“I am not writing the poem; I am just holding the pen.”

As troubles bring you down and darkness follows,
Perpetual blindness where once you thought you saw,
Know that you are not alone.

There is a voice speaking and it calls your name
in the middle of the night,
if you dream and wake gently,
sit long enough to remember,
It sighs
and whispers,
flowing like a river
and calls, waiting
for the small of your back to make contact,
float silent,
water not too cool, too warm,
tepid, somewhere in the middle,
so you lay your head down,
let it carry you
and just when you think
time has grown wrinkled and tired,
no longer in your favor,
a hand passes over your face,
and that voice sings lullaby,
Spirit rocks to sleep

Olive tree drops branch you never noticed.

To step without looking

To know you will not fall.

“You are not finished,” voice says.

There are words in your bones.
There are thoughts in your head that are not your own –
They are the kind ones you never listen to –
They are the true ones you never speak –
Your time is borrowed
Your blood is the river.
Float on, float on

God is writing –
pick up the pen.

EJZ 02.18.2016

I am a love addict.

and that may sound romantic
but it’s a torturous hell
and my heart and my life
are an endless, bottomless cavern
that cannot be filled.
Never enough to be quenched, my thirst.

You know, you can’t hold water in your hands
but you try and you try
to form yourself in such a way
to become a vial, yourself
and you’re vile, yourself
but you can’t tell
because all your mirrors are broken
and you can’t see yourself
in the water you’re still trying to contain in your hands –
the ones that couldn’t grasp to begin with
because you think it’s your life force,
all that’s left on Earth
and you forget the fountain you strayed from
before you set out on your quest for that unattainable goal
which had you scrambling through mazes and missions and conquests, untenable
and you dropped your key from your back pocket
and it drowned in the water
which slipped through your hands
as you desperately tried to contain it
and friction won’t help
and frantic slits throats
and stupefies –
Losing your head
in the water,
slipping through hands
like time on the shore
and nobody told you
the power was not in the key,
in the water,
it was in you
but you had to let go to find out
and then you find out
there never was water,
just hope
and your hands couldn’t grasp what they never felt
so you’re left empty, forlorn

but there is a fountain

still water,
the key, floating
and yours
if you choose to look in
and grasp
and say –

I am a love addict
and that may sound romantic
but it’s a torturous hell.

EJZ 09.17.2015

Philosophical Interjection

“All art, as the letting happen of the truth of what is, is, as such, essentially poetry.”
~Martin Heidegger

To me, the concept of God, of a Higher Power, has never been something outside of myself; it has always been a source of inner strength, wisdom, guidance that knows what is best for me. The struggle has been learning how to listen.

I ask myself, “Yes, but did that inner guidance create the world around you? The mountains, the ocean, the vastness of space? The people and connections between them? Are you protecting life after death?”

My thoughts turn to that inner strength – and I believe we all have one – and maybe that is what threads us together; maybe our inner voices are really all one voice manifested in various forms; maybe that is what created this Earth (I did once say,  “creative principle is my Higher Power”).

This may be a truth I will never uncover in this life. For now, for practical purposes, what matters to me is that I enjoy having a Higher Power in myself;  I enjoy the strength I derive from it, the motivation, the will to wake up and live another day, the sense of love, calm, even exaltation it brings me, the knowing that I can count on things turning out right, and the idea that this world, in fact,  is here, is mine, to respect.

Isn’t that what believing in God is all about?

EJZ 05.21.2015