Comfort: a double-bladed sword
Fire: a satisfying alternative
If not for heat, and rain, and freeze,
Acorns wouldn’t turn to trees.
If not for leaving my comfort zone,
I’d not look up to find I’d grown.
Comfort may conceal stagnation,
Recoiling at every unpleasant sensation.
Forgive me if my words are jaded:
The sword of comfort is double-bladed.
Say run the bath and light the fire,
A cup of tea to quell the ire.
Tell stories from my childhood,
Furry friends who dwell the wildwood.
Talk of mother’s homemade pies,
Of rain or sunny summer skies.
Don’t let’s forget to speak of pets,
Who comfort you and I,
Yet I…
I choose for myself a way untraveled,
Trade velvet carpets for paths of gravel.
And though uncertain the road may be,
I choose the uncomfortable road for me.
The challenge that would make me braver,
Conquering that which made me waver.
Fearful, lofty are my goals,
As crushing waves on jagged shoals.
The flame that lifts the lantern higher--
Such shall be my inner fire.
When facing lions, tigers, bears,
My voice shall out-roar all of theirs.
Not to seek out fame or fortune!
Grace and love shall be my portion.
A better version of myself
Cannot be bought with comfort’s “wealth.”
If I should grow, if I should fight,
If I survived grief’s lonely night--
Then let my hopes not shrink to safety,
Life without an “if” or “maybe.”
If comfort ever should become,
The satiating daily thrum --
The candle lit beside the tub,
The teddy when I was a cub,
Suppertime and bedtime snuggles,
Days devoid of pains and struggles --
If comfort be what settles me,
Would visions, dreams, then cease to be?
Would I forget to live for more
Than picket fence and painted door?
Would comfort then beget this fear,
As my final hour ticks ever near,
To live without a chance or risk,
While dreams become an asterisk?
Why in comfort should I wait
For a stone with a line between two dates--
Wait in shelter and inward spoil
All to end beneath the soil?
No!
Let it count, each day each breath.
I shall be comforted in death,
Recalling a life unsheltered, free!
The uncomfortable path is the way for me.
About the Creator
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Sand Castles and Siren Songs
This little heartfelt piece of poetry was inspired by Poppy's Prompts for February, which is linked at the end so you can join. Poppy gave several words to choose from, with the option of using one or all. Right away, "siren" and "sand castle" called out to me, and this poem was born.
By Holly Pheni3 months ago in Poets
A Flower Song
Apparently the Aztecs, Toltecs, Chichimecs and other Mexica were crazy about poetry. Despite the book-burning, slaughter, and epidemics that characterized the early stages of the Spanish conquest of the empires of Mexico, some hundreds of poems from the height of their tradition come down to us in Classical Nahuatl, preserved by Nahua and Spanish scholars of the 16th century. One of the most famous poets, Nezahualcoyotl, was a sage-king who opposed the cult of human sacrifice associated with Tezcatlipoca, God of the Smoking Mirror, and favored Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. Flowers and feathers were the favorite offering of the Plumed Serpent. Moreover, flowers and feathers are a metaphor for poetry. Individual words, scattered petals, the down of tropical birds. The temples of blood sacrifice could be transformed into temples of flower and song. A sublimated offering to the Heart of Earth and the Heart of Sky encapsulated in the Classical Nahuatl kenning for poetry: in xōchitl in cuīcatl, meaning, "the flower and the song." The following poem is part of a longer work, and is in a state of flux, so take the waters as they flow:
By Rob Angeli2 days ago in Poets
Comments (5)
'If comfort be what settles me, Would visions, dreams, then cease to be?' This whole piece was amazing with so many wonderful lines that really made me stop and think, but I loved this line the most. Great work!
"I shant reveal that secret kept; nor blood, nor tear for tear: regret; I shall no rent from this my breast; no more than called, than stole, nor less." The exacting nature of this verse makes me wonder if you have matriculated with some order of witchery. Hail Satan.
Such a great entry into this challenge, good job!
The road less traveled? Nice.
This one struck to the core, and the iron was hot — keep hammering, well done.