Poetry

 I have this talent that I have been hiding...I'm a bit shy about sharing but I think this is a safe place. Mind you, it's all raw, no revisions except the ones I make. If you have advice you REALLY want to give, let me have it but know I'm pretty stubborn and may just leave it as it is with a thought in my mind that says (politely) "Deal with it, if you don't like what I write then don't read it." I try to do well and inspire others, but I'm quite fond of my own way of doing things, too!(Also, I'll share some favorites by others.)


-St. Francis and the Sow by Galway Kinnell 
-Homage: Doo-Wop by Joseph Stroud 
-The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry (favorite poet)

The night has a thousand eyes, 
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying of the sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes, 
And the heart but one; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done. 


-Francis William Bourdillon


My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaveth steadily.
Oft' times He weaveth sorrow;
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
Not ‘til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And reveal the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver's skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned
He knows, He loves, He cares;
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him
-Benjamin Malachai Franklin


The Heart Sickness

There are those people,

those ones who make you so ill;

You are ill when away from them

but also ill when with them.

You can’t understand what they need

so you can’t give them anything

but all the same you can see exactly,

straight past their eyes and into their heart.

You see everything;

you know what is painful to them and what inspires them.

You remember what they say and what they’ve said they think

(Even while they never consider or expect that you will

Or that those things would even matter to you.)

And none of this is done selfishly or to impress;

there is just a bubbling conviction that is never suppressed.

You feel their anxiety, see them struggle and it is painful

because you cannot say a word

but only battle the feeling yourself.

But if there were some right way,

you would help them comprehend what you suppose they don’t see

in hopes that it might alter their obscured understanding

and they would respond with more sincerity.

There are hidden wounds, deep and aching ones

but you would never tell and be happy

as long as you were allowed to take on added hurt

just to heal them.

You worry about what may be worrying them

and yet you cannot be too forward

but it scares you horribly,

the thought of stepping too far back for fear that they see it as a permanent retreat

and won’t hold to you like you do to them.

You cannot seem to be so attached,

but you only wish that they knew

no matter the circumstances.

The hardest sort of person to be

is the one who never lets go

and not because they choose to remain so;

(We may hold back

but are always hoping for one 

to come to us

asking for the eternal, devoted friendship

that we are ever so anxious and ready to be called to give.)

01/20/11

A Vital (Resisted) Magnetism

A posted caution warning, “Wet Paint,” produces in me a stark reaction:

It is the pang of urgency to slap my hand on the recovering surface-

to disturb the scene.

I marvel at the bluntness of the impulse, for just as attracted as I am to the tip of earth jutting from solidity am I to any presented shape of self-ruin:

The absolute edge and prospect of stepping off is naturally the universal appeal, an intent which purely is the sweet whim of raw, human, being.

And as I tense against it, yet is the lure fatally desirable.

As direly as to thrive, I yearn for the thrill of thrusting myself into that which aims to obliterate my mortal passiveness-

Yet, unnaturally aloof, I walk by.