodoo dolls

Aligning with the pencil first

But even then, something jerks the wrist

As my thoughts grow, futile

To chase after it

Vexing and curses said

I feel the weight

Of an eight-ton boulder of granite, leaded

Asserting its antiquity

On my shoulder, I can still try to erase

Rely on random distraction

Bolts are bold sparks-there I said it-

Losing my place

Lets me go

I fight with me

Incessantly, and yet words escape

Somehow-I’ve always been this way

Scribbling furiously, relieving pressure, dying inside

Without a place to put

What I no longer have room to hide

Scratching the surface with graphite

I hope the day comes when

Ink doesn’t remind me 

of my own blood.

Image of drawing by Carl von Bergen (1891) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Shoulda, Woulda, and Coulda

Shoulda, Woulda and Coulda*

Shoulda, Woulda and Coulda often complain

             while riding aboard the dinghy named "Fret"

Tangled in knotted refrain and regret

             avoiding the rip current of Change, the rudder is set

"Why not? What could go wrong? What is there to fear?"

             -are not the questions the three dared ask 

Then crewmates, Maybe and Might, forecast the outcome is unclear

             when bravely charting unknown water. And advised, ‘Leave doubt   

             in your wake when what you already knew the right way.’

As a Shoulda,

             Woulda

              or a Coulda, undoubtedly decided against, anyway.

Doubt and Worry pacing swab the deck,

              they claim its always slippery

Advising all to watch their step!

              This soggy pair prefers to predict catastrophes

Neither of these two will ever see past their four soggy feet

              To see some parts are already dry.

              "Not to fear, we've already been here! It's just like deja-vu!"

              "Pirates prosper by fear!"

But these words were gibberishly unclear and did not adhere

               to Shoulda

               Woulda

                and Coulda, trying to avoid their fretted fates.

Shipwrecked again off the Sea of Regret,

                moored in the ebb of murky vacillation

The lull of consistency, and eerie calm of sunset

                 foreseeable outcomes; one man's island destination

Lo’ on the horizon-a glimmer of light, a sparkling sight

                  a beacon, a bright idea, that maybe, might just be

                  up ahead, not so far, where the future is blinding bright,

                  past the buried benthic and what they Coulda not see, turbidity

                  and Shoulda done with what they Woulda had,  passed the possibility...

Shoulda and Woulda just missed a chance-

                  Coulda did nothing but complain

"What good is trying anyway-the path ahead is just happenstance"

                  So these three, bravery thieves, confidence takers,

                  deal breakers,

                  adventurous fakers,

                  remorse makers,

Coulda not comprehend, nor

Woulda they try to even extend

                   a helping hand to assist another

                   while occupied in their druthers,

and Shoulda patched the holes or learn how to swim.

*This poem was inspired by Eugene Field's poem "Wynken, Blynken and Nod". 
*Image of painting (oil) by Maxfield Parrish, 1902, "Wyken, Blynken and Nod"; [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.