there is beauty in all things
for it exists within our words.
one mustn’t hazard any
further contemplation.
the time to speak is now.
resonate sonorously
with prosody profound.
each soul must
sing its song.
imbue your voice
upon the world
’til your heart
rings the truth of love.
with harmonic resolve.
A beautifully heartfelt sentiment from my dear friend, Christine Ray.
We have only recently met
But there is a sense of inexplicable
Connection
An easiness of souls
Like greeting an old, dear friend
Whom I share a deep
History with
As if we had shared
A babysitter as toddlers
And peanut butter sandwiches and Fritos
In the lunchroom in grammar school
And protected each other
From others’ hurtful words
Fought off each other’s bullies
On the playground
Provided band-aids for
Each other’s first broken hearts
What is it about you
That feels so comfortable
So much like home?
There is a piece of you
That feels like it could be
A piece of me
Kindred spirits, twin souls
I am struck by the fact
That your bright shining soul
Is easy to embrace and love
Unconditionally, even from afar
If I can feel that tenderness
For your heart
For your soul
That feels at times as familiar as my own
View original post 12 more words
Some poems seem to reflect the very essence of our being on an intimate level. This is the poem that I most relate to. The poet, Ray Smith, also happens to be the grandfather of my primary source of inspiration in my personal life. My wife, Mira Meunier. Ray was a poet who enlisted in WWII to serve as a combat medic. He fought in several of the most noted battles, one of which was the battle of the bulge. It’s interesting to see the marked change that took place in his poetry from the period before his deployment to the period after which he had experienced the horrors of warfare. This transformation can be observed in the poems published by Poetry Magazine during those years found here https://www.poetryfoundation.org/search?q=ray+smith&refinement=poetry_magazine&page=2 for anyone who might be interested in reading them. He would become a decorated soldier, having risked his life on numerous occasions to save his comrades. Speaking of comrades, in a vulgar display of cruel irony, he was blacklisted for being a communist after having served his country. He spent the remainder of his years serving as the library director at several universities and served twice as poet laureate for the state of Minnesota.
with time erodes the roads of hope
as seconds pass without distinction
wedged between the hourglass
in retrospect, a stranger’s fiction
e’er beholden to the past
shackled by fear’s ersatz depictions
diligently deconstructed
prone to dubious perceptions
doled out in fervid procession
sold out to our indiscretion
futures nigh belie the burdens
of reflective introspection
corporate chains restrain our choices
subjugated minds and voices
commandeering our convictions
volunteering our volition
fostering the hour’s dissension
lost inside our own dimensions
drifting states of lone diremptions
kissed by fate’s unknown afflictions
wistful days of rumination
stripped of our only salvation
dripping death with indignation
listless breaths of consternation
consciously resigned enslavement
viciously maligned by deviants
clamoring to hide misconduct
how can i but not give a fuck
A recent poem of mine from Sudden Denouement that I forgot to reblog here.
how do i go on
now that this bitter husk
no longer bears your burden
now that shattered skies
no longer paint your visage white
left with naught
but false impressions
framed upon your pillow
and all the stars have fallen
from the absence of your eyes
Max Meunier (Max Meunier Poetry)
[Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations. I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe.]
Thank you for continually inspiring me to express the truth of my experience. Your words are the force that facilitates freedom. Be it through your beautiful and profound prose and poetry or your kind words of support and encouragement. The fact that I am able to express myself because of these things is monumental in its significance to me on a personal level. Life has been particularly trying as of late, and your presence has helped me in more ways than I am able to express. I feel honored to be a humble member of this community of tortured souls transmuting personal experience into poetic expression. I appreciate everything you do for myself, and for one another.
sincerely,
max
the struggle
to release my fears
from shackled shrills
of obscene silence
pulling further
down with every second
thought since spent
vile undertows
that know me well
spell out this hell
in heavy throes
below
where phantom prose
commiserates lament
each word
wafts ever wayward
in dissociative dimensions
obscured by the illusion
borne of urgency
forgone
enthralled by conscious calls
of a conspicuous collusion
that subdivide the lies
my conscience cries
to stay afloat
that i require
the fundamental sating
trapped in spurned epistles
e’er belies
what blissfully denies
my ignorance
which writhes on
muted shores
secluded
hopelessly exiled
as i succumb
to numbness
of my solitude’s descent
depression sets in
cyclical perpetuity prying
clawing at the prefrontal cortex
altruistic assertions abundantly articulated
aimlessly amid atmospheres of apathetic arrogance
the pittance of positive people
professing palpable parable
is repeatedly passed over
spurned, and disparaged
for the perverted purpose of pandering
to the plight of pathetically puerile opponents
to placate their pathological penchant
for proliferated pandemonium
the spirit of selflessness
and subsequent sanctuary is subjugated
by solipsistic sentiments
that seem to spread
like pestilence plaguing the soporific populace
seeking to appease
the silent sect of surrogate shamers
tiptoeing through the treacherous tumult
presaging tales of omnipresent fear
with foreboding and pale trepidation
all too typically trivialized
by tiresome talk of intolerant tripe
tailored to tantalize stolid thinkers
in triumphant tantrums of truant intellect
inflecting in facetious affectation
fostering false intent so toilsome
tempting my intrinsic inclination
to defect and deactivate
with the hope of abating this state of inundated hatred
bred into my head by the hordes
of men faceless whose faith
one can only surmise to be heedless
so, needless to say my dismay
is with relevant reason
enough to release this lost soul
into sempiternal egress
why must our presence
present as pendulous peril
perpetually passing
between plausible purpose
and predisposed plight
prolonging pandemonium
to placate pedestrian pedantry
perpetrated by apathetic progenitors
to please their pathetically primitive
predilection for perpetuant personal prospect
through perfunctory procreation
parsimoniously placing province
and perdurable pain
on the passively plucked
personifications
of their phantom permanence?
[image credit: Vittorio Zecchin]
Max, or Not 
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