A Poet’s perspective is a blog for me, an aspiring writer, to share my world and work with a wider audience. I intend to feature many aspects through this site. These will consist of blog posts, poetry and writing, photography, and media reviews. I hope my posts will remain engaging to you and provide a personal sense of how I see the world. I intend to add contact information soon in order to connect with readers. Thank you for viewing A Poet’s Perspective!
-Tanner
Trauma is a dreaded guest,
The one who never leaves.
Even when he is gone,
A trail of destruction remains.
Vomit veils the sink, don’t touch it.
Glass glitters among the eggshells,
Take care where you step.
Even with the door flung open
He may not have gone.
Once you’ve checked your feet for cuts
You hear the booming on the walls.
A fist pounds for every drop of drink,
A slap for every lonely day.
Feral growls track hours through the night
Keeping feral time.
There is only peace when he sleeps.
But that is never promised.
You can run, drive, fly away
But all roads lead back to him,
Always, he is there when you land.
With this revelation
Your lungs tighten with Anxiety,
The snake that coils around them.
Your heart sinks into quicksand.
Sliding down, down.
A grain for every lie
Every bottle
Every insult screamed.
Slowly they all fill your lungs
Like a tragic hourglass.
Fighting and clawing does no good.
The air is getting thinner.
Your final thought is to wish him dead,
Despite always being the better person,
It kills you to be at his level
Where he alone is the winner.
With a sharp cry you jump awake.
Clutching your chest,
Basted in sweat.
The horror slowly fades
As reality illuminates your room.
A note on your desk reminds you
“He’s been dead for five years.”
Most mornings begin this way.
Dawn only brings the next
Round in this twisted game.
A knock at the door
Sends jolts running down your spine.
The ring of a text message
Signals anxious, shallow breathing.
He is gone from this life.
But he left you trauma as a parting gift.
A family heirloom, it cannot be returned.
It will always be there
Burrowing in your bones,
Living in your very nerves.
Standing at the Basin
Looking out at the gushing fountain.
Summer winds blow droplets onto my face
A cool kiss from Poseidon
A reprieve from the heat.
I cling to the wall of the terrace
I am standing at the edge of the universe.
My planets are aligned.
All is in place.
This is where I am meant to be.
Though the Sun berates me
Grasps me with her burning hands
I remain at peace.
Vaporous sweat clings to me
To my every pore.
I wear it as a mantle
My summer shawl.
I could stand here at the Basin forever
The winds softly caressing me
Waiting on Poseidon to kiss me again
Hoping for a full embrace.
After the rush of rain passes
The mud-brown waters roil about
In confusion,
Tossing driftwood around
In effort to fight
Against its impotence.
A harsh northern wind
Gales through the park,
Trees waver in the wind.
Leaves whipping about.
But the tree endures,
Steadfast in its place.
On the shore,
Perching on a rock,
I face into the wind,
Feeling its force move around me,
Its chilled anger spoken for.
Even the clouds high above
In there palace in the sky
Rush quickly past.
Hoping to evade the wind’s ire.
But alone I remain
Facing up to the wind,
Absorbing its fury,
Observing its magnificence,
Wondering when its last words will come.
Coal-black clouds obscure the sun.
Rain plummets down
Drops like dimes scatter
All across the ground,
Keeping their own time.
The slow drip-drop
Quickens to a choral hissss…
Muting all other sound
To speak to me.
What are you trying to tell me?
Razor thin lightning flashes in succession.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Bolts striking chords in the Earth.
Following, thunder claps
Across the sky
Directing me to its voice.
The storm booms above:
Heed me, For I am greater than you.
I may strike you down at whim.
Or wash you away,
Flood your home
Do not forget me!
Lightning streaks across the sky,
Illuminating my view
And my mind as I realize
How abrupt is the force
And violent the wrath
Of a summer storm.
I wear many masks.
I’m sure you’ve seen them.
The one I don the most
I call The Good Son.
The Good Son is quiet.
He keeps to himself,
His burning truths
Remain stifled inside.
He does not let fly
His bottled venom,
Instead swallowing it all.
The Good Son is dutiful.
He wipes your vomit from the toilet bowl,
As an accomplice wipes down a crime scene.
He washes the sink,
Watching evidence swirl down the drain.
The Good Son is patient.
He bides his time until he is free.
He faces your drunken insults with stoicism.
Your slurred words only fall to the floor before him.
The Good Son does not engage.
His time is devoted to being scarce.
He remains cloistered away in his room
From your roaring curses
And thunderous door slamming.
Within his fragile dwelling he comes to realize…
The Good Son is breaking.
It only takes one message
Of ten words
To cut the cord.
It only takes one message
Of three sentences
For him to leave.
Ten syllables
For the idea of a future
To slip away.
One line
For you and him to end.
One night
When all the memories
Rise and swirl around
Your brain like
Dead leaves in the wind.
It only takes two words
To heal.
I’m done.
Our relationship is
A cautionary tale.
Buyer beware.
The role of alcoholic
Has greater appeal
(And thus a greater price)
Than the role of father.
Dormant
The day I leave you
I will spread my wings.
Until then I remain
Dormant, dreaming
Of that day.
Your Power
You have power
Over my emotions.
So much that
Gods would tremble.
I gave it to you,
The fool that I am.
Now it is gone,
I fear I’ll never
have it again.
Broken Heart
A broken heart
Makes bad choices.
Two splintered halves
Cannot function
As whole.
Would you expect
Broken wings to fly?
Living with you
Is a life caged.
My jailer
Your liquid courage
Thinly masquerading
Liquid rage.
Your judgement can never
Be truly clear
Looking through frosted bottles
Filled to the brim with my fear.
I’ve learned to count time,
Not by minutes, hours, or years
But through subtraction
Of your discarded beers.
Your whiskey is strong,
Burning away every plea
Lacing your tongue with words
To burn loved ones
Until they can only flee.
This addiction is a cruel mistress
Who takes as much as she gives.
So convinced you are
That you consume it.
In truth, it consumes you as you live.
She is your first love
Who reigns above all others.
A marriage pact in sin.
As long as you two
Are intertwined together
It is certain no one else can win.
Storm clouds roll in
Over my mind.
I’m not ready
For the rain.
Hanging above, they deliver
Me their tears
No one else can see.
I move through crowds,
The only one needing shelter.
Thunder claps deafen me to your words.
A cold, white sheet of rain
Wraps itself around me
And obscures everything from view.
Calls for help are eaten up
By every drop.
Resigning to the will
Of my private storm
I press my hand to its walls,
An act of finality…
Before the wall is pierced
By an umbrella opening.
A face hangs under it.
The face of the one
Who found me.
A Poet's Perspective 