We have come to the last featured
poet for this month’s celebration of National Poetry Month. I introduce to you
our 4th featured poet, Travis Atkinsonsessler!
This man is funny, smart, and kind.
He is a warrior with a big heart. He is also extremely versatile in his
capabilities. I am not biased I swear. Okay, maybe a little. Okay, okay, maybe
a lot. Today I get the privilege of presenting one of my husband’s many skills.
His poetry is surprising and moving, filled with depth and imagery. Take a
small peak into the mind of a veteran by reading his poem below.
A Little About Travis:
Travis was born and raised in Orange County, California. In
highschool he tried a barrage of extracurricular activities. From theatre group
to football, and everything in-between, he allowed himself to be multifaceted
and did not lock himself into one definition.
At age
20 he joined the United States Marine Corps. Where he learned to speak Arabic
and developed a passion for language. Words are something of intrigue for him
and communication was an essential element in his career. This is probably why
writing poetry comes so naturally to him.
He is
now a retired veteran pursuing a degree in linguistics with a minor in German,
all while being a personal hero in the roles of father and husband.
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Please
enjoy, Travis Atkinsonsessler:
Tempest in a Glass Bottle
by Travis Atkinsonsessler
Behind my eyes lies a tempest in a glass
bottle.
It starts with chill up my spine.
Hairs stand on end.
A cool wave courses from back to fingertips.
A warm rush follows.
Body becomes tight.
Eyes widen then narrow.
Breathing becomes deeper and faster.
My voice is gone.
Obscenities swirl in my mind.
Foul words in a thousand scripts form, each
rolled swiftly and placed away into the bottles swirling vortex, begging for
release.
Images of violence coalesce into actionable
pathways to their fruition. Each course of action is carried into the
maelstrom, awaiting the cork to pop.
The tempest struggles against its confines,
staring through the looking glass at the world.
It is a tortuous existence begging to feel
empty, longing for zephyr.
When needed, i gently and firmly pull the
cork, just enough to fill my sails.
I replace the cork and seal again with wax.
It frightens me, the atrocities
swirling about in my glass bound tempest.
And I know that neither I nor any man should
linger too long in this storm.
And I know that glass is fragile,
and the pressure is great from within.
Yet I hold on gently, firmly to it.
But do not mistake my fear of this tempest
I long for the sweet release of the
storm.
I lust after the fury of her gale winds
I ache to bathe in the swell of her tides
I hunger to deliver those crashing tides.
Take heed, I do not fear the storms breath
I am wary of the rapture that grows inside of
me as it swells free,
knowing that I can not have the tempest and
those I love.
So ask yourself, can you weather the
storm?
Know that I beg of you to give me reason to
drop my cargo to shatter and set free my tempest in a glass bottle.
