witwordsandwhatever

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“I’m not everything I want to be, but I’m more than I was, and I’m still learning.”

— Charlotte Eriksson, Everything Changed When I Forgave Myself

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Ayer's Junction

Through frosty window I see empty road,

And can hear fading thunder of plow,

Barely audible over the wind blowing cold,

It’s a nor-eastah! She’s in full swing now!

But never where I am do I dwell,

Not in any winter storm,

Vivid story do my memories tell,

Of winter in the woods near where I was born.

Recollections of a day when I was young,

A Saturday in a glorious place,

Great favorite of mine it surely was,

Time spent anywhere else felt such a waste.

A hand hewn cabin in the woods,

Where I retreated most every weekend,

A little place where all seemed as it should,

And for not but yourself need you fend.

Tucked neat in a stand of old pines,

Where there’s never a strange foot print,

No traffic, no lights, no lines,

An oasis clear heaven sent.

A creak and clang as the stove closed,

And the sweet smell of freshly scorched birch,

Out the door onto the porch to pose,

And gaze up at Mount Tom from my perch.

That which this morning stood bold and clear,

Now hidden behind curtain of white,

As the storm rolls down there’s no fear,

For from here everything looks just right.

I can’t say it weren’t a bit eerie,

Standing there as the woods got so quiet,

But by Christ to hear the world so clearly,

You’ll not understand til you’ve tried it.

Oh how I miss that little cabin,

Tucked away amidst the old pines,

Where there was not but my footprints to stand in,

No traffic, no lights, and no lines.

I long through every storm to get back there,

Sadly, I just haven’t the time,

But I have plenty of memories to be fair,

And I get by with those just fine.

-Jason Featherson

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A Calm, For the Storm

A particular chill in the air this night,

Night sky without a star,

Yet somehow all is right.

Each breath frozen and the world in anticipation,

As the first flake falls in a dance of grace,

Its shape a one time sensation.

Again and again lovely crystals fall,

All the ground dusted white,

In no time at all.

Where once was a world filled with racket and din,

Now there is a wonderland,

Of silence to deafen.

Silence only broken by the creak of a tree,

For the weight of this beauty,

It strains slight beneath.

All that’s before you now draped in wintery veil,

From gravel to canopy,

White as the cottontail.

Such peace and beauty bathing all that’s in sight,

As over head clouds part,

And give way to new light.

The moon bursts forth in bright golden glow,

And sparkles and glitters,

All the world below.

Such quiet serenity you’ll likely not find,

Any other place,

Or any other time.

-Jason Featherson

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Perpetual Motion

Once warmed by the fire, I only crave the cold.

And when snow settles in my bones, I want the summer bold.

Always wanting different, but never quite content.

But who gazes on my facade, doesn’t see the true extent.

In the marrow of my bones is a reckless, restless beat.

Perpetually pondering what lies down the street.

But when I finally walk there, yet again bored grow my feet.

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“I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.”

-D.H. Lawrence

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Polish Artist Pawel Kuczynski Creates Uncomfortably Accurate Metaphors About The Ills Of Our Society.

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Existential Mumblings

I sometimes find myself hard to believe,

And away with the wind my imagination leaves.

How did I come to exist in this time and place,

Absent of great purpose, forever behind the pace.

Being this me that’s been conceived,

Full of questions and fear, apprehension never relieved.

Some days I dream of the universe from end to end,

Find myself considering unknown places where I may better blend.

I consider times past and future,

Where given the choice I would gladly venture.

What force was it that placed me here?

How was it decided what branch of the timeline I would hold dear?

Was it accident or design?

Was it hopeful or malign?

Maybe it was fate, you say,

That brought me here, and all this way.

If it was fate, brought me here to this time,

Whose fate exactly? Theirs, yours, or mine?

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“Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word.”

— George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

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Mad Reflection

What inspiration does this moniker bring you?

Does it roll off your tongue as if you speak to an equal?

When I speak with myself, I hear wisdom, wit and wile,

Shaken with equal nonsense and fancy.

When I look upon the mirror,

I find there, a smile,

Clearly bolted on a face of confusion.

Still deeper I look until I find,

A blurred reflection in the familiar eyes gazing back.

Smiling widely.

Not smile of wise man,

Not smile of clever man,

That of a fucking madman.

-Jason Featherson

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End Of Worry

A slab of cold stone on a lonely plot,

A feeble attempt at “Forget-Me-Not”.

A neglected tablet of ignored scrawl,

All that’ll remain long after we fall.

Our good deeds, our sins, our triumphs alike,

From all memory soon will mortality wipe.

Today it seems wrong, so bleak and unfair,

But once we are gone, we won’t even care.

Why worry today what tomorrow may bring,

If the end could come now and erase everything?

Surely a good point, can’t argue with that.

But the train’s left the station and won’t turn back.

For some there’s no choice but to worry and fret,

The cards have been dealt and we get what we get.

Stop saying smile, stop saying don’t worry,

We can’t stop and won’t stop, not til we’re buried.

Jason Featherson

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Remnants

A throbbing head,

Absent of pain.

Either near dead,

Or going insane.

A swollen heart,

Fit to burst of fear.

Tearing apart,

All that’s held dear.

A mirror reflects shadow of what was,

Eyes avoiding gaze.

Giving no pause,

Fixed ahead on the day.

Palms damp,

Blood cold.

A flickering lamp,

Of weakened soul.

Worn and tired,

Nearing edge of defeat.

Constantly myred,

Every waking moment a feat.

Jason Featherson

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