The Waves are Rocking Me | Short Poem No. 117

The waves are rocking me
Photo by Tim Marshall from Unsplash

The waves are rocking me inside their crib.

I’m melancholy. Hazy. Unfocused.

I don’t know me – What I do – What I did.

. . .Don’t even recollect when I penned this.

My conscience says, “Pull yourself together.”

“This isn’t the plan for a man to be.”

“No, he should stand tall and face the weather.”

“Raise the sails, stand helm, and conquer the sea.”

But I’m indifferent and apathetic.

I’m stale and calm – Dull and unmoving.

But I’m okay with being pathetic.

I dissolved my resolve in self-soothing.

Where currents flow, they take me where I go.

And when I’m gone, no one will even know.

Speak

Chapter 2020. Honestly Self-Aware.

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2020, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

Speak. . .Is it over? | Short Poem No. 116

Speak. . .Is it over?
Or is it only starting?
Tell me about love. . .

Speak is it over
Photo by T.H. Chia on Unsplash

. . .As a half-moon halves the dark-azure sky.

Out Here by Myself

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

Snowflakes Fall in my Hand | Short Poem No. 115

Snowflakes fall in my hand before fading,
enticing moments of contemplation.

So. . .Today is Christmas.
I should as myself, ‘What does it mean?’

I know every lecture that I’ve been instructed.
What to believe. . .what Christmas is about.
But. . .To be honest. . . I’m only human.
Frankly, I feel like a child tonight.

So, if I can find respite from lessons;
To just lay in this manger and be calm.
Because it’s God, but it’s just a baby. . .
Giving, not rebuke, but joy. . . peace. . .and love. . .

Snowflakes fall in my hand
Photo by Darius Cotoi on Unsplash

If You Still Read Me

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

If You Still Read Me | Short Poem No. 114

If you still read me
Photo by Giulia Bertelli on Unsplash

If you still read me,
Don’t be uneasy to let me go.
I know that I wilted up long ago.

If you still love me, then let me go soon.
If time was life, then your clock has struck noon.
You have a chance to find better-than-me.
Before it is night. . .And you become keen.

Can I babble, like a man who is lost?
I haven’t read you as I turn and toss.

If you still read me,
Don’t be uneasy to let me go.
I know that I wilted up long ago.

The Setting Sun Moves On

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

The Setting Sun Moves On | Short Poem No. 113

You’re dead; gone like the setting sun moves on.
Vacant seats on holidays feel lonely.

The setting sun moves on
Photo by Max Ostwalt on Unsplash

What if I forget you as time moves on?
Or should I just . . .Should I just feel lonely?

Unlock My Book

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.