More Daffodils

More Daffodils

I wish the words could explode off the page in
an effort to explain
the blast furnace of pain
that eats at my ease within each
wavelength of my being.

A friend once asked me, after reading
my poetry,
“But where”, he said, “are the flowers and the birds?”
(and that was before the onset of fire-blades to my brain.)

Hidden deep in the suburbs, my walks are a chore;
living next to the mountains, I still saw less than more,
and the daffodils lasted only until the
next nervous tic in my mindless rearview mirror.

What I’m trying to say, to make plain,
is that these words are the tip of what is submerged
in sad electrical impulses that have lassoed even the
most lofty refrains of cathedral hymns.

Sunshine does me good until I go inside,
beaches make me happy until the door is closed.
It seems I’m predisposed to a setpoint I have not chosen.

And yet, I’m chosen and loved (human and divine).
But it seldom changes the flow of muddy ink that
paints me into these corners. I am pursued, not the
pursuer. There is love nipping at my heels.

But I’m boxed in, cowering and chilled, inside
dreams and visions I do not choose. A best friend
retreating, the better hopes receding behind the
vacancy hollowed by blackness and pain.

I would offer more daffodils if they would buy a longer smile,
more poetry if it would paint it all so clearly that

No one would offer solutions, pray my absolution,
ignore me, abhor me, but would
stand up for me when I said,

“I wish there were more flowers and birds
on my page than there are in my mind.”