NathanAnthonyBarstad

Category: Poetry

  • poem 34

    When the song of the morning starts, with all the birds a-singing, I wish I could awaken and join the morning sun that is bringing Light to shine upon all whose faces beam with life awakening, But it is all that I can do to make my eyes to begin their opening. With shades drawn…

  • poem 33

    Thirty-three years I have lived.Thirty-three years I have died.In sum-total, thirty-three have I. What of the past, which is past?What of the present, which only lasts?And of the future, all but forecasts? I have been born and I have died.In many endeavors, I have tried.In sum-total, these alone have I. The past is taunting, where…

  • 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…