Podcast #2: January 13th, 2021

In time, poetry was given titles. This again I have no memory of writing, but I suspect I know which poet I was wishing would hear my work and point light in my direction…

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The Poet, Sits

At feet, I wait
one moment’s chance;
possibility,
hands on belief.
Maybe, I could
attain these heights:
small brilliance that
he holds, to see.

Look up, with hope
for confidence
within a heart
too scared to beat.
Might pass me
wisdom’s gift, distilled
chipped from a soul
of artistry.

Then comes a spark,
awareness blooms,
from too long spent
in darkened rooms.
No need for this
to validate, a life
that’s mine to own,
path I walk alone.

The poet sits
no longer awed,
as mentor moves
no need to grasp.
Perhaps it’s time;
stand tall, ignore
the need to feel
beholden, tied.

Validation, of course, is a dangerous game and as time has gone on I’ve learnt to worry less about looking for other people’s acceptance and focussed more on the stories I want to tell in my own way. This poem was a response to a moment on Twitter that made me realize my world view will not always align with other people’s, and that’s perfectly fine.

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Reboot Hill

Self-appointed sheriffs
copy-paste to clipboard
stand by to snitch that moment
hapless noob deletes...

self-regulated warriors
of hot misinformation
recoil in desperate horror
as expert witness, Tweets:

self-indulgent white men
put on their capes, continue
attacking random women
who never take a joke;

self-nominated purists
would never ask for reboot
crowdfunding an antidote
where nobody is woke...

Reboot Hill is groaning
full to overflowing
shitposts full of corpses
NFTs of strife:

as the World is burning
nobody is learning;
Metaverse is pointless

stop selling them your life.

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