I Make My Own Joy

I make my own joy

even as I know

it’s un-manufacturable.

Listen anyway;

joy is gratitude

independent 

of circumstance,

a key in the hand

of a mouth

in prayer,

a shielding frond,

a harvest

of pollen,

a sun shower,

a still thing

that inspires

more stillness.

I make my own joy

because night

can be so full

of betrayals,

hurts and incapacity.

Every morning with

my head full 

of temporary terrors

that never happened,

my dreams 

disregard the facts,

which means

it’s possible

for facts to forgo

their dreamer.

Such nights make 

even death ridiculous.

I make my own joy

because I rise

every morning

from my burial plot

to see my name

engraved on a decaying 

granite of days.

And so

my spirit resolves

it’s gloom via

a preposterous

graveside picnic.

From my blanket

I thumb my nose

at the dead.

Not me,

not yet!

I’m still

in bed!

I make my own joy

when and if

by chance

it’s taken away.

As failures fertilize

a flower bed,

and pollen 

draws down

the bees 

to keep

them fed,

and tears

do really make

the roses red,

so why can’t

sorrow be

an eco-system

instead?

I make my own joy

because I can’t leave 

a thing like joy

to chance.

If grace can make

a planet sustainable,

why wouldn’t I wish

to maintain

my own 

atmosphere?

Think of misery

and passion

as twin flames

and our candles

will grow younger

by wax and wane.

I make my own joy

because morning 

is for resurrection

and a ritual of basics:

watering plants,

clearing surfaces,

washing dishes.

A life of repetition

needn’t be tedious.

To be alive

is not predictable

and never obedient.

Even as I do 

the same chores,

mull the same miseries,

stroke the same cat,

I am never the same 

man twice.

I make my own joy

because the alternative

feels unimaginable.

I conceive my joys

like a God who never

dealt in facts

but only in faith.

Facts cut my feet

and my soul needs 

it’s nightmares:

grist as they are

for my spirit

to flower.

I, myself, 

an inquisitive bee

hovers over 

dung and daisies

in a single hour.

My spirit is a crocus

and every morning

an inexorable Easter.

I’m too emotional

to be exact.

Poetry is remembering,

with the feelings intact.

I make my own joy

because there is no certainty

in the staunchest of conclusions;

my soil is full

of soul stuff

towards a concious end.

Last night I dreamt 

I roamed a ruin

on an uninhabitable planet.

and woke up

as it’s hapless historian.

I make my own joy

because joy is an arrow

in a magician’s arsenal

and because only my heart 

can hold it’s quiver.

Joy is not a fact,

nor is night’s

trials of the soul.

Repetition can

bring the change

we seek

if we can learn

to see the angel 

in the compost heap.

I make my own joy

because joy does not

arise from experiences,

but attitude.

My faith is not in facts.

I have grown used

to being a poet 

in a literal world, 

so I see poems

as holy worm holes.

I make my own joy

like a snake

that swallows it’s tail,

meeting myself

as a friend

on a circular path

without an end.

One of us,

the poet,

holds up a mirror

to signal

from sun to moon

and neither of us

need really know 

who’s light is who’s.

Peter Valentyne

April 14th, 2019