From time to time even the best of us fall prey to our own weaknesses, our own fallacies regarding life in general and our individual lives in very specific terms. It is no great thing for some to escape such trappings, yet for others there seems to be little else more debilitating. So too have I found myself lacking of late, slipping into the doldrums and trappings of the mundane.
We are meant for greatness if greatness is what we believe ourselves capable. And we are definitely that. Capable.
So there is definitely no time like the present to own greatness. It does not come to the silent, the still, the patient; it is captured by the wary and watchful and eager participant. We ought be that person as often as we are capable, and we are capable so long as breath fills our lungs and so long as we keep our minds sharp and focused on the goals we set before us.
No time like the present, my friends, to get out there and experience the life you dream of.
For me, that is the pursuit of some artistic goals. Writing being one I had let slip far behind until some recent years. However, lately I seem to have fallen back into the mundane and predictable life of the clock-punching drone (sort of–my work is definitely not mindless and entails a bit of excitement, not to mention the great people I work with, but it is not the stuff of my poet side). So I have made myself this promise. Each night as I sit before my blank screen preparing to write a bit more on the next novel in my Argent series, if I am unable to get started I will write at least one poem.
To get things started, I will share one I wrote not too long ago:
My Heart
My heart, this simplistic thing, at odds with my mind,
A convoluted mass of thoughts and derivations.
The two do battle, yet my heart wins most times.
I wonder at those things lost to me
And those looming on the horizon:
Shall I ever be made of the misplaced youth
I sometimes look upon in pain and despair,
Or might I mature enough to capture the purse
Of the great warrior poet who comes to me in dreams?
Will love be an ephemeral thing
Or shall it come to me anew,
And might I find it in places not yet seen
Or in plain sight before me?
©Wayne A Delk
Wayne A Delk 