“…poetry offers endless ways in which to apologize to the world, to yourself; to those you love – mostly for the things we have not done, but long to. Poetry is one of the pivotal pathways to the heart of forgiveness – allowing us to face our impediments, embrace our flaws and blaring inadequacies, in order to find and honor our genuine strength and robust abilities. Poetry means liberation — through the power of soulful expression.” Wayne Allen LeVine
Author & Poet Wayne Allen LeVine, originally from Chicago writes poetry from a place of reflection and vision. His path of poetic composition became first apparent in adolescence through writing song lyrics. As a deeply impassioned writer, he has been compared to Billy Collins and the influence can be seen in the flow and cadence of much of his work, which he credits in large part, to his background in gymnastics and martial arts. As both a drummer and poet his work embodies a lifetime of tempo, rhythm and harmony.
As author of Forgiveness For Forgotten Dreams & Myths and Artists: Poems,LeVine has the ability to conjure emotion and insight from the secret garden of the psyche. With a hopeful perspective in regard to precious dreams his work offers inspiring words for readers. While Wayne has kept his poetry largely guarded for many years, he has recently opened up his talents to the poetry community, embracing the craft with outward passion and enthusiasm. He frequents not only Cobalt poets on Tuesdays, but Moonday at Village Books in the Pacific Palisades, the 2ndMonday of each month, co-hosted by Alice Pero and Lois P. Jones.
While the average reader will connect mainly with his more grounded pieces, literary connoisseurs will find much of his work transcendent, at times indulgent, like dark chocolate for the soul. Wayne Allen LeVine is a combination of simplicity and grace paired with decadent metaphor that please the six senses. He is clearly a poet understanding of life’s simple complexities and gripping truths.
Lyrical Awakening
The words kept me up again – wide awake
in the middle of the night. I can’t resist them.
They know that.
They must know that.
That’s why they come.
Sometimes they come with spirits I’ve yet
to be introduced to. And I welcome them,
because I am helpless to do otherwise.
And so I lie awake
writing intrepid lyrics
upon the luminous, sometimes shadowy walls
of my psyche. Sometimes I see ghosts there.
Or think I do. They are welcome too. They know that.
They must know that.
That’s why they come.
In the morning I light candles.
But it’s still night – still quite dark while I lie awake,
stoking those flames of my
awareness with thoughts of you.
You are my latest mystery –
shrouded by a dozen invisible summers.
We both know winter.
We both love rain.
We met in spring.
I’ve told her nothing about the dragonflies of my youth.
And nothing about what keeps me awake at night.
I wanted to tell her that I loved her right away.
I wanted to tell her even before we had ever met.
I wanted love to be the
preface of the story we might share – a passionate
prologue penned by the hand that shapes the destiny that binds us.
I wanted us to begin with the truest emotion,
and allow the deepest understanding to be our climax –
the pinnacle of our quintessential poetry . . .
before the rebirth that allows it all to begin again – brand new.
Wayne Allen LeVine © 2011
Hard to Know
It’s hard to say – it’s hard to know,
it’s hard to be certain; that’s for sure!
Even the morning mist seems rather
tentative – and the mangroves
seem unable to make up their mind.
Although their roots – those arched
protrusions, becoming bridges
in honor of oxygen, growing in the
direction of the light . . . they seem
to have a deep sense of knowing something.
And those thirsty appendages,
bursting forth – the tender, fertile
announcement of another spring.
Although, even the fog seems a tad bit
tired of its own mystique – forever silent,
tight-lipped – surrealistically secretive by design.
But there’s really something else
I want to say; another life, other
than my own, I wish to spotlight;
another story, with a uniquely
different narrative; another odyssey.
And I won’t start from the beginning,
nor the middle, or the end. In fact,
I may not start at all, but
simply leap directly into it nevertheless.
No worries . . . no more clouds of
confusion or chilling winds of despair.
No more shivers of hope, quivers
of compassion, or gasping for air.
No more laughter, no more longing,
no more tears; no more whispers, or
those love songs sung as prayers.
No more emotion – for better or for worse.
No more promises, temporarily kept, before being broken.
No more smiles turning to frowns,
within the
light of yet another disappointment.
No more mischief, no more trouble,
no more grief. No more swimming,
no more dancing, no more begging
for what you
made yourself believe you truly need.
No more nightmares, needless
cynicism or deliberate neglect.
No more need for you to bear the
beautiful weight of this challenging world.
Now those halcyon swans float
freely across the lake you’ve
since abandoned – where wild
horses stop to take a drink.
No more rainy days or stormy nights . . .
No more sad tumultuous misunderstanding
of the life you simply could not figure out.
No more torment, no more agony . . .
no more restless days or sleepless nights.
No more raw nerves – needles and pins;
needles and spoons . . . no more needles!
Wayne Allen LeVine © 2011
Who Knew Then
Who knew then?
while I danced the
edges of four story
rooftops, or when
I ate my lunch out
on the ledge of the
30thfloor of a
downtown Chicago
skyscraper, or when
I hung by one hand,
from the branch of a
tree, growing out
of the side of the
southern rim of the
Grand Canyon . . .
staring down at a
2000 foot drop onto
ancient layers of
multi-colored rock,
while my brother
stood in terror,
pleading with me to
climb back – where
it’s safe, behind the fence.
Who knew then,
that of the two son’s
born of different mothers . . .
he was the one closer to the edge the entire time.
Wayne Allen LeVine © 2011
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