Some people
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Daily thoughts, Spiritual
Some people, are amazing.
Simple flames in the darkness.
Calm voices in a chaotic world,
the serenity of silence within a storm.
Some people, perfect life.
Breathing in the beauty of today,
of escaping yesterday
and dreaming of tomorrow.
Some people, never believe.
In nature, how wild life is,
or the way we all evolve,
changing ourselves with the season.
Some people, amazing, perfect, believing,
know how to live, how to strive
to become more, than today,
and never stop finding themselves again.
Dreaming of Travel
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Daily thoughts
I was walking last night on a path that someone else had laid.
It was curved, with slight changes and subtle flaws.
The pebbles underneath my life described my thoughts,
as they scratched against a thousand stones seemingly identical.
The motion of my body was slow and steady,
completely obscuring the cascading flurry of my dreams.
I thought of hope and of desire,
of finding myself at the destination of this circular route.
I wandered through each step with purpose,
not knowing if I would find myself traveling alone.
The words in my head detailed the things I witnessed,
the very fiber of life that creates something whole.
Each phrase, each pebble,
every word, every grain,
built upon like-minded destiny,
becoming a route to an amazing place.
My spirit bore no resemblance to serenity,
it was a place of deafening silence, of blazing resurrection.
A life finding itself in a place it was never meant to see,
taken from beneath a thousand other souls,
Believing itself to be common, like everything around it,
until simply it traveled on a journey of unspoken conversation.
The way people live
Posted by Barry Hurd in Author's Favorites, Creative Writing, Daily thoughts, Dreams, Friendship, Honor, Survival
I don’t get too much time these days to stop and smell the roses, sometimes however sweet they are. Rather I ask myself if I remember what roses smell like. Ironically, I find myself lacking that memory. People often fail to realize if they will miss the moments of life they love, and yet I look at things and find myself terrified of losing even my past, the warm scent of life that made me smile.
What does that mean? it means I actually miss the people I care about. I miss them a lot. Unlike many people who take moments of living for granted, I take every second as if it were a treasure… the kind you would covet as a child and hide away from all danger, both real and imaginary.
This is not something that passes, for me at least, part of who I am is locked in a moment of perfect clarity. In a fear of forgetting every perfect moment, I sometimes find them haunting. Yet I feel that strange desire of actually having something worth holding, something worth sacrifice and triumph. Something worth the very tears that remind me how my heart feels.
I find myself struggling on a daily basis to reach the goal of being triumphant… of feeling it… and when I try to succeed I am aware that my efforts were too late… that I failed. Realizing I have failed someone I cared about is brutal reminder that my duty is not something that I can ignore or that I can set aside. I am better than that.
Some people refer to me as a healer, a person of serendipitous nature and exact purpose. I am a catalyst of sorts, the person people interact with to produce a reaction of unusual results.
This leads me to a question that has been asked of me before, “what is my purpose in life?”
I seem to be a conduit. Something that is not a destination, but a place of action where one does not stop. My nature provokes people into moving from A to B, and there are no stops where I am. That has always been my life, a place where people never have time to smell the roses.
I feel like I am a rose. The kind of blossom that stands by itself against the horizon, waiting for the sun to rise and be embraced by a moment of warmth, only to acknowledge that the moon and stars will soon replace the vibrancy of life that keeps me warm.
Perfect little stars. The gemini in me realizes that duality better than most. Perfect and brilliant speckles of hope that keep me hoping that the sunrise will soon make me warm again, that the beautiful night sky is a place that feels too alone.
I promised my daughter a long time ago that I would never give up on people I care about. I do not let my dreams die so easily. That is a far more difficult realization than I care to admit. Failure is not an option. Allowing my dreams, my promises, and my hopes to fade away is simply something I will not let happen.
So I keep moving. I try to explain some things, and I leave some things without any explanation as I push myself harder and faster. The brutality of caring for people often leaves me left uncared for, but that is my life. I know what will or will not kill me. I am a survivor… a catalyst that serves a purposes for the things around me.
I will always care. Honestly and wholeheartedly. Even when I the world fails to give me time to say it, I will always remember and honor how I feel.
The 4th of July
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Featured, Honor
Bright lights in July,
reminding me of distant battles
lost before my memory started.
Peaceful silence of willful defiance
broken by the thundering roar
of personal independence.
No war to recall,
no battlefields scattered with loss,
only social revelation to announce.
Thoughts kept warm with hope,
and dreams exploding nearby the stars,
as loved ones still seem so far.
Deep chastity, perfected innocence.
Childlike memories of desperate times,
fought with lives that were not our own.
The Old Crow
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Dedicated Poems, Featured
Sitting above the backroom,
the gray sulfur of indiscretion
billowing beneath my perch.
Voices of sinful conversation,
reaching my ears,
playing amongst my thoughts.
Old crow, black and lost,
Watching through the rain,
wondering if anyone cared.
Peaceful and stubborn,
a life that didn’t have reason,
or even worthwhile consideration.
Old crow, discarded and soiled,
upon the wire that holds no weight
dark water raining from the stars.