Poetic License: ‘Forlorn Time’
Editor’s note: Raised on Sanibel, Brodie Burns started writing poetry in 2013 after the death of a friend and began performing publicly in 2015. He writes about anything and everything, but leans most toward introspective content. Burns spent the majority of last year traveling with the ONE School for Artists, creating, performing and developing his artistry in Spain, Norway and Baltimore, Maryland. He currently resides in the Sanibel area. “Forlorn Time” is Burns’ first published poem. He will perform at the Open Mic on Jan. 23 at 7:30 p.m. at the Strauss Theater, at 2200 Periwinkle Way, Sanibel.
There is a forlorn facet to the passage of time
transition, adjustment, revision, decline,
and a newborn attachment, not yet ankle deep
to the memories in makeup that make up my grief
wading through wreckage to get to the grass
where the flowers can grow and the children can laugh
how I trudge through my trials, trying not to get sad,
but compulsive behavior makes me no good at that
when I lift up my hands and I raise my voice,
I cry out the truth that it’s all been by choice
and the choices I’m making aren’t in line with sense,
there’s no reason for retreating, I’m just daft and dense
so I steward my shame and let it share my name,
neglecting my house and accepting all blame
I stare at the man in the mirror with a firm, square gaze
aware that he’s changing and lost in a daze
how it costs concentration, how it runs me such stress
how I bolster and buckle; oh my dwindling duress
when I confess that my trouble might be exaggerated
my turmoil all toothless, my fight fabricated
I’m relieved and I’m troubled, a confusing coherence
at mundane boogie men with transparent appearance
who warrant a bevy of questions to my ever active mind
how many of my problems did I desire to find?
How many manufactured? How few a facade?
Am I mental, am I normal? Is my brain all that odd?
I need to take a deep breath, and let the truth keep sinking,
I’ve gone to bed with a leech and its name is overthinking
but time trickles away, yes, it tick ticks away,
forgive my critical self, I’d rather never waste a day
on solipsistic cerebral strings, but rather with repartee
and clever chains of charming, darling carpe diem ways