Observations of a Warrior Poet. T. John Mattson
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Observations of a Warrior Poet
T. John Mattson
Copyright © 2020 T. John Mattson
All rights reserved
First Edition
Fulton Books, Inc.
Meadville, PA
Published by Fulton Books 2020
ISBN 978-1-64654-588-9 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64952-772-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-64654-589-6 (digital)
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Preface
When I began writing, I was exposed to various types of poetic styles and even dabbled with just a few haikus:
Chances
Opportunity…
Knocks, anybody in there?
No one home…just air.
Courage
Risk…we all can feel
Fear, is it truly for real?
Face it…with true zeal.
Muscle Cars
Loud…raw horsepower
Pinning your back to the seat,
True, you can’t be beat.
Additionally, I thought of including some of my brief philosophical notions that would come to me on occasion, and I hope that those reading will enjoy.
“The funny thing about people that always ‘have your back’…They seem to be always behind you.”
“I don’t normally think of myself as being stupid…But I’ve been wrong before.”
“The first million dollars I ever made,Was on business I turned away.”
“If one wishes the fullness of respect…Then one needs the emptiness of contempt.”
Introduction
As I thought about this book and the best way to present my ideas, I was at a loss for any particular structure or format that it might take, so after a great amount of thought, I decided to push forward the same way that I had originally wrote the material. So the reader may understand this, and possibly my mind, to an extent, these poems are in the chronological order that they were originally drafted, and I’ll beg forgiveness now to the erratic nature, as the topics may bounce about, as the ideas paralleled my chaotic living situation.
Of particular importance to me when I began involved the style or type of poetry I would present and was comfortable with. My limited experience with poetry, at that time, had frustrated me when I was exposed to certain works in prose that were heavily symbolic throughout. I confess that after numerous readings I would sit back and wonder, “What in the hell are they saying?” as I struggled to comprehend. I knew then that I wanted my verse to be understandable to virtually all who may read, and I felt using rhyme would enhance the meaning, hoping it would prove memorable.
Several of the early poems were written while I was experiencing homelessness and the many issues that were a part of that life. Eventually, I was fortunate enough to obtain housing and the stability that came with that…thus allowing me to create more work and hopefully a better quality.
Well, I’ll stop rambling on here and leave it to your discretion and opinions, as I hope you truly enjoy these poetic efforts…
And…observations of a warrior poet.
CHAPTER 1
“With no walls or roof, I wrote as proof.”
Home
Ideas and phrases are common
When this topic arises.
Taken for granted by many,
Yet for thousands, it’s a crisis.
Some may say it is where
The heart is to be found,
While those many, less fortunate
Seek to find any ground.
So it appears that a home
Is much more than a roof and walls.
It is comfort and safely,
A place of rest when the time calls.
One’s guard may be dropped.
No facades needed here,
Whether alone or with others,
Being one’s true self, with no fear.
Corrupt
For a time I witnessed
Power and its abuse.
Sheriff and police from throughout the land
Created fear with no excuse.
People whose creed once claimed,
To “protect and serve”
Seemed to evolve, unchecked,
To intimidate and unnerve.
This conduct is intolerable.
Its roots need torn apart
Stains, left on every officer’s badge
Inches from their heart.
How then to control
This power given those?
Maybe all doors should be opened,
With none left to close.
Homeless Hunger, Homeless High
Half of a day spent
Just looking for food.
It’s no wonder that some
Might have an attitude
Constantly looked down upon,
It’s easy to feel low.
Hard to find comfort,
When you’re always told to go.
Can any of us lay blame
When these souls seek a “high”?
Since simpler pleasures, once known,
Are but a memory and long sigh.
Sadly, this need
Has a price that is well renown
In that universally, what goes up,
Must also come down.
Night
The night belongs to the cricket’s song,
At times the only thing heard.
The trees, aglow by streetlamps,