Can I Be Real?

Can I be real
just for a moment?
(If I linger I might
start hating myself
all over again.)
I stand before you,
a boyfriend, but
not a partner,
appealing to
your kinder side.

You reach for me,
seemingly annoyed
but not meaning
to endanger
our entanglement.
We wallow in
our emotions—
they seem to form
who we are when
together.

We don’t know how to
be apart. From
the start
there was nothing
other than us;
no such thing as apart.
(Your mother
said you were
addicted to me.)

I try to stand
proud
when you approach,
but I feel “less than”
next to
you.
No alpha male, I
shrink in your
presence, crushed by
a superiority
you cannot not help but
ooze.
Booze is my
liquid courage.


I write, but I cannot
(even with all my might)
measure up to the
abilities of others.
I could never
be the writer
you are. I’m unable
to see what you
see.
I can’t push my
feelings up from
deep within my gut,
down my arm,
into my hands
and fingers,
onto the page.


I am not capable of
translation like you are.
I know the language,
and can grunt a
word or two, but I
fail to
get the words out
at the same intensity
I feel them
inside.

Tragic in a way.
It’s as if the one thing
I do best,
to feel,
is not enough.
Maybe writing
is just not
for me.
No one wants to
read about worms
eating at my heart,
feeding on my
desire
for life or about
gnats buzz
in my head,
distracting me from
my deeper thoughts.

So, no, I
won’t write.
I’ll let storytelling and
prose and poetry and
activities of expression
such as these to
you,
the real writer.

© 2017, 2021 Steven Barto

A Plea for Mercy at a Poetry Reading

Be patient please
as these words stumble
off my tongue or as they tip-toe
nervously to the precipice of my lips
nervously to the precipice of my lips
before leaping into your lagoon of thought.
Listen, these words have traveled
long years through the swollen rivers
and frenzied trees of a jungle mind
battered by storm. They are weary
as well as wary. As iron is bent
and tortured across the blacksmith’s anvil
these words are twisted and torqued
over the most trivial of fears;
they are raw with tedious obsessions.
Their blossoming has been withered
by the stale breath of isolation.
But know this, they are honest
and unassuming
as the tip of a blind man’s cane.
So take them gently as you now
lead them through the obstacles
of their own making.

© 2021 Jason James Sheppard

Hope

The flesh is a beggar,
Who comes as a thief;
His need is the one
That matters
Regardless the cost.

His damage
Cannot be calculated
For it is greater
Than the sum of
Each individual cost.

What human weapon
Can stand against wiles so great?
They defy survival;
Desire and instinct
Run wild, distorted, distracted.

Look up, my child,
Not down; nor within,
For no inverted view
Can lead to truth or
Freedom.

Your tears burn hot
On your cheek, an
Endless reminder of
Loss and heartache,
Refusing to let go.

Every failure, lived
Again and again,
Burdens your heart and
Slows your pulse to
A crawl.

Your song is out of
Tune, maleficent,
Sad and defeating,
And the choir
Is silent.

Worship seems to have
Run its course,
Leaving you spent on
The shore of a million
Pieces of broken dreams.

Darkness has stolen
Your light, but
Only for a season;
His light has crested
The horizon.

Lift your head, child,
And open your eyes; tell your
Ears to hear; command
Your vision to clear, and
Bask in the light of hope.

©2019 Steven Barto

a man of all sorts

He stepped into the sunlight,
Squinting,
Glad for the freedom, yet
Confused about what to do.

Life began pushing in
Before
He was capable of
Pushing back.

It’s not that he was
Young
Or inexperienced; rather
He skipped maturity,

Straight to mid-twenties,
Deficient
Of the caution and brains
That come from participation.

His old man said he was
Nothing;
That his life would be
Garden-variety.

Why not rebel? Why not
Run?
What’s the point of
Even trying to be, to do?

Who can begin to
Save
Him from dime-a-dozen
Failure and doom?

They said he’d never
Bloom;
That he’d simply exist
Like a speck of dirt

Lying under the bed
Far
From reach of the broom,
Crusty and peevish;

Totally lacking in
Relevance,
As if life was already over
And the bring-about was nil.

©2017 Steven Barto

Life’s Poetry

I sit. Heart in hand. I
create. Some of you
may turn away from
the blood. The red
spilling over. It’s OK
if you do.

Sometimes it scares
me too, but still I
hold it. Palms out.
I’m giving you what
frightens me. This
is me saying, yes, I’m
still here.

I give you my less than
moments, my insecurities,
my madness, my ideas
about life and love, my
shrine of longing.

My heart slipping from
my hands, falling past
my knees to the floor.

Falling toward your
shadow I hope you
will pick it up.
Feel the hopeful
beat that wars
with my still
soul and chaotic
mind. I give you
my wounds.

We connect through
our pain, my friend,
my reader. Through
the hornets in our
coffee cups. Our
syllables of what
we can’t forget.

As we suffer together,
fear becomes less.
Our hearts beat stronger.
Place them on the
dashboard like a
plastic Jesus.

It’s doesn’t matter if
they leak on the
floorboard. It only
matters that we travel on,
even if we’ve misplaced
the map, even if our sanity
becomes displaced, even if
we drive down a reckless road
on a moonless night.

Understand, if we want
heaven and angels,
sometimes we have
to ride around with
our demons.

Understand, sometimes,
darkness is the heart of
life, of beauty, of art.

-Tosha Michelle

Please click on the following link for more of Tosha Michelle’s engaging poetry: https://laliterati.com/category/poems/

The Summer Day

I know. It’s Fall. Tomorrow is Election Day. So I stand accused of trying to prolong the warmth of the unfettered sun for just a bit longer. I give you Mary Oliver.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean –
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down –
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?