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Dedicated to the late Alan Watts

A Poem by:

Patricia H. Regensburg

Colourful Bar


Copyright shall at all times remain vested in the Author. No part of the work shall be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the Author's express written consent.

I grab at confidence,

my hands are slick with sweat

and so I fail,

identity eludes my grasp,

the ocean won't fit

in my pail.


Fear doesn't creep

on small cat's feet like fog,

it's more prone to attack

like a scourge or inquisition,

fear becomes

the spirit's rack.


Then my mind closes,

and my ears, to sound,

my eyes, to sight,

I know that old fear

once again has come

to turn day into night.


The battle has been fought before

and sometimes won,

but in the end

it always steals back

and this time, perhaps,

I should make fear my friend.


For what is friendship

but the deed of giving love and loyalty,

so every sorrow turns to good,

what else is love's priority?


But how can I embrace my pain

and understand that paradox,

Can I perceive those inner doors

and make a metaphor of locks?


Every doggy loves a bone,

I wish my instinct was as clear,

I'd live right in the here and now

and thumb my wet nose at next year.


I try to reason,

not to look at life through prisms,

for to me

the light is convoluted

so the more I look, the less I see.


It's necessary to concede,

impossible to separate

the intermingling of those four,

of joy and pain and love and hate.


I think I see that fear's about

protection and security,

could it be that I glimpse the dawn,

that at last, it occurs to me?


The only way to break the grip

of all fear and uncertainty

is knowing that to be secure,

I must trust insecurity.


And with this tangible relief,

my path will go where it will go,

no need to dread anxiety,

no need to fear what I don't know.


The past is past,

whatever comes is circular,

and at a glance

the only thing to which to cling

is unreality and chance.


Patricia H. Regensburg
Copyright © 2000

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