Secrets – New Poetry by Lyle Bateman

Secrets
by Lyle Bateman 2008

 

secrets
burn deep
with white hot guilt
and volcanic anger
charring craters
in our soul

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood …

The Road Not Taken, written by Robert Frost in 1915, has always been one of my favorite pieces of poetry. I think I first read it in the 11th grade, around age 15 or 16, and ever since the words have resonated through me. I’ve always seen it as a wonderfully elegant analogy for memory and time, and for the passage of our lives, and I’m fairly certain thats the main point Frost was trying to make. The use of the image of a path through the woods is wonderfully evocative of the way we wander through life, and the choice of one path over another is a simple, elegant way to visualize the decisions we all have to make on our trip from birth to death. I’ve always tried to take the final stanza to heart, and when “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by.”

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Other Lives … New poetry by Lyle Bateman

This is my latest poetic attempt. It started with the line “Flipping through the pages of life” and it evolved from there. I hope everyone likes it … as usual, comments are always welcome.

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Worms … new poetry by Lyle Bateman

This is fresh out of the goo … for some reason I had Pink Floyd and Nirvana in my head at the same time, and the following is what happened when I turned on the blender …

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Keys … new poetry by Lyle Bateman

Lost keys

Keys

Like a lost set of keys
I found God
after I’d stopped even looking

Walking through the garden
I kicked a stone
and He scurried out of the light

Tar Stains … new poetry by Lyle Bateman

At the News Stand

 

Newspapers and periodicals, standing side by side
pretty colours to distract
little propaganda sticks 25 to the pack
beg for hard earned pay

 

We inhale the cognitive smoke
with promises of taste and satisfaction
but are left with empty cravings
and tar stains on the soul

Reservoir of Years … a new poem by Lyle Bateman

Its been awhile since I’ve written any new poetry. Its not a process I can force in any way, but once the process starts, its typically not one I can bottle back up again. When the images and words start to come to me, I have to let it flow out, but I’ve found over the years that trying to “push-start” the process isn’t very successful. As such, the poetry comes when it comes and when it doesn’t, well, it doesn’t. This weekend it did, for whatever its worth.

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