Book: Towards Understanding
Author: Dave & Lillian Brummet
This book has been organized in Chronological order according to the year in which the work was written, beginning in 1987 – when I was 17. I began writing poetry about the age of 16, but that work does not appear in this book as it was too blue and angry for the public – in fact I completely deleted those files some time ago.
Poetry was one of the tools that I used to crawl out of hell. Never intending it to be read by others, it was my way of dealing with things. You will see me battle past demons, raise my voice in anger, discover self-awareness and recover from an intense relationship. You will witness the healing as I become aware of the value of my life. Finally, I begin to see beyond myself and start to question society and endeavor to understand others. I also discover a love for, and a dedication to, the health of the Earth.
I hope that you will enjoy the journey as much as I have had fun in experimenting with different writing styles and using different rhythms wit words.
The girl in white lace and shiny gray stockings,
Attacks every man with her nightmarish taunting.
Her beauty is rare, her movements are sure.
Her casual flirting leaves minds in a blur.
Women both hate her and dote on her too.
They wish they could be that woman anew.
But they're only themselves - though jealous they be;
Thinking from women like that, no man would flee.
But she's covered in make-up and shading and light.
And she'll take many photos until she gets it just right.
These women wish with all of their foolish might,
That they forget who their man's with tonight.
As they wrack themselves over this orchestrated myth,
They enlarge the distance from the one they're with.
FEBRUARY'S SILENT EMBRACE
The waves softly touching desert-like sands...
The sea gulls making known their demands...
The wind whispering through budded leaves...
The water rises as the snow grieves...
Familiar birds fly back home,
To ready their nests for the unborn.
Colors change from gray to green...
As the rain washes earth's face clean.
The stars shine brighter than before...
As the do the eyes of those who adore,
The glorious feelings from this wonderful place;
Brought by the tides of February's silent embrace.
GAME OF LOVE
Tears and heartache, and pain, and all;
Are just part of this treacherous game.
Insecurities, jealousy, and control;
Are just weapons with a name.
This game is a serious one,
Where wonderful dreams of sweet romance,
Give power to schemes of deceit.
By now you should know the name,
Of this exciting, yet dangerous game;
Whose joy-filled moments of sweet romance,
Entice us to gamble, again and again.
Yet no matter which move a player makes;
Though the pieces may still separate;
The board is in continuos play.
OF YESTERDAY, I DREAM
Of yesterday, I dream.
The happiness then, it seemed,
Would never really end.
Yet, now, to live...I must pretend.
Helplessly, I slowly die.
In pain, I stumble, I fall...
My mind is slipping away...
My movements jerk and sway.
My children and husband have gone...
Leaving me to suffer alone.
Afraid, I hover in my dreams,
For I've only my walker, on which to lean.
There's so much I would change...
...Times I'd rearrange...
All my possessions I'd gladly give,
If one more yesterday, I could live.
I would a cure to come…
To save my defenseless corpse;
As this disease eats my muscles and bones...
I muffle my furious groans.
...In humiliation, I weep,
How fast this disease did creep!
And in night, I find my only haven...
My one comfort comes from sleep.
...I would to dream forever...
Where I have yesterday once more;
And never again would I have to take,
The disappointment, each morning I wake.
ODE TO VICKY WARD: A good friend & a victim of multiple sclerosis.
I grieve for this world, as it fights its wars;
Where humans, all slam their doors;
Here, people starve, knowing only pain...
While others, rich, stake out their claims.
Sad to see...such emptiness I feel.
This world can't last forever;
Life's just a one-time deal.
Man - thinking ourselves unbeatable,
Tried to conquer with knowledge we lacked.
Now, so far destroyed, earth takes her final stance,
While we pray for just one second chance.
We watch, knowing what our children will see.
Helpless, we can't undo this awful disease.
So watch, my people, my educated men...
Just watch your ancestor's victory descend,
While you sit at your desks & thunder your speeches...
Cry, for your child's child will live to die,
Because of educated men...educated to lie.
Is there a purpose for us all?
Do we learn each time we stumble and fall?
And as we bleed, do we feel appreciation?
Bleeding, we suffer our own creation...
Shallow little hearts beat out sophisticated lives;
Lungs wheezing air in our polluted hives.
Bitter bile churns and chars our core,
As we worry and bite, how to take more.
Purpose in chaos - or a religious dream?
Disorganized intentions push us upstream.
And perilous waters carry our tiny hives,
Through the whirlpools of our pressured lives.
THE WORKING POOR
We'll dig ourselves some grit,
And with our cardboard spoons,
And with our stiffened hands,
We'll work to find a spec of gold.
Never forgetting what's bought and sold,
Ever neglecting those we've worked to hold,
Forcing us on, the longing taking us there.
It's always lurking and beyond our control.
The pan grows rusty and holes appear,
Where the stones wore their way clear,
A pan, once new - once brought dreams,
Today - brings little more than despair.
Wondering where the paths we seek,
Could have hidden from our blistered feet.
The labyrinth shines well beyond our doors…
We are called the lost and the working poor.
Self-criticism denies me experiences while shame holds me in my past.
Doubt in social circles leads me to my own grounds where thoughts are cast.
Shadowed by a hint of sorrow my glee over my acquirements dwindles.
A sense of an invasive realism blossoms, firmly melting fiction away.
And as I stand in a puddle of wholesome ideals once preached,
I insanely stamp in it, sending it splattering to the heated ground,
So that it sizzles away with my anger.
And rising, the steam reaches for the stars...
And as it rises I dare it to return in showers of answers and brilliant justice...
Which will cool my fury over the beguiling innocence of youth.
Locomotion keeps me moving through the confusing compulsive waves of life.
And, lost in this rush, I consume & exhaust myself for the unknown.
Feeling awfully tired I pause & look in at my routines in disgust.
And a desperate yearning to escape beyond the maze & into self-sufficiency arises.