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Photo by Shalone Cason on Unsplash

Impatience is the greatest
sin, I’ve heard —
or the only. Either way,
I’m guilty. How
long does it take
for one’s voice
to mature? For
life force to find
steady current, wisdom
to become solid
enough to build
a life upon it?
My ideas are all pallor,
no design or momentum.
I think of my friends
from college, brilliant
minds, seeds of
genius. But aren’t we all.
Easy to say
before the alcohol.
I’m still building back
neural pathways,
the inner connections —
rivers, streams,
tributaries of association,
flood of Spirit
irrigated throughout
the body, so the energy
in time can resume
the natural course rain
makes downstream.
How long it takes
just to awaken
to the knowing mind,
the heart’s ache and strength
and desire — and brought
into the narrow channel
of restraint, so it may
build pressure, the dam
of life waiting
for the chance to move
in the sure direction
of its true beloved.
That kind of patience
takes decades, I’m sure.
And I’ve been practicing.
Celibate for over
five years now, in spite
of my undisciplined
eyes (there’s got
to be a better way) —
it’s no surprise then,
that I’m held back by
the same force that wishes
to husband my better
impulses and reapply them
in preparation. . . Oh, how
I long just to begin
and to finish!
— cheap orgasms, all lust —
but the inner voice
hushes me, bids me,
Listen!” It is the journey, I hear
that is the answer. My desire’s
all self-glorification.
Until I learn that for one’s
voice to finally emerge —
to publish, is to serve,
and insight, an erasure
of the person — just a channel
to convey what is waiting
to be heard.
I pulled over the car
just to write this poem
— am I to really believe
I’m ready for that?
When I can’t even find
a strong finish?





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Cole Porto

Cole Porto

Poet, writer and emerging evolutionary catalyst. Blog:

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