SILENT WORDS
Imprisoned by my own poem
Plain-speech slang
Circled Barbed wires
Contain pools of grammar
Poetry is a constructed conversation
On the frontier
Of word dreaming and
silence on paper
Speechless in a world
Of riotous birdsong
A sense of being caught
In a future temporal myth.
Obdurate
Proscribed from consciousness
Will oblivion remain
In the porous life streaming?
Unmoved by persuasion,
Pity and tender feelings
Resistant to moral influence.
As the frequency
Of the sameness
Becomes abstract in old age.
The truth haunts
In the freedoms of doubt
Growing dimmer in faith.
HIS LIFE REMEMBERED
An evening walk, lights reflecting off the raindrops
Of a city in desperation.
Our eyes meet- his face mirrors both freedom and sadness.
His world is hopeless, a never-ending search for life and
Subsisting.
Mine in kinship with my nameless brother, a loneliness
No one sees.
Is he on this pilgrimage because family love has deserted him?
Did his career end, or was his dying path ordained to drugs and
alcohol?
Grass grows through the cracks of a decaying city.
The hardest path is living, the freedom is what draws
Life.
Before we pass, I want his knowledge, for he has tasted
Failure.
Afraid of my own destiny- we gaze for one second in passing.
The dark lonely figure disappears into the youthfulness of our
Own past.
Has anyone thought of him the way my reflection relinquished
Purpose?
~~~
Carl Scharwath has appeared globally with 150+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art photography. His photography was featured on the cover of 6 journals. Two poetry books ‘Journey To Become Forgotten’ (Kind of a Hurricane Press) and ‘Abandoned’ (ScarsTv). This is Carl’s second feature on The Short of It.
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I Write Her 
I was struck by the delicacy of the images. Wonderful writing Carl Scharwath!
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet.
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These are both so beautifully written. In the first poem these words blew me away:
“Speechless in a world
Of riotous birdsong
A sense of being caught
In a future temporal myth.”
So creative and sad this beautiful second poem and yet I could relate to it.
“Grass grows through the cracks of a decaying city.
The hardest path is living, the freedom is what draws
Life.”
Wonderfully expressive and touching are Carl Scharwath’s words. Thank you for sharing them with us. Love Joni
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Amazing poetry. Thank you for sharing, Susi!
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