NathanAnthonyBarstad

Category: Poetry

  • poem 32

    When I can’t think of anything to write.  Mindless.  Thoughtless.  Wordless.  Empty.  Blank.  Slate.  The muse within me.  Is dead. Deceased.  And unmoving.  I cannot write.  A word. Nor scribe.  Even a letter.  Upon the script of time.  For of nothing comes.   Nothing.  And I am nothing.  As is the muse.  Within. Me

  • poem 31

    Throw away, cast off all caution– Not to the wind but to light waves, Whereon rides the overriding Almighty one of all the days: The sun high in its course upon The star-ridden path of heaven. For as the sun without a care Bares its brilliance ‘cross dark skies, Myriad, numberless to count, So might…

  • poem 30

    Do not write much of your languishing soul That lies deep within the virulent throes Of anguished weeping and bitter sorrows, For the Age comes when all will be made whole And what was once only found to be nights Has been made anew in recreation By holy hands with a touch that ignites Regeneration…

  • poem 29

    I have nothing to say And I cannot write Anything at all on This blank page this Screen page is clear And vacant as the thoughts In my head and the  Cloudless sky overhead I have written what I have written nothing Of any consequence  Save to recall the fact That my mind is mindless…

  • poem 28

    A group of writers sat about in the dead of winter’s snow, Around a fire burning embers only, giving off smoke and glow.  There was one, who sat so silent still, observing his fellow Writers, who exclaimed how tedious and how torturously slow Came the muse of poetic inspiration  to demonstrate and show Them the…

  • poem 27

    Stanza I When I was young, I was not yet full grown; And still, though middle-aged, I am not yet Full grown, but am just a middle-aged man, Whose lust and luster for life has remained Unchanged in a wandering wondering of Aimless bits and pieces of tidbits and  Bit parts, leading nowhere in particu-…

  • poem 26

    Lest a poem suck The life out of one’s soul, Leaving that reader wanting Their soul to be returned, Along with the time they have Wasted in the desert wasteland Of the poverty of words and insights, Written or read for the consumption Of stupidity or ignorance or both, A poem must be poetry, And…

  • poem 25

    This is the way the world ends, This is the way the world ends, Not with a whimper, But with a bang. For as the first was a bang, So shall the last be a bang: And so shall end the beginning, And so shall begin the ending, And cast all light into darkness, And…

  • poem 24

    TIME Stand still, if you will—and wait For the movement of the hands Across the face of the clock, Marking out each moment, Moment by moment in an instant Where there is nothing else but The vast emptiness of echoes, Resounding across the halls Of history and mystery, while all I can do is Be.…

  • poem 23

    And spreading forth wide its pure color white Permeating the reaches of my mind Like a cast net spread well over my thoughts Dragging them through the subconscious ocean Of personality adrift from shore The blank page before me utters no word Sounding an echo of silence within My mind the waters tossed this way…