If you had a heart, of gold.
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two
If you had a heart of gold, could you afford anything more?
would you find that a price was worth paying…
No one knows the weight of compassion, of a heart of gold,
heavier than the strength it affords, pulling you down.
If you had a heart of gold, could it leave you asking for more?
would you find yourself lacking, words worth saying…
Some would feel they won a prize that would never be sold,
but to those of us who care, just a moment of….
Some people
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Daily thoughts
Some people ask themselves questions, some listen.
In a few of us, the conversation is often fluid and whimsical,
and in others we just find ourselves sitting in the wind.
My thoughts are tones of trivial nature,
wrapping themselves upon a canvas of presence.
Wounds of War, a declaration of being unfit.
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Survival
This was written for a friend, who shall remain nameless.
In a private conversation, I declared that I was unfit for duty.
I told my friend that I could no longer wear a badge of honor.
Somehow, I found that the shadow of bravery crept over my soul,
and fell upon the silent ears of those who were defined valiant, or criminal.
I was not a hero. I was not even someone who cast forth a reflection worth seeing.
The way I found myself, was a haunting memory of distant declarations,
Words that could never be understood by someone as simple as myself.
Yet the wound I felt, brutalized my soul more than any harm could.
I saw myself as having fallen, upon the fine, sharp sword of victory.
My chest was covered with fine treasures of respectful ignorance,
yet my hands and body were as unclean as I have ever felt.
I do not know how to cleanse life of such indiscriminate stains.
I return home, to a family who loves, friends who adore, and none of them understand.
I am not the person they love, no, I am the person they fear in distant nights.
The hand of god holding the life of innocence, of illicit personal ending.
My choice, to disbelieve, that my hands act with ignorant cruelty.
I sit with those I love and wonder, how many brethren no longer sit at a table I emptied?
That as I, a human soul, cared for disregard so deeply that I acted,
again and again, I acted. To take away that which was not mine.
I was the fool played as both pawn and king, to which I gave away control.
I am asking for redemption, begging for a sweet mercy I never gave,
trying to forget the moments of unsettled fear as I closed my eyes,
and forced myself to hear screams that will never go away.
Simply, I am not fit for duty.
To dream awake
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Dreams
When I closed my eyes, I began to dream. I was a child, holding myself in imagination and wonder. Not like the tattered old suit who passed me on the street, or the fine pair of shoes that cautiously crosses the street.
No I was like I was when I hid in the forest of blades once beneath my feet, laughing as I snuck from here to there. When I dream, I begin to see clearly. I view the world like a rainbow painting my world, beautiful, hopeful, unbroken.
I hear the words of the world bring themselves to a chorus of unity and silence, to which I must take action. To believe that I am different would be pointless and unfortunate, as I, simply am. When I live, my dreams become real. I hold them. Touch them. Taste them. I try again and again, for something. That something is not what I desire. It is the act of reaching that brings my spirit to a point of fascination. My place in the steps of living may only be counted once, and then I must defer to the very figment I adore. To wake, I must be dreaming, for I still see the world in so many colors.
The decision of compassion
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Friendship, Survival
The inescapable loss of compassion is impossible to dismiss. Sometimes you casually find a stranger at a loss beyond words. Sometimes those words are so evasive even you cannot hear them. Sometimes they come from someone you care about, and the futile nature of being human holds you in a moment where nothing feels more than the second you are in.
Great literature says it best shortly, with quotes like “He dies.” Yet I do not read those words today. I have chosen to experience the rapture for what “it is”, rather than what it could be described “to be.” Such simple, unfettered, and agnostic words become everything I could try to say “It is, to be.”
The words do not make anymore sense to the home of a heart consumed in dismay. Whether it is the child I speak of, while crying in my heart as they rain tears upon a face that should not know such sadness, or if it is the sound of someone lost in thoughts running rampant across a tide of unbalanced emotion- all I can brutally say, in an attempt to have my humanity restored, quietly, “it is, to be.”
Someone will understand these words like I do. They may fall upon a thousand eyes that are gazing away from the harm our humanity brings us, but the gentle souls, the kindred spirits finding themselves giving hearth to the homeless, will surely know, that our faith will one day change this words to “It is, to decide.”
The Handshake
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Daily thoughts, Friendship
I am, a humble gentleman.
Kindly tipping my unworn hat,
as if the frequent stranger
was my kindest friend.
For all that I was,
would I not be something more,
if only I was wise enough,
to open each and every door.
What more could I be?
The last time I say hello,
the first time I said good-bye,
to which my friendship has no degree.
Appareled and adorned,
without anything but to be polite,
and my hand is unborn again,
as if I grasp you for the first time.
The question of questions,
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Survival
Doubt, my dim companion.
Why does my soul seem ill-content,
with a fraction of life
the sacrificial grace of torment.
The whole of me, lasting, longing,
that I breathe so deeply,
and it inspires greed, for more,
the very thing I cannot be.
Cannot my spirit be worth,
trivial compassion,
or do I find my value, dripping,
in a vein surrender I never succumb.
Had I, tried as one might,
have the sight to believe,
just on more time, in me,
as I reach for what I need.
Insanity
Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Survival
Insanity
1. not sane; not of sound mind; mentally deranged.
2. of, pertaining to, or characteristic of a person who is mentally deranged: insane actions; an insane asylum.
3. utterly senseless: an insane plan.
Oddly enough, scratching on my mind,
I hear rodents and thoughts of curious crime.
No I will not answer the door, oh no,
for I ask not more as I tune into my favorite show.
Eyes locked upon dancing dots of black and white,
as I am shocked into moments that seem more right.
Dear doctor, I smile at my friend you cannot see,
oh why can’t I scream while I breathe?
Yet if I use words, should you understand,
I am not an aberrant person of this torturous time.
Divergent of thought, eccentric of mind,
I am simply insane, trying my best to rhyme.
Where the Spirit Wind travels
Posted by Barry Hurd in Spiritual
Once, when I was younger, I imagined myself flying above cold ocean.
Gale wind carried my soul like a flurry across the waves,
holding myself as if nothing was tangible.
I remember it as if my heart had pause, as if I could no longer live,
hoping and believing for something warm, some mythical destination,
to where I would find myself salvation and sanctuary.
Once was a long time ago.
Now I float above the city, dreaming of how far my world can travel,
yearning to be something that I cannot see, a lust to be worthwhile,
to have value beside how my life sounded so hollow, so fragile.
I cared not to believe anymore, the embracing love of childhood was gone,
as if I could no longer be something wanted, simply a thing of intrigue,
for the very eyes that look past me, even through me, with simple dismissal.
My attendance was never required.
Yet I venture through to the hills, passively watching such subtle caring,
as people meander from field to family, from friend to fortune,
and I realize that they breathe my life as if their own.
I try desperately to exhale them, to break myself of such mundane thoughts,
as my world is engulfed and devoured by such futile personalities,
when I find myself consumed, and no one even knew I was there.