Oscar Wilde once said “All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.” That brings a smile to my face. I like that.
I rarely write poetry. I’ve heard it said that prose writers make terrible poets. My attempts at poetry, which are a prose + poetry hybrid I calI prosetry, are no exception. When I write things I am often attempting to process them. Recently I was thinking about spiritual discipline. How do I remain aware of God and focus on things that have eternal value? Why does it feel so draining at times? I can force myself to do things, but I want more than that; I want to act out of a genuine motivation. Anyway, here is what I wrote:Resolve seeks a holiday Denied by the will The mind embraces That which the heart cannot Victory is elusive Waves upon sand Here and gone Wait for the tide Fear not the pain Rather its absence To be numb Is to surrender Fatigue slips in Excuse to fail Resentment follows I’m only human With each new dawn Hope awakens Is she cruel? Heartless? Or maybe she understands grace?